Extraits

– Oh, mon Dieu ! oh, mon Dieu ! je répète avant d’ajouter : tu ne m’avais pas dit que ça faisait cet effet-là.

Il sort la main de sa poche et me montre la télécommande du plug.

– Il faut bien réserver quelques surprises.

Je soupire de satisfaction et quitte mon perchoir pour venir me pelotonner contre lui sur la banquette, tout en rajustant discrètement mes vêtements.

– Waouh ! dis-je. C’était un peu pervers.

– Et pervers, ça te plaît ?

– Oh oui ! je réponds. Beaucoup.

Il a passé un bras autour de ma taille, la main sur ma hanche. Un moment, puis ses lèvres frôlent mon oreille et je frissonne à leur contact, avant de rire en entendant ce qu’il me dit :

– Votre cul vibre.

– Est-ce un euphémisme pour décrire ce que vous venez de me faire, monsieur Stark ?

– Vous vous en plaignez ?

– Certainement pas

– Tant mieux. Et ce n’est pas un euphémisme. C’est votre téléphone.

- Que fais-tu ici ? demande Damien d'une voix glaciale.

- Damie chéri, ne soit pas fâché.

Elle s'étire comme une chatte et prend le verre de vin posé sur la table à côté d'elle. Elle boit une gorgée, visiblement très à l'aise. J'ai envie de lui flanquer des baffes.

- Comment es-tu entrée ? demande Damien irrité.

Elle me jette à peine un regard.

- Vu le nombre de fois où j'ai partagé cette chambre avec toi, fait-elle mine de s'étonner, je fais quasiment partie de la famille. J'ai juste demandé à l'un des garçons d'étage de m'ouvrir.

- Il ne t'est pas venu à l'esprit que ça allait lui coûter sa place ?

- Mais pourquoi donc ? demande-t-elle en riant. Je pensais que nous pourrions fêter ta victoire ensemble. Et t'est-il jamais arrivé de me chasser de ta chambre Damie ? Ou de ne pas être heureux de me voir ?

- En cet instant oui par exemple.

Je la dévisage, alarmée de voir qu'elle ne manifeste aucune réaction. Elle ne tressaille même pas. Ne cille pas d'avantage. Elle n'est ni fâchée ni blessée.

En d'autres termes, Carmela est venue ici en sachant exactement ce qui se passerait. Quelle foutue salope !

Il tapote le micro et le bruit qui résonne dans la salle me fait sursauter. Je me tourne et vois Jamie se précipiter vers moi en ouvrant de grands yeux.

Sur la scène,Damien contemple l'assistance, avec autant d'assurance que s'il s'apprêtait à faire une présentation à un client dans son bureau.

- J'avais prévu de chanter "don't go breaking my heart", d'Elton John et kiki Dee, mais j'ai un peu de mal à organiser la logistique du duo.

Je sens les yeux de l'auditoire se poser sur moi. Je ne suis pas difficile à repérer, surtout avec le rire tonitruant de Jamie qui me désigne de l'index. Je porte une main a mon front et baisse la tête pour dissimuler ma gêne, ne sachant plus trop si Damien m'amuse ou m'agace.

Cela dit, je me suis fourrée toute seule dans ce pétrin. C'est peut être l'idée de Jamie au départ, mais je l'ai approuvée haut et fort. J'aurais dû me douter que Damien trouverait un moyen de retourner la situation à son avantage.

Pourquoi je ne me sers pas de cette lame pour libérer toutes ces conneries ignoble et violentes qui bouillonnent en moi.

– Je t’aime, Nikki, répète-t-il. Je le dis par chacun de mes gestes, de mes regards. À chaque souffle. Je t’aime. Je t’aime tant que c’en est parfois douloureux.

He’s trying to grab control of all that, and it’s just slipping through his fingers. I get it; I do.

But at the end of the day that doesn’t change a thing.

“Do not fight me on this, Nikki.”

