"I'd rather watch you."

I grin as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a bone-melting kiss. The fire he set inside me only moments ago has not been fully extinguished, and now those embers burst back into flame. "Here?" I whisper, pressing my sex hard against his thigh, then moaning softly at the sweet torment of the returning pressure. "Outside? On these hard, cold stones?" My words may sound reluctant, but I know that my tone does not. Right then I think I want nothing more than the press of stone against my back and the feel of Damien, hot and hard, inside me.

His voice is low and sultry with just a hint of a tease. "What exactly do you want me to do to you, Ms. Fairchild?" His fingers brush my shoulder, sliding the spaghetti strap down my arm so that it hangs loose. "This?" he asks, as he bends to brush his lips over the swell of my breast.

I gasp, my chest heaving, the chiffon that still clings to my now erect nipple rubbing provocatively.

"Or maybe this?" He traces his fingers up my leg, higher and higher until he grazes the soft skin between my thigh and my sex.

"Maybe," I whisper.

"It would be sweet, wouldn't it?" he asks as his hand moves up again, tracing the trimmed line of hair on my pubic bone, then dipping down to tease the same soft spot on my other leg. "Here, under the stars. My hands on you and only the night around us. My tongue on your breast, the cool air grazing your erect nipple. A whisper of cool wind brushing over your hot cunt."

My legs grow weak, and I close my arms around his neck to keep from melting beneath his words and his touch.

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes," I say.

His smile is slow, and I draw in a ragged breath as he leans close. His lips graze the corner of my mouth, then my temple. Then my ear. I feel his warm breath, and then the softest whisper of a word. "No."

I am not aware, but I must make some sort of noise in protest, because he chuckles.

"No," he repeats. "I have something else in mind."

And then he gently frees my hand from his neck and straightens my dress and tugs me forward onto the path. I follow, irritated, turned on, and very, very eager.

A few moments later, he points out a flat area tucked in between two brush-covered slopes. "I'm thinking of putting in a tennis court there."

I glance sharply at his face, but it is carefully blank. "Really?"

I say, working hard to keep my voice casual. I know how long it has been since he's played tennis. More, I know why he walked away from the game.

"Maybe. I haven't decided. It's been so long, and I'm afraida"

He cuts off his words, his forehead creasing into a scowl.

"athat it won't be fun?" I suggest, trying to finish his thought.

He doesn't answer, but I see the affirmation in his eyes.

"Well, if you do install a court, you can teach me how to play." I speak lightly. "That will ensure that you have fun. I promise. Playing with me will be quite amusing."

"Amusing?" he repeats, and I'm happy to hear the teasing note in his voice. "I'm imagining you in a tennis dress. Amusing isn't the word that comes to mind."

"And will our rules apply then, Mr. Stark? I'm not sure how much tennis will get played if I'm wearing one of those outfits and no underwear."

"I'm intrigued, Ms. Fairchild. I think you may have made up my mind for me. I'll start interviewing construction companies in the morning."

"Very funny," I say.

"You laugh now," he says. "But wait until I take you by the ball cage."

"Now you're just talking dirty to me."

He laughs and grabs my hand, and I hurry to keep step beside him. My mood is light, and I'm glad we escaped the party. Whatever drama had been clinging to me has dissipated. It is just me and Damien and the wide night sky.

"What?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I didn't say anything."

"You're smiling."

"Maybe I'm happy."

"Are you?" he asks, his eyes roaming over my face. "So am I."

"Damien." I move closer, craving a kiss, but it's his finger that my lips find. "Ah-ah," he says. "Start that up and we'll never get where we're going."

"So we are going somewhere? I was beginning to think we were simply taking a hike to Ventura County."

"Actually," he says, "we're here." We've stopped in front of a vine-covered hill.

"Lovely," I say. "But if you're planning to ravage me in the flowers, I should say that I would have been just as happy on the stone path."

"I'll make a note for future reference," he says. "But this isn't our final destination."

"Oh?"

