Untitled
Chapter
The rest of my morning is spent feeding Anne, settling in for some quick emails while she goes back to sleep, then taking a quick shower.
When I get out, I pull on my robe and head to her bassinet. She’s not there, though, and I know that she must be with Bree.
As I head for the kitchen to get the scoop on my family, I hear Bree’s voice urging Lara to eat her yogurt and Cheerios. “How do you expect to grow up to be strong and smart if you throw your food on the floor instead of eating it?”
As I round the corner, I see her standing with her hands on her hips, her head cocked as she stares my daughter down. According to Bree, her mother is a full-blooded Cherokee and her father grew up in Brooklyn, where his Jewish parents landed after escaping from the Warsaw Ghetto.
“I’m not sure what that makes me,” she told me during her first day on the job, when we’d sat together drinking coffee and watching Lara.
I don’t know either, other than that it makes her stunning, with sharply cut cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and long dark hair that gives her an air of both sophistication and ethereal sweetness.
She’s in her early twenties and is taking a year off from college.
And she decided that being a nanny made the most sense while she figures out what she wants to do next.
We hired her when I was on bedrest, but after Anne was born, I stepped back in, wanting to be the girls’ full-time mommy. At least as much as I could.
And now that’s all about to change again.
I sigh, feeling a strange combination of jealousy and melancholy as I watch her with Lara, trying to entice my eldest to eat.
“Come on, Lara,” she urges, taking the spoon herself and dabbing a bit on Lara’s lower lip. “Just a little taste.”
Lara, however, is having none of it.
Bree’s about to try again when Anne starts to fuss.
“I’ll get her,” I say, and poor Bree actually jumps.
“I didn’t see you there, Mrs. Stark.”
“I just came in, and you can call me Nikki. Remember?”
“Sure, Mrs. Stark,” she says, and grins. We’ve had this conversation already, so I just roll my eyes and move on.
“Oh, good girl,” she says a few moments later, then claps when Lara takes a full bite.
Then she looks back to where I’m holding Anne against my shoulder. “You must be excited about tomorrow,” she says. “And today. A party to send you back to work with a smile on. I just love that.”
I shift Anne so that I can see her precious little face.
“Well, it’s not really a party, is it?” I coo to her.
“But Auntie Sylvia and Uncle Jackson are coming, and so are Aunt Jamie and Uncle Ryan.” Jamie and Ryan aren’t technically related, but since Jamie’s my absolute BFF, I figure they deserve the title.
“See-vee?” Lara says, waving her spoon and flinging Cheerios. “Jay Me?”
“Yup,” I say, moving to give her a kiss on the head. “And as soon as you finish eating, Miss Bree’s going to put you in one of your pretty dresses.”
My oldest daughter is a born Fashionista, and this is apparently serious incentive, as the cereal and yogurt start actually making it past her lips.
Bree catches my eye, and I wink. “And to answer your question, yes. I really am excited. But it’s bittersweet, too.”
“Bittersweet?”
I only shrug. How do I explain the flurry of conflicting emotions that are raging inside me, determined to pull me in opposing directions?
Because the truth is that I love my work, and I’ve genuinely missed it. But I also love my girls, and know I’ll miss them, too.
I feel like I’m split down the middle, and it’s not a feeling I like. On top of that, my emotional turmoil is underscored by a legitimate ache in my breasts, which have started to leak simply from being near my baby, who isn’t the least bit hungry at the moment.
“I should go pump,” I say, returning Anne to the bassinet, then heading to the bedroom to do that.
I’ve been stockpiling breast milk in anticipation of this coming Monday for weeks, and usually the act makes me happy, knowing that what I’m doing will mean my daughter won’t have to drink formula when I’m out in the world.
This time, though, I feel sad. And a little lost.
I know it’s just the emotional pangs from fully going back to work for the first time since either of our daughters came home, but that doesn’t make it easier.
And when I return to the kitchen after pumping and see Lara smiling at Bree, a wave of resentment and envy almost knocks me over, followed by a wash of guilt and stupidity.
Because, dammit, this is my choice. So what the hell exactly am I resenting?
“There’s Mommy,” Bree says. “Mommy’s going back to work today. Can you clap for Mommy, Lara? Say, Yay, Mommy!”
Lara bangs her spoon and says, “Mama! Mama!” and I have to swallow to keep the tears that are now lodged in my throat from escaping.
“Do you know if Damien is still on his call?” I ask, remembering that he had yet another conference call scheduled for about now.
With luck, he’s just in his office, deciding which planet he’ll buy today, and not talking with anyone.
I hope so. Because in this moment, I need Damien almost more than I need to breathe.
“He came up to see the girls and said he was going to get in a quick workout.”
“Perfect,” I say, then kiss both my girls before making my way to the first floor.
He’s not in the weight room, and I’m about to check the pool when I decide to go into the downstairs bath.
Usually, he showers upstairs in the master, but sometimes when he’s squeezing in a workout, he’ll clean up and change down here.
Sure enough, I hear the pounding of the water as I step inside the large, luxurious bathroom, but I can’t see him yet. The shower is the walk-in kind, and it’s on the other side of the wall from where I stand.
I head that way now, then simply stand there, breathing in the incredible sight of this perfect man and reveling in the fact that he’s mine.
