Page 9 of Embrace Me

My pulse kicks up as he slowly kisses his way south, his hands moving to my hips, then the juncture of my thighs as his mouth trails over the mountain that is my body. My breath is coming in stutters now, and his kisses are trailing lower and lower. Then his mouth is on my public bone and I gasp, then bite my lower lip as he keeps going, his tongue flicking over my clit.

Electricity zings through me, and I start to squirm, but Damien holds me in place, his tongue and mouth teasing me as wild sensations build inside of me, and though I try to shift, to move just enough to take some of the edge of these pounding, rising, incredible feelings, he isn’t letting me. I have to take it all, and I suck in air, my body filling up with something primal and powerful until I can’t take it anymore and I cry out as I explode in a shower of brilliant lights and vibrant colors.

“Damien,” I murmur, as I finally come back to myself.

“I’m here,” he says, moving up the bed, then brushing a kiss on my shoulder. I roll onto my side, then sigh happily as he spoons against me.

“That was…”

“Yes, baby?”

“That was wonderful,” I say, the world feeling thick and heavy. “But I think I need that nap now.”

And though I hear his soft laughter in my ear, it soon fades, as I’m tugged down into a warm and dreamless sleep.

* * *

I’m still basking in the afterglow of both sex and my nap when we pull into the Stark Children’s Foundation grounds right on the dot at five. Technically, the event starts at five-thirty, with cocktails and conversation followed by my short announcement and Jamie’s longer presentation, but we came early to give us time to wander the grounds and chat with the kids who are actually in residence.

Over the years, Damien has both supported and created several charitable institutions, and this one was one of his first. The SCF is dedicated to helping abused and neglected children find help, homes, and a proper education. Many even live and go to school on site until they find adoptive or foster families. Located on several acres in the Hollywood Hills, the foundation is an incredible organization and one I’m happy to be part of.

I’ve recently stepped into the role of an SCF Youth Advocate, and I’ve been dealing primarily with kids who are cutting or otherwise working out their issues through self-harm. It’s a good role for me, as God knows I understand that compulsion well. I’ve always been a cutter—and I know I’ll always have to guard against that urge—but it wasn’t until after Anne’s kidnapping, when I relapsed and took a blade to my skin again, that I publicly said so. It had been a terrifying revelation, but in speaking out and sharing my story, I’d turned a difficult, personal revelation into something good.

We’re in the cherry red Bugatti Veyron, one of Damien’s favorite cars, and two of the boys who are currently living on-site come rushing over, eager to see inside.

“Just a quick look, Mr. Stark,” Joshua, a precocious fourteen-year-old begs.

“Yes, please,” adds Allen, who, at twelve, has been Joshua’s wingman since they met.

Damien laughs, then holds the door open, letting them take turns sliding behind the wheel. He catches my eye as I circle the hood, then adds a small shrug.

I wiggle my fingers, letting him know it’s both okay and expected—what man could resist showing off that car?—and start to walk toward the main building so I can look over my notes before I’m behind the podium. I don’t get that far, though. I see two more kids, both girls, leaning against the fence post that outlines a field where the foundation’s four horses can run free or be saddled for lessons.

Mellie, a pale thirteen-year-old with a mass of red curls, lifts her hand in greetings, but quickly drops her eyes. I frown, then put my speech back into my shoulder bag and veer in her direction.

Tascha, her nine-year-old companion who is beyond shy, takes off running for the residence, but Millie stays put. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she says when I approach.

Her words aren’t harsh, just sad, and they send a warning ricocheting through me. “I’m sorry about that, because I always like talking to you.”

She looks up at me, her wide eyes damp. “I was afraid you’d be able to tell.”

I force myself not to react, though I want to reach out and touch her and help carry her pain. “No, that’s one of the hardest things about it. How secret it can be, so nobody ever knows you need help.”

Her chin rises. “I don’t need help.”

“Don’t you?”

We’ve fallen in step together, and now I sit on a bench, patting the seat beside me. “So what was the trigger?”

She looks up at me blinking away tears. “My mom. What else?”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Yeah,” I say. “I get it.”

She meets my eyes and nods. We’ve talked a lot about my cutting over the last few months, and how my own mother’s attitude and expectations affected me. She made me believe I was weak, and it came to a point where I needed to cut to get through most every trauma of my life. I’m past that now, my own resolve pushing me through, and Damian’s strong hand at my back helping me to stay steady. But I know how hard it can be, and I know that I will always have to fight that urge.

“How bad?” I ask.

“Hardly at all,” she says, her voice small as if that’s a bad thing. “I put it here,” she says pointing to her inner thigh, the place where I almost always dragged the blade, too.