He doesn't answer my question. At least, not with words. Instead, he pulls out a key fob, presses a small red button, and a set of wooden doorsacamouflaged with vinesabegins to rise. Light from the interior emerges, spreading wider and wider as the door lifts higher. I feel as though there should be a soundtracka"Ode to Joy," perhapsaas this secret room is revealed.

At first I can see nothing because my eyes haven't adjusted to the abrupt change in lighting. But as Damien leads me toward the now open door, I see that this is a garage. A huge garage, to be precise, and as I stand in the doorway and look up and down the long, narrow structure, I count no less than fifteen classic cars all lined up and polished.

The walls are white, as is the concrete flooring. The lights overhead are glaring white as well. For a moment, I feel like I've died and gone to car heaven. I turn and gape at Damien. "You have got to be kidding me. You've barely finished the actual house, and yet you have a fully tricked out, fifteen-car garage hidden in the hillside?"

"I didn't want a detached garage to mar the landscape," he says. "Although to be fair the garage has been on the property long before the house. I built this three years ago while my architect was working out the plans for the residence. And just to clarify, it's a twenty-car garage."

I shoot him a bored look. "All this space in the hills and only twenty? And detached from the house? Seriously, Mr. Stark, what happens if it's raining?"

"I use the tunnel access," he says nodding toward the far side and a metal door over which is neatly printed the word "Residence" in red block letters.

"You really are a walking cliche," I say, but I'm laughing.

"Not at all," he says. "I'm a driving one." He looks giddy, like a boy playing with his favorite toys on Christmas morning, and the mood is infectious.

"What kind of car is this?" I ask, pausing by the one closest to the door. It is old-fashioned and open, and I can imagine women in flapper gowns riding with the top down, waving at boys and feeling smug in their daring.

"A Gardner touring car," he says. "But come here, this is my real prize." We walk down two stalls to an ancient model, so polished and shined that it seems to glow as bright as the room itself. "A Baker Electric car," he says. "Thomas Edison actually owned this very automobile."

"Seriously?" I am duly impressed. "That should be in a museum."

"I offer it on loan quite often," he says. "But not permanently. I don't see the point of owning extraordinary toys if I can't have them around to enjoy. Just as I don't see the point of having money and not using it to acquire interesting things, if not for myself, then for the people I care about."

I think about the Monet and the camera and the clothes and all the other gifts he's showered upon me. "Fortunately for those of us who are the recipients of your magnanimity, you have excellent taste."

"Indeed I do, Ms. Fairchild." He holds out his hand. "Come on. I'll show you our ride for the night."

We move down the row of cars and stop in front of a low-slung forest-green two-seater with a hood that seems longer than the car itself.

"All right," I say, unable to stop smiling. "Tell me all about it."

It's as if I've given him permission to sing. "Jaguar E-Type Roadster," he begins, then starts to itemize all of the intricate details of this fine automobile that, he assures me, will transport us to our destination in luxury and style.

"I hope there won't be a pop quiz," I admit. "Because I didn't catch anything but the name and the fact that I'm very impressed."

"That'll do," he says.

"Did you rebuild it?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Edward told me about the Bentley. I can't quite imagine you all covered in grease and oil."

"That's funny," he says with undeniable heat in his voice. "I have no trouble at all imagining you naked and slick with oil, spread out on a bed just waiting to be fucked."

"Oh," I say. "Oh."

He chuckles, then opens the door for me. The car is so low that it is almost impossible to enter and exit modestly in so short a skirt. A fact that Damien clearly picks up on, as his hand slides up the back of my thigh, then slides between my legs. My body trembles from his touch, and I moan as he slowly thrusts two fingers inside me. I grip the side of the door, my balance awkward, my entire body quaking with desire. I want to close my thighs, but I can't. One foot is on the floorboard, the other on the concrete. Shift my position and I will fall.

But then again, I don't really want to shift my position.

"Yes," he says. "This is how I want you. Hot and wet and on fire for me. I want you fuckable, Nikki. Anytime, anyplace, I want you ready."