“Hell yes, I’m fighting. Why bother to put the gate around my apartment if you’re not going to trust that it will do it’s job? I mean, I don’t like getting nasty mail any more than you do, but for all we know it was mailed from Antarctica.”

He strides to me, all power and control and cool masculinity. He reaches out and his finger brushes my cheek, the shock of his touch sending sparks through me. “I don’t like being defied,” he says.

I suck in air, determined not to melt or back down. “I don’t like being bossed around.” I shift my feet, mentally planting my stance along with my posture. “You’re not winning this one, Damien. Deal with it.”

His finger trails down my neck to the collar of my T-shirt. “Do you have any idea how frustrated I am right now?”

I shudder, the light pressure of his touch sending all sorts of decadent promises swirling through me. “I know what you’re doing.” My words tremble. “It won’t work.”

“Won’t it?”

I close my eyes, shivering as his fingertip follows the curve of my breast. “I’m not giving in.”

He fists his hand around the collar of my shirt and tugs me close. “I’ll have you safe,” he murmurs. As he holds me in place with one hand, with the other he captures my waist.

He eases me backward, and I feel the bed press against the back of my thighs. My body tingles with awareness, but also with something new. This is the Damien I know so well, but there’s a quality to his touch I haven’t felt before. A take-no-prisoners attitude that excites me, making my inner thighs tingle and my cunt throb for his touch.

“I want to cup my hand around you,” he murmurs, sliding his hand over my sex as if in illustration, and then making me gasp when he uses that grip to lift me up onto the bed, the pressure from his thumb on my pubis and his palm over my sex so intense it send tremors though me, like portents of an explosion to come.

He lays me out on the bed, one hand stroking circles on my sex and the other cupping my breast. I moan, my hips gyrating to meet him, my back arching up to increase the pressure of his hand against my painfully sensitive nipple. “That protective bubble you mentioned? I want to keep you locked inside. Whatever it takes,” he says. “You can’t possibly know how much I need you.”

“We’ve done this before, remember? Our first night. You in the back of my limo, and I was miles away on my phone and so hard I thought I’d explode.”

I nod. It’s one of my most vivid memories. I was drunk and heady with lust, but I was alone and I could fool myself into believing that the extent of my arousal was my own secret.

Now, there is no hiding how turned on I am.

“I’ll call him now,” he says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. I watch from beside him, frowning as he’s put through to Charles. I can’t imagine why Maynard would be calling—could the court have changed its mind? Is it even allowed to do that?

I study Damien’s face, but his expression gives me no clues. It’s gone completely blank and totally unreadable. A boardroom expression designed to give nothing away to competitors—or to me.

After a moment, Damien stands, and though I reach for his hand, he doesn’t reach back. Neither does he meet my eyes. He heads to the back of the plane and disappears into what I assume is the office.

I try to focus on my book, but it’s impossible, and after I’ve read the same page over at least three dozen times, Damien finally returns. He nods at the attendant, who radios the cockpit, and by the time Damien has fastened his seatbelt again we are once again readying for take-off.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing to worry about.” He stills wears that bland, corporate mask and I feel my heart constrict, as if a giant fist is squeezing it tight.

“But I am worrying. Charles wouldn’t radio the tower unless it was important.”

He smiles, but it seems forced, and I see no corresponding humor in his eyes. “You’re right. He wouldn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“There’ve been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I’ve been chipping away at.” His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don’t believe a word of it.

“Don’t shut me out again, Damien.”

“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Not everything is about us.”

I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. “I see.” I finger the book in my lap. “Well, never mind.”

“Nikki…” His voice is no longer cold.

I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. “It’s fine,” I say.

His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I’m certain his words are all bullshit. What I don’t understand is why.

I turn my head, ostensibly to look out the window as the plane gathers speed, rushing forward to its inevitable climb. And as the wheels lift-off, I can’t help but think that we have reached the point of no return, Damien and I. Like this plane, we will either continue to move forward, or we will crash.