Desperate for him.
“Please,” I whisper, and then tremble with need as he stretches out beside me so that his body is pressed against mine and all those erogenous zones that he has created sparkle and fire in anticipation.
“Tell me what you want.”
“You know,” I say. “I want to feel you inside me. Please, oh please, Damien.”
“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he says, slowly rolling onto his back and urging me on top of him. “Anything you need.”
What I need is him. He has ministered to my body for what feels like an eternity and every cell in my skin is humming with desire.
And yet in all that time he has neither penetrated me nor touched my clit. I feel swollen with need, so ready to be filled by my husband that I fear I will go crazy if I don’t have him right this very second.
I move to straddle him even as he moves onto his back. His cock rubs against me, teasing my rear, and I bite my lower lip, wanting everything. Wanting Damien.
Slowly, I rise up on my knees and then lower myself onto him. I gasp as he fills me, then cry out as his hips pivot up even as his hands on my hips push me down so that he fills me hard and fast and completely.
“Kiss me,” he demands, and I lean forward, our bodies moving together as my mouth closes over his and my breasts brush against his chest, teasing my already sensitive nipples.
His hand slides between our bodies, and now his fingers do touch me, stroke me. He teases my clit as my body tightens around him, the muscles of my sex clenching to draw him in, hotter and deeper, and I can feel the tension building inside both of us until I can’t stand it anymore, and I pull myself back up, then arch back so that I’m facing the sky as the force of my orgasm rocks through me and I grind against him, my muscles tightening around his cock and bringing Damien the rest of the way with me so that he calls out my name and I close my eyes as it echoes through the night.
When my body stops spasming, I fall down upon him again, then sigh as his fingers stroke my hair.
“It’s midnight,” he whispers, and I lift my head to meet his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Stark.”
Chapter 11
Damien wakes me before dawn, though that is not an easy feat. It’s his fault that I got so little sleep, and I feel no guilt about sliding down the bed even as I pull the covers higher.
I know we are on a schedule. But I also know that the plane won’t take off without Damien. What’s the benefit of being an ultra-rich lord of the universe who owns a fleet of planes if you can’t adjust departure times in order to let your wife grab a few extra minutes of sleep?
I want to explain that, but all I manage is a murmured, “Fifteen minutes. Sleepy.”
I hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he moves away from the bed, and I slide back into sleep, secure in the belief that I’ve succeeded in begging more time.
Soon enough, I realize I’m wrong. He’s back, and he’s gently tugging the covers down. I peel open my eyes, and this time I pay more attention to my surroundings. My husband is already dressed in jeans and a crisp button-down. Behind him, I see his running shorts and a T-shirt on the floor near a half-packed suitcase. I put the clues together easily enough—despite not actually going to sleep until almost three in the morning, Damien is not only awake, but has both gone for a run and started packing our things.
Clearly the man is superhuman, but since I am a mere mortal, I still feel no guilt about closing my eyes again and trying to claim another minute.
He, however, is having none of it. He pulls the covers down, then scoops me into his arms. I protest for form, but it’s warm and comfortable in his embrace, and so I simply snuggle closer. All too soon, though, he sets me on my feet, and then helps me into a robe. “Trust me,” he says, then kisses me softly before leading me outside to our private beach.
“Damien.” His name is little more than a
“Please,” I whisper, and then tremble with need as he stretches out beside me so that his body is pressed against mine and all those erogenous zones that he has created sparkle and fire in anticipation.
“Tell me what you want.”
“You know,” I say. “I want to feel you inside me. Please, oh please, Damien.”
“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he says, slowly rolling onto his back and urging me on top of him. “Anything you need.”
What I need is him. He has ministered to my body for what feels like an eternity and every cell in my skin is humming with desire.
And yet in all that time he has neither penetrated me nor touched my clit. I feel swollen with need, so ready to be filled by my husband that I fear I will go crazy if I don’t have him right this very second.
I move to straddle him even as he moves onto his back. His cock rubs against me, teasing my rear, and I bite my lower lip, wanting everything. Wanting Damien.
Slowly, I rise up on my knees and then lower myself onto him. I gasp as he fills me, then cry out as his hips pivot up even as his hands on my hips push me down so that he fills me hard and fast and completely.
“Kiss me,” he demands, and I lean forward, our bodies moving together as my mouth closes over his and my breasts brush against his chest, teasing my already sensitive nipples.
His hand slides between our bodies, and now his fingers do touch me, stroke me. He teases my clit as my body tightens around him, the muscles of my sex clenching to draw him in, hotter and deeper, and I can feel the tension building inside both of us until I can’t stand it anymore, and I pull myself back up, then arch back so that I’m facing the sky as the force of my orgasm rocks through me and I grind against him, my muscles tightening around his cock and bringing Damien the rest of the way with me so that he calls out my name and I close my eyes as it echoes through the night.
When my body stops spasming, I fall down upon him again, then sigh as his fingers stroke my hair.
“It’s midnight,” he whispers, and I lift my head to meet his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Stark.”
Chapter 11
Damien wakes me before dawn, though that is not an easy feat. It’s his fault that I got so little sleep, and I feel no guilt about sliding down the bed even as I pull the covers higher.
I know we are on a schedule. But I also know that the plane won’t take off without Damien. What’s the benefit of being an ultra-rich lord of the universe who owns a fleet of planes if you can’t adjust departure times in order to let your wife grab a few extra minutes of sleep?
I want to explain that, but all I manage is a murmured, “Fifteen minutes. Sleepy.”
I hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he moves away from the bed, and I slide back into sleep, secure in the belief that I’ve succeeded in begging more time.
Soon enough, I realize I’m wrong. He’s back, and he’s gently tugging the covers down. I peel open my eyes, and this time I pay more attention to my surroundings. My husband is already dressed in jeans and a crisp button-down. Behind him, I see his running shorts and a T-shirt on the floor near a half-packed suitcase. I put the clues together easily enough—despite not actually going to sleep until almost three in the morning, Damien is not only awake, but has both gone for a run and started packing our things.
Clearly the man is superhuman, but since I am a mere mortal, I still feel no guilt about closing my eyes again and trying to claim another minute.
He, however, is having none of it. He pulls the covers down, then scoops me into his arms. I protest for form, but it’s warm and comfortable in his embrace, and so I simply snuggle closer. All too soon, though, he sets me on my feet, and then helps me into a robe. “Trust me,” he says, then kisses me softly before leading me outside to our private beach.
“Damien.” His name is little more than a
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