"I'm always ready for you," I whisper, both because he wants to hear it, and because it is true.

"I should fuck you now," he says, moving his fingers slowly in and out of me. My sex clenches, drawing him in, wanting more and more. Wanting all of him. "I should bend you over the hood of this car and lift your skirt and spank your ass until it's red and throbbing. Then I should thrust my cock into your sweet, wet cunt. Is that what you want, Nikki? You can tell me. Tell me all the things you want me to do to you, Nikki. Tell me how you want me to fuck you."

My eyes are closed, my breasts are heavy. I am so wet and I feel so full. He has three, no, four fingers inside me now, and my hips are gyrating, wanting him harder, faster, deeper.

"Tell me," he repeats.

"I want you to fuck me," I say. "I want your hands on my tits and your cock deep inside me. I want you, Damien. Please, please, I want you so badly."

His fingers slide out of me, and he traces slow circles over my clit while his palm rubs lightly at my sex. I can smell my arousal, and I am shameless, shifting this way and that so that the feeling grows. I'm close, so close, and I want to come in his arms. I don't care that we're in his garage, that I'm bent half in and half out of his car. All I want is Damien. All I want is for him to take me where I want to go.

"Thank you," he whispers as he pulls his hand away.

"Damien," I moan. "Dammit, Damien, please."

"Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?"

"You know I am."

"Good." The satisfaction in his voice makes me smile despite my state of abject frustration. "Now, into the car."

I do as he says, then sit with my legs pressed tightly together in the hopes that the pressure will quell some of my rising, desperate need.

He circles the car and gets in beside me, then looks over, his amusement obvious. "Legs apart, Ms. Fairchild. You don't get off until I say you get off."

I shoot him a sour glance, but I comply.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't hear you."

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl."

As I sit, lost in a haze of sexual frustration, he starts the car and maneuvers it out of its slot. I expect him to go back the way we came in, but he continues in the direction we were walking, which seems odd to me as all I see is a wall. As we get close, though, he presses a button on the dash and a section of the wall slides away.

Suddenly, we are in a dark tunnel lined with endless arcs of light that provide illumination all the way down, each arc lighting only as we approach it, giving the illusion that we are heading off toward infinity. I feel a bit like a Bond girl chasing down the bad guys. "Where are we going?"

"Just wait," he says. In front of us, no lights appear and for a moment I'm afraid that something has gone wrong with Damien's billionaire escape route. But it turns out that we've simply reached the end of the hill. We've emerged onto a private roadaDamien's, of courseaand after following it for a while we turn onto a twisting Malibu road and maneuver the hills until, finally, we reach the Pacific Coast Highway.

"You're really not going to tell me?" I ask. I am still sweetly on edge. The car is low to the ground and powerful, and I can feel the thrum of the engine against my ass, and the vibration is more than a little enticing. My breasts feel heavy and swollen and though chiffon is soft, my nipples are so stimulated that they are painfully erect.

Damien stays quiet, but he eyes me sideways, and I see the amused smile playing at his mouth.

"Are we going into LA? It's almost eleven."

"I'm afraid I'm going to keep you up past your bedtime, Ms. Fairchild."

I could protest, but it would be for show only. So I settle back in the soft leather and watch the ocean go by on my right. I feel Damien's eyes on me, though, and I turn to him, my expression stern. "Eyes on the road, Mr. Stark."

"I'd rather watch you," he says, but he turns back to focus on the road ahead. He reaches up and adjusts the rearview mirror. "That's better," he says, and his mouth tugs into a lazy grin.

"Like the view?" I ask. My legs are apart as he'd instructed, the hem of my dress hitting about mid-thigh.

"I'll like it even better in a minute."

I glance sideways at him, suddenly suspicious. "Oh?"

"I saw the way you were admiring Blaine's work," he says conversationally.

"He's very talented."

"The way he can portray arousal, shame, sexual longing. There are some at the gallery that show a woman in the throes of an orgasm. Spectacular, really."

"I haven't seen those," I say.