“Yes.”

“Stroke it,” he says. “Just a tease. So light, like a butterfly kiss. Do you feel it, baby? Is it making you wetter?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Now move the hand on your leg. Slowly—I want it to build. Do you feel it? That soft stroke?”

“Yes.” I imagine that my fingers are his. That he’s burning a trail up my hot, trembling body.

“That’s me. My hands. I’m right there. My hands on you. On both your legs. Can you feel me, stroking the inside of your thighs, teasing you, making you hotter and wetter?”

I take my other hand off my breast and put it on my other leg. Slowly, sensuously, I stroke the inside of my thighs with soft, delicate touches. This is forbidden territory—this is where my secrets are. But not now. Right now, nothing is off-limits, and everything is safe.

I can lose myself in his voice. I can close my eyes and imagine Damien kneeling before me. Damien’s eyes watching me. Damien’s hands all over me. “Oh, God, yes.”

“Spread your legs more,” he says. “I want you wide open, your cunt hot and dripping for me. Do you want to touch yourself, Nikki?”

“Yes,” I whisper. I feel my cheeks warm from the admission, though how I can feel a blush when my skin is already on fire is beyond me.

“Not yet,” he says. I can hear the amusement in his voice. He knows he’s tormenting me, and he’s loving it.

“You’re a sadist, Mr. Stark.”

“And you comply so willingly, Ms. Fairchild. What does that make you?”

A masochist. A tremor runs through my body, tied to the erotic sweetness of my touch. “Turned on,” I admit.

“We are deliciously compatible.”

“When telecommunications are involved,” I say without thinking.

“Always. Don’t argue, Ms. Fairchild, or the game stops now. And that really would be a shame.”

I say nothing.

“Good,” he says. “I like you compliant. I like you spread wide and ready for me. I like you wet for me,” he adds, as I just about melt into the upholstery. “Put your hands on the seat on either side of your hips. Have you done it?”

“I have.”

The silence is ominous.

“I mean, yes, sir.”

My hands are pressed to the leather. My sex is throbbing. Demanding. I squirm on the seat, but that only makes me needier.

My fingers twitch. I’m desperate to come. I swear if he doesn’t let me touch myself soon, I’ll—

Well, why not? He wouldn’t even know.

“No touching, Nikki. Not yet.”

“How did you—oh, God, are there cameras in here?” The idea is mortifying … and embarrassingly titillating.

“No,” he says firmly. “Though at the moment I wish there were. Let’s just call it a lucky guess.”

That damned blush heats up again, and I squirm some more, trying to find a satisfaction that’s staying painfully, frustratingly just out of reach.

“You’re keeping me from an excellent Scotch and some very tasty appetizers, you know.”

“I’m not the least bit sorry,” I retort. “But if you’re in a hurry, I know how we can finish this off real quick.”

“Is that what you want? This to be over?”

“I—no,” I admit. It’s torture, but it’s damn sweet torture.

“Did you notice the bar when you got into the limo?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to move long enough to open the ice bucket and take out an ice cube. Then back here, spread wide and open for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ease out of my seat, cheating a little because I squeeze my thighs together as I do. The pressure is delicious, taking me just that much further. But frustrating, too, as I’m more aroused than I can ever remember being, and no closer to release. For that matter, I’m not sure what’s coming next. Ice cubes …?

I smile, realizing that if nothing else I trust Damien Stark to make this interesting.

“Are you settled again?”

“Yes.”

“Which hand has the ice cube?”

“My right one.”

“Pull down the left strap of your dress until your breast is free. Close your eyes and trace the cube around your areola. Don’t touch your nipple, not yet. That’s it. I can imagine your skin, soft and perfect and puckered from the cold. I’m hard, baby, I want to touch you.”

“You are touching me,” I whisper.

“Yes.” The desire in his voice matches my own.

“Move your left hand to your thigh,” he says, and I silently cheer. Had he planned this all along, or have I scored some points in his game? I tilt my head back, my hot fingers stroking my inner thigh, easing higher to where the flesh isn’t smooth like Damien imagines, but instead bears the scars of my secrets.

At my breast, the ice cube melts against my flaming skin. “I’m imagining you licking the droplets off,” I say. “Your tongue flicking over my hard nipple. Teasing me until you can’t stand it, and then you nip it, your teeth grazing before you suck, hard, so hard until it’s like a hot wire runs through me all the way to my clit.”

“Jesus,” he says, sounding winded. “Whose game is this?”

“I like to win,” I say, but I have to struggle to speak. My hand has moved higher, and my fingers are gently stroking the soft skin where my thigh meets my sex. “Damien,” I say. “Please.” The ice cube has melted away.

“One finger. I’m taking one finger and sliding it over your cunt. Your wet, dripping cunt. You’re throbbing, you want me so badly.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Are you wet?”

“I’m drenched.”

“I want to be inside you,” he says, and before he gives me permission, I slide two fingers deep inside. My body immediately contracts, drawing me in further. I’m hot and slippery, and drunk with pleasure. The heel of my hand rubs against my clit, and I can’t help it—I moan. And now Stark knows my secret.

“You broke the rules,” he says.

I arch back, I’m so close, but I don’t dare stroke myself. Not after hearing the command in his voice. “Rules are made to be broken.” I can barely croak out the words.

“Of course they are. If you’re willing to accept the punishment. Shall I punish you, Nikki? Shall I bend you over and spank your ass?”

“I—” I quiver, his words making me even hotter. I’ve never played those kinds of games, but right now the thought of being so vulnerable to Damien Stark sets me on fire.

“Or maybe I should make you pull your hands away. Leave you hungry. Leave you wanting.”

“Please no,” I say.

“I should,” he says. “I should leave you hanging.”

I don’t mean to, but I whimper a little. Why? If I want to get off, I can just get off. My fingers work just fine, and I’m so close. So very close …

But no. This is a game all right, and I’m playing with a partner. I don’t just want to come. I want to come because Damien took me there.

He chuckles, fully aware of the torment he’s inflicting. “Beg,” he says.