Claim Me

I wasn’t a virgin, but neither was I widely experienced. Sex is not something that someone with my history—with my scars—rushes into. I’d been burned by a boy I’d trusted, and my emotions were still as ragged as the scars that marred my flesh.

Damien, however, doesn’t see those scars. Or, more accurately, he sees them for what they are—a part of me. Battle scars from what I have overcome and what I continue to fight. Where I thought my scars reflected a weakness, he sees an indication of strength. And it is that ability—to see me so fully and clearly—that has drawn me so irrevocably and completely to this man.

“You’re smiling again,” Blaine says. “I don’t even need three guesses to know what you’re thinking about. Or who. Do I need to kick our personal Medici out of the room?”

“You’re just going to have to live with her smile,” Damien says before I can answer, and once again, I must force myself not to turn and look at him. “Because nothing’s making me leave this room unless Nikki is beside me.”

I revel in the velvet smoothness of his voice, and I know he means what he says. We’d spent this entire afternoon window-shopping on Rodeo Drive, celebrating the new job I will start in the morning. We’d walked lazily down the pristine streets, holding hands, sipping calorie-laden frozen mochas, and pretending no one else in the world existed. Even the paparazzi, those vultures with cameras that have become uncomfortably interested in every little thing Damien and I do, paid us little heed.

Sylvia, Damien’s assistant, had tried to put several calls through, but Damien had flat-out refused to take them. “This is our time,” he’d said to me, answering my unspoken question.

“Should I alert the financial papers?” I’d teased. “Doesn’t it affect the market when Damien Stark takes a day off work?”

“I’m willing to risk global economic collapse if it means a few hours with you.” He drew my hand up and kissed the tip of each finger. “Of course, the more shopping we do, the more we support the economy.” His voice was low and sultry and full of enticing promises. “Or maybe we should go back to the apartment. I can think of several interesting ways to spend the afternoon that have no fiscal impact whatsoever.”

“Tempting,” I’d retorted. “But I don’t think that I could stand the guilt knowing that I traded an orgasm for fiscal ruin.”

“Trust me, baby. It would be more than one orgasm.”

I’d laughed, and in the end we’d managed to avert global economic disaster (the shoes he bought me are truly awesome) and let me have my orgasm as well. Three, actually. Damien is nothing if not generous.

As for the phone, he’d been true to his word. Despite the constant vibrations, he’d ignored it until we’d pulled up in front of the Malibu house and I’d insisted he take pity on whoever was being so persistent. I’d hurried inside to meet Blaine, and Damien had lingered behind, reassuring his attorney that the world hadn’t collapsed despite Damien’s temporary absence from the cellular airwaves.

I am so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realize that Blaine has approached me. He taps my lower lip with the end of his paintbrush and I jump.

“Damn, Nikki, you were in the zone.”

“Are you done?” I do not mind posing, and Blaine has become a good friend. But right then, I just want him gone. Right then, all I want is Damien.

“Almost.” He holds his hands up, looking at me through his makeshift frame. “Right here,” he says, using the brush to indicate. “The light on your shoulder, the way your skin glows, the mix of colors …” He trails off as he walks back to the portrait. “Damn,” he finally says. “I am a fucking genius. This is you, kid. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you could walk right off the canvas.”

“So you’re done? I can come look?” I turn without thinking, realizing too late that he probably wanted me to stay still. But suddenly I don’t care. All thoughts vanish. Blaine, the painting, the world around me. Because it’s not the painting that I see. It’s Damien.

He is right where I’d imagined him, standing on the top step, leaning casually against the wrought-iron banister and looking even yummier in real life than he did in my mind. I might have spent the entire afternoon with him, but it doesn’t matter. Every glimpse of him is like ambrosia, and I will never get my fill.

I soak him in, my eyes lingering on every perfect feature. His defined jaw highlighted by the shadow of stubble. The wind-tossed black hair, thick and smooth and so familiar to my fingers. And his eyes. Those amazing dual-colored eyes that are focused so intently right now that I can feel the weight of his gaze upon my skin.

He is dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. But even in such informal attire, there is nothing casual about Damien Stark. He is power personified, energy harnessed. And my only fear is the knowledge that one can neither capture nor hold on to a lightning bolt, and I do not want to lose this man.

His eyes meet mine, and I shiver from the shock of the connection. The athlete, the celebrity, the entrepreneur, the billionaire persona all fall away, leaving only the man and an expression that makes my blood heat and my insides curl with longing. An expression that is so raw and primal that were I not already naked, I’m certain that every stitch of clothing would have turned to ash, burned away by the heat in his eyes.

My skin prickles, and I have to force myself not to move. “Damien,” I whisper, unable to resist the feel of his name upon my lips. The word seems to hang in the room, trapped in the air that is thick between us.

By the easel, Blaine clears his throat. Damien shifts enough to look at him, and I think it is surprise that I see on his face, as if he’d forgotten that we aren’t alone. He crosses the distance to Blaine and stands at the artist’s side in front of the huge portrait. From my position, I can see the wooden frame across which the canvas is stretched and, to the side, the two men studying an image that is hidden from my view.

My heart pounds against my rib cage and my gaze does not waver from Damien’s face. There is something rapturous in his eyes, as if he is looking up at an object of worship, and his silent benediction makes my knees go weak. I want to reach out a hand and steady myself on the frame of the bed beside which I’m posing, but my wrists are still bound behind my back.

My immobility reminds me of the situation, and I fight another smile—I am not free. I am Damien’s.