Complete Me

His body tightens beneath mine, the bulge of his erection under his jeans teasing my rear as I shift my weight and lean closer, deepening this kiss and wishing like hell we were in our suite instead of in a very public bar.

After a moment, I pull back, breathless. “I love you,” I say.

“I know,” he says, and though I wait for the reciprocal words to come, he doesn’t say them back to me.

My heart twists a little, and I force a smile. A pageant-quality All I Want Is World Peace kind of smile. The kind of smile I show the public, but not Damien.

I tell myself that he’s just tired, but I don’t believe it. Damien Stark does nothing without a purpose. And though it is impossible to truly get inside that head of his, I know him well enough to guess at his motivations, and I want to jump to my feet and scream at him. I want to beg him not to push me away. I want to shout that I get it; that he’s trying to protect me because he knows that he might lose the trial. That he might be ripped from me. But goddammit all, doesn’t he know that all he’s doing is hurting me?

I believe with all my heart that Damien loves me. What I fear is that love isn’t enough. Not when he’s determined to push me away in some misguided attempt to protect me.

So I don’t lash out. That’s not a fight I can win, but I can play the game my own way.

With renewed resolve, I kick the wattage up on my smile and slide off his lap, my hand extended to him. “You have to be in court at ten, Mr. Stark. I think you’d better come with me.”

He stands, his expression wary. “Are you going to tell me I have to get some sleep?”

“No.”

His gaze slides over me, and my body quivers in response as if he had physically touched me. “Good,” he says, and that one simple word not only conveys a world of promises but takes the edge off the chilly fear that has filled me.

I allow the corner of my mouth to quirk up into a hint of a smile. “Not that, either. Not yet, anyway.”

The confusion on his face brings a genuine smile to my lips, but he doesn’t have the chance to ask, as the concierge has approached. “Everything is ready, Ms. Fairchild.”

My smile broadens. “Thank you. Your timing is perfect.”

I take the hand of the very confused man that I love and lead him through the lobby, following the concierge to the front of the hotel. There, parked on the street beside a very giddy valet, is a cherry red Lamborghini.

Damien turns to look at me. “What’s this?”

“A rental. I thought you could use a little fun tonight, and the A9’s just a few miles away. Fast car. German autobahn. It seemed like a no-brainer to me.”

“Boys and their toys?”

I lower my voice so that the concierge can’t overhear. “Since we already have some interesting toys in the room, I thought you might enjoy a change of pace.” I lead him closer to where the valet stands by the open passenger door. “I understand she’s very responsive, and I know you’ll enjoy having all that power at your command.”

“Is she?” He looks me up and down, and this time the inspection is tinged with fire. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I like. Responsiveness. Power. Control.”

“I know,” I say, and then slide into the passenger seat, letting more than a little thigh show as I do.

An instant later, Damien is behind the wheel and he’s fired the powerful engine.

“Drive fast enough, and it’s almost like sex,” I tease. And then, because I can’t resist, I add, “At the very least, it makes for exceptional foreplay.”

“In that case, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, with a boyish grin that makes this all worthwhile, “I suggest you hold on tight.”

Chapter Two

Even at almost midnight on a Sunday, traffic seems to spill out over the narrow Munich streets. The Lamborghini’s engine revs and purrs, the power pent-up and antsy, as if it is as frustrated by its inability to break free and fly as I am by my inability to make things right for Damien.

I am nestled in the red-leather bucket seat, my body turned slightly to the left so that I can watch him. Despite the snarl of traffic that I would find exasperating, Damien is calm and in complete control. His right hand rests loosely on the gear stick, his fingers curved slightly. I draw a slow breath, imagining his touch against my bare knee. Since I’ve met Damien, I’ve done a lot of fantasizing. Honestly, I can’t say that I mind.

His left hand grips the steering wheel, and despite the shitstorm in which we now live, he looks relaxed and confident. From my perspective, I am looking at his profile—that sculpted jaw, his deep-set eyes, his glorious mouth now curved into just the hint of a smile.

His unshaved jaw and finger-mussed hair combine with the low-interior light of the car to give him the look of a dangerous rebel. It’s true, I think. Damien is as rebellious as they come. He lives his life by nobody’s rules but his own. It is one of the qualities that I most love about him, which is why it makes it that much harder knowing that if he simply played the game like a good little defendant, everything could turn around.

We are standing still at an intersection, and now the light in front of us changes to green. He accelerates, then switches lanes so sharply I reach up to grab the handhold so that I don’t list to one side. He turns to look at me, and I see nothing but pure pleasure in his eyes. I meet his smile eagerly, and for that moment, there is nothing in the world that can harm us. There is only freedom and joy, and I wish that it could continue like this. That we could drive on and on and never stop, just the two of us soaring off into eternity.

I may be lost in the fantasy of getting lost, but Damien exists entirely in the moment. I can see the tenseness in his muscles, the power and the control as he puts the car through her paces, testing her limits as he lets the power of that incredible engine build and build before we hit the autobahn, where he will finally let her explode onto the open road.

I swallow and shift a little in the seat. I thought I’d been teasing when I’d said this drive would be like sex. Apparently, I was wrong.

“You’re smiling,” he says, without turning to look at me.

“I am,” I admit. “Because you’re happy.”

“I’m with you,” he replies. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

“Keep talking,” I say. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I certainly hope so.” His voice is barely a murmur, but it is more than sufficient to make my body respond. My skin heats and beads of perspiration rise on the back of my neck at my hairline. My breasts feel heavy, as if I need the support of Damien’s hands upon them, and my now-hard nipples press enticingly against the silk of my sheath dress.