He’s facing the back wall, his head tilted so that the spray from one of the six shower heads hits him right in the face. I know from experience that his eyes are closed, and he runs the fingers of both hands through his jet-black hair, rinsing out the shampoo.
Remnants of lather cascade down his body, slick bubbles that move over the rippling muscles of his arms and shoulders and back.
Damien may not play professional tennis anymore, but he’s never let himself get out of shape.
And I lean against the tiled wall and watch him, this man who is so much more than physical beauty.
He’s strength and intelligence, commanding and tender.
He’s honorable and strong, fierce and loyal.
And he loves me.
Loves me so much, in fact, that a tiny part of me wonders how there could be enough left in him to give to our kids. But there is. There’s more than enough, and I have no idea what I ever did to deserve him, but I wouldn’t change a thing. He’s a miracle.
More than that, he’s mine.
I watch, mesmerized, as he presses his palms to the wall in front of him and lets the water pound on him.
The position tightens the muscles in his thighs and his ass, and though I’m enjoying the view, I really can’t take it anymore.
My body is still thrumming from last night, and now I’m about to shift into overdrive.
I untie my robe and drop it on the floor, not even bothering with the hook.
Then I walk slowly toward him, trying to stay quiet.
I press against his back, then slide my hands over his hips, then along the line of his pelvic bone until my hand finds his cock.
He’s wet and slick, and I circle him, then stroke in slow, rhythmic motions, my own body reacting when I feel him harden in response to my touch.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “My wife could walk in at any time.”
“She’s a lucky woman,” I say. “How did you know I was behind you?” He did, of course. Other than his hardening cock, he didn’t react at all when I touched him. On the contrary, he seemed to be expecting it.
“Sweetheart, haven’t you learned by now?” He turns in my arms so that his erection is pressing against my belly. “You’re part of me. How could I ever lose sight of you?”
His words melt me, and I slide my hands in his hair and tug his head down for a kiss.
Sweet at first, and then wilder. Because I need him.
His hands on me, his cock inside me. Every bit of desire from last night rushes back to me, adding another layer of desperate need to the way my body is currently firing from his kisses and the feel of his naked body against mine.
In other words, I’m a wild, desperate, horny mess.
“Damien,” I murmur when we break the kiss.
“Good afternoon,” he says with a grin. “You look refreshed.”
I grimace. “I’m sorry I ruined last night. I didn’t realize how tired I was. You left, and it just snuck up on me.”
“Baby, how could you ruin anything? And if you’re tired, it’s because you’re a mom now. Mother to my daughters.” He trails a finger down my body, from my neck all the way to my clit, so that I’m practically melting when he speaks again. “Do you have any idea how sexy that is?”
I look up at him through my lashes and keep my voice low. “Maybe you should show me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s a challenge I’m happy to take on.” His hands slide over me, while at the same time he urges me to turn around. So that ultimately, he’s under the shower head again and I’m facing the wall, my back to Damien, his rock-hard erection teasing my ass.
Steam surrounds us, and our bodies are wet and slick, and when he tells me to bend over and press my hands against the wall, I do. I spread my legs for him when his hand strokes the curve of my ass, then dips between my legs to find me hot and wet and ready.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, thrusting his fingers inside me as I grind against him, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to be filled by him.
“Please,” I beg.
“Please what?” he teases.
“Fuck me, Damien. I need to feel you inside me.”
One of his hands moves to cup my breasts as he bends over me, then whispers in my ear. “Baby, it will be my pleasure.”
His words are still echoing in my mind when his other hand slides around so that he’s stroking my clit, his fingers taking me right to the edge even as he takes his hand off my breast, then teases me mercilessly by spreading my ass cheeks and stroking his cock along my perineum.
I whimper and bend over more, widening my stance in what I hope is a very obvious demand that he just, please, fuck me already.
And then—thank God—he’s right there, the tip of his cock easing barely inside me, and I have to actually bite my lower lip to keep from crying out with frustration.
Because as much as I want to feel him inside me—as much as my body is clenching with longing—I can’t deny that this slow torment is oh, so sweet.
Finally, though, I can’t stand it any longer, and I push back from the wall, essentially impaling myself on him.
“Yes, Nikki, God, yes,” he cries as he uses both hands to hold my hips, pulling me harder to him.
Tighter. And thrusting deep inside. Slowly.
Rhythmically. Then building speed until I swear the steam in that shower isn’t from the water but from our rising passion, getting hotter and hotter until we have no choice but to explode, and I cry out as my knees go weak, and I ease to the floor in Damien’s arms.
He holds me close against the wall, the spray from the shower’s nozzles shooting a curtain of water just beyond us, enclosing us in a warm, steamy cocoon of heat and skin and each other’s arms.
“Wow,” I say, snuggling close. “I could stay here all day.”
“So could I,” he murmurs, then kisses me again before he stands and shuts off the water. “But our guests will be expecting us on the pool deck.”
“True. And we’d turn all pruney,” I add, making him laugh.
He steps outside of the stall and grabs a fluffy white towel from the heated drawer. He hooks it around his hips in a way I find absolutely, mind-blowingly sexy. Then he grabs another towel, returns to me, and enfolds me in its warmth.
I sigh and let him dry me. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Time for us to get dressed. Unless you had a different kind of party in mind.”
“I don’t think so. I share you with no one, Mr. Stark. Best you remember that.”
He grins. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”