One wall is lined with a granite countertop that has two huge sinks. On either side of each is a vanity area. An electric razor is at the far sink. Along with a toothbrush and a bottle of aftershave. On the closer sink, there is another toothbrush, still in plastic. There's also a small box. Curious, I open it, and find foundation, powder, and a variety of eye shadows and liners, all in my favorite colors.

"How did you know to get all of this?"

"I'm a man of many resources," he says.

I frown. Why didn't he just ask me what brand and colors I wore? I'm feeling a bit under a microscope, with nothing quite my own. It's the way my mother always made me feel, but Damien is not Elizabeth Fairchild, and I'm afraid that I'm overreacting.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I don't quite manage a smile.

"Your makeup preferences and shoe size are in the Macy's gift registry," he says gently.

"Oh." I shake my head, feeling like a fool. "I forgot. I did that for last year's birthday." I take a deep breath and look him in the eye. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome."

I run my finger over the cool countertop. "I can't believe how amazing this floor is. The house isn't even finished yet."

"I made sure to complete the areas that mattered for this week."

"Oh. When did you do that?"

"After you agreed. It's remarkable how fast things can be accomplished when the price is right."

"You didn't have to do this for me."

"I didn't want to bring you to a construction site." He reaches out his hand and I take it. He leads me to the back of the bathroom, past the shower with at least a dozen showerheads and a tub the size of a swimming pool.

There's only one closet, but it's huge. We step inside and I see that it's been divided down the middle with something that resembles a kitchen island, but has bureau-style drawers on either side. There's a remote control on top of the island. He picks it up and presses a b.u.t.ton. I hear water start to run in the tub.

The right side has a few white shirts, some jeans, some slacks, and something in a garment bag. A tux, I presume. On the whole, it's pretty thin. In contrast, the left side of the closet is packed full. Robes. Dresses. Skirts. Blouses. And shoes. Hundreds of shoes. "Mine again?" I ask, raising a brow.

"I think you'll find it all fits."

"You know, shopping is part of the fun."

"And I've already promised you a spree. In the meantime, you have plenty to choose from."

I roll my eyes. "What's in the island? Underwear?"

"No." His mouth twitches. "I thought we were clear that underwear isn't needed."

"But when I'm home-I mean, I'm going to have job interviews this week, I hope."

"No underwear," he repeats. "Not this week. Not unless I specifically tell you to."

I consider arguing, but I don't. It would be for form only. The truth is, the idea excites me. Being naked beneath my dress. Knowing that it's because it pleases Damien. Thinking of him every time a breeze caresses my s.e.x.

"Bra?" I ask.

He eyes the curve of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s under the red robe. "No," he says, and my nipples peak with arousal. He notices, and I see the answering excitement in his eyes.

"People will be able to tell," I say.

"Let them," he says. "Come on." I follow him to the tub. "Too hot?" he asks.

I dip my hand in. It's hot, but not unbearable. "Not even close."

"Really?" He looks intrigued, and turns down the cold water tap until it is only a trickle.

"Is that bubble bath?" I ask, pointing to a built-in dispenser. "Go ahead."

I press the b.u.t.ton, and a floral-scented gel squirts into the water right beneath the tap. Bubbles immediately form. "Now that's a bath," I say, laughing. "Can I get in?"

"Of course."

I drop the robe and climb in. Already conveniently nude, Damien follows. He eases his back against the side and then settles me in between his legs. I feel his c.o.c.k, soft now, against my rear. I shimmy a little, and it twitches.

"Tease," he murmurs. He squirts some liquid soap into his hands and begins to bathe me, caressing my arms with suds, then my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then dipping down to stroke between my thighs. I close my eyes and lean back, feeling him get hard against me, feeling my body opening for him again. I just had him-and now I really am a little sore-but I still want. Dear G.o.d, how I want.

His fingers tease me, gently making circles around my c.l.i.t, making me squirm. "I'm not going to f.u.c.k you again," he whispers. "And I'm not going to make you come."

I shift position, silently protesting.

"Tomorrow," he says. "Antic.i.p.ation. It's a good thing."

"You're mean," I say.

"Baby, you ain't seen nothing." He grips me at the waist and eases me around, so that I'm kneeling on his lap in the tub. Considering he's just told me he's not going to f.u.c.k me, it's one h.e.l.l of an interesting position since the length of his c.o.c.k is hard between us. I slip my hand down and stroke him. Soft, teasing. He feels like velvet on steel, and I want him inside me. Boldly, desperately, I want him. "You're not going to f.u.c.k me," I say softly. "But that doesn't mean I can't f.u.c.k you."

As I ease my hips up, I see the look of heated surprise on his face.

"Oh, no," he warns.

"Oh, yes," I say, positioning his c.o.c.k beneath me, then lowering myself onto him, fast and hard. I clutch his shoulders, arch my head back, and ride him.

"Jesus, Nikki." His voice is a desperate groan and he grabs my hips, taking over the work of pistoning us together. I'm learning his body, and I can see how fast he's building. I move harder, faster, pushing him along. "Oh, Christ, I'm going to come."

He explodes inside me, then pulls me close as he breathes hard, his entire body going limp. "That was ... unexpected," he says. "And pretty d.a.m.ned amazing," he adds, making me feel hot and s.e.xy and powerful.

He strokes my cheek. "You didn't use a condom."

I look away, weirdly shy. "I a.s.sumed you were clean. You are, right?"

"I am," he says. "But that's not the only issue."

"I'm on the pill," I admit. I don't tell him that it's more for cramps than for birth control.

"Good," he says. "In fact, that's excellent."

I ease off him, and curl up beside him in the rapidly cooling water. He holds me close, then shifts our position and stands, reaching to pull me up. I let him help me out and dry me off with the kind of thick towel I've only seen in spas. Then he holds the robe for me and ties the sash around my waist. He dries himself off next and pulls on a simple cotton robe. "Come," he says, then leads me to the bed.

He opens a trunk and pulls out two pillows and a light comforter, which he spreads over the sheets. He holds the sheet open in an obvious invitation, so I start to slide in. "Take the robe off," he says, and I do, untying the sash and then letting the soft material fall off my shoulders to pool at my feet.

"Don't fall asleep on me," he says, after he's tucked me in. "I'll be right back."

I roll over and look out at the ocean. The windows are still open, and the cool night air is blowing in, but it's warm under the comforter. The sky is black, and the ambient light is minimal enough that I can actually see the stars twinkling above.

After a moment, I feel the mattress shift as Damien sits beside me. He has a tray with wine, cheese, and grapes. I grin and ease myself up to a sitting position, the pillow propped against the cool metal of the bedframe.

"Open your mouth," he says, then feeds me a grape when I comply. "You're beautiful, Nikki," he says. "Do you believe me?"

"When you say it, I do."

My legs are under the covers, but he rests his hand on them. "How long?"

I don't pretend to misunderstand. "I was sixteen when I started," I say. "My sister got married and moved out. And Mother kicked the pageant stuff into overdrive. It sounds petty, I know, but Ashley was the only person who kept me centered. Without her around, I got so frustrated I'd take the crowns out of the trophy case and bend them. Not so much that Mother noticed. Just enough so that they weren't perfect anymore." I shrug. "I guess I graduated from crowns to my own skin."

"Why cutting?"

"I don't really know. It's a compulsion; it just felt like that was what I needed. Either cut or float off into some black h.e.l.l. I felt so disconnected, like my life didn't belong to me. The pain gave me an anchor. Now, I think it was something my mother couldn't touch. Then, I just knew it helped. It's hard to explain." I shrug. I want him to understand, but I don't really understand myself, and I don't like talking about it.

"I get it," he says.

I look at him, wondering if he's just being polite, but I see genuine comprehension in his face.

"Sixteen," he says thoughtfully. "But when I saw you compete at eighteen, there were no scars."

"My hips," I say. "I kept all the cuts on my hips at first. Easy enough to hide, even in a pageant dressing room."

"What changed?" He's holding my hand, gently stroking my fingers.

"Ashley," I admit. "When I was eighteen, she committed suicide. Her husband had left her-my mother had been appalled. Said Ashley must have done something to drive him away. I guess Ashley thought so, too, because her suicide note said she was a failure." I swallow, appreciating the way he's squeezing my hand in support. "That was the first time I realized how much I hated my mother. But I still didn't have the courage to tell her to f.u.c.k the pageants. So I sliced up my thighs." My smile is ironic. "That's a lot harder to hide."

"Did she get you help?"

"No. First she went on and on about how I screwed up her plans and embarra.s.sed her. Then she told me I was a selfish b.i.t.c.h because I was throwing away all that prize money and scholarships and probably even a husband."

Damien says nothing, but I can see the burn of temper in his eyes and the tightness across his body. He's holding in an explosion, and the fact that his wrath is on my behalf gives me the strength to continue.

"She told me I destroyed all her hard work, and she didn't know why she'd spent years bothering with a ridiculous little fool like me. She said I'd ruined my body and my future. I guess part of me believed her, because even once I was in Austin at school, I still cut."

He hands me a gla.s.s of wine, and I take it gratefully. "I was scared and alone and overwhelmed. But I did see a counselor, and things started to get better and finally I stopped." I take a sip. "My mother has money," I admit. "Nothing like you have, but she inherited the family oil business when my grandfather pa.s.sed away, along with a pretty hefty bank account." I don't mention that Mother's inept.i.tude drove the company into the ground and she ended up selling it. Now she's living on what's in the bank, and the fortune is shrinking every year because she hasn't got a clue how to manage it and refuses to hire an advisor. That's one of the reasons I'm determined to learn how to run a business before I actually have a business to run.

"Anyway, Mother cut me off financially after I declared my majors. Science wasn't what she wanted for her little girl. But that was the best thing for me, because suddenly I didn't have her looking over my shoulder. I didn't have to be perfect. I didn't quit immediately, but it started to get better, and after a while I didn't need to cut anymore."

My words have been pouring out of me. It's more than I've ever told anyone. Even Jamie and Ollie only learned the truth in small doses. But it feels good to get it out, even though the price is the growing ferocity I see in his eyes.

Still, I haven't told him everything....

He puts our gla.s.ses on a table by the bed and moves the tray with the food out of the way. Then he pulls me into his arms, so that my head is resting on his shoulder. Slowly, his fingers trail up and down my arm. "I understand, baby. I promise you, I understand."

I squeeze my eyes tight. I believe him.

"But what aren't you telling me?"

I blink at him. "I-how do you know that?"

"The way you ran from me," he says simply.

I ease out of his embrace and roll over on my side.

He presses his palm to my shoulder. I close my eyes.

"What if I say 'sunset'?" My voice is a whisper.

His fingers tighten, then relax. "If you need to." He reaches over me and takes my hand, then twines his fingers with mine. "Or you can just hold tight."

I don't know where to begin, so I start with the easiest. "I never slept with Ollie," I say. "Not the way you understood me, anyway."

He is silent, and so I continue, telling my story to the night sky and to Damien. "It was about a week after Ashley's birthday, a few years after the suicide. I'd mostly stopped cutting, but sometimes-well, sometimes I needed it. But I was getting better. Ollie knew. And Jamie. And they were helping me."

"What happened?"

"I got drunk. I mean wasted drunk. My mom had called and given me some head trip. I missed Ashley something fierce. And I was dating this guy. Kurt. We'd been going out for months, and it had taken me a while, but we started sleeping together, and he would tell me how he didn't mind the scars, that I was beautiful, that it was about me, not my scars or my t.i.ts or any of that stuff. Just me and him and our connection. And I believed him and, honestly, the s.e.x was good. We had fun together."

I suck in a deep breath to give me courage to continue. "But this night, we both got wasted. Honestly, I don't even know how he managed to get an erection. But he did, and we did, and afterward he looked at my legs and he"-my voice breaks with the memory-"he told me I was lucky I had a pretty face and such a sweet p.u.s.s.y because I was one totally screwed-up b.i.t.c.h, and my scars made him want to puke."

I take deep breaths, keeping my eyes on the sky and my fingers tight in Damien's hand. Even now, the memory makes me feel sick. I'd trusted Kurt, and he'd completely ripped me apart.

"I went to Ollie," I continue. "He knew about my scars and he was my friend and I knew he was attracted to me. And I tried to seduce him."

"He wouldn't sleep with you," Damien says.

"He wouldn't f.u.c.k me," I clarify. "But he took off my jeans and he told me that for some of those scars he remembered what I'd been through, and he told me that he thought I was strong. That he didn't want me cutting anymore. That I was better than my mother and I needed to forget a.s.sholes like Kurt and finish school and get the h.e.l.l out of Texas. Then he held me until I fell asleep."

I manage a watery smile. "I thought he got me through it. Guess I still have some issues to work through, huh?"

I've put a light note in my voice, but Damien doesn't respond to it.

"Damien?" I roll over to look at him, then immediately sit up. He looks angry, like he's barely holding in his fury. I take his hand. "He's ancient history."

"He will be if I ever meet the f.u.c.ker. What's his last name?"

I hesitate. Considering Damien owns half the universe, I think better of saying it. "No. It's all in the past. I'm over it," I lie.

He eyes me but I look back blandly. "What about the other men you've slept with?"