Free Complete Me by J. Kenner Page A

of material held in place by a stretchy black string. I twirl slowly, checking out the look in the Hollywood diva style three-way mirror that stands in one corner of the room. Honestly, it doesn’t look half bad. More important, I think Damien will like seeing me in it—and seeing me out of it.
    I’m grinning, and about to extricate myself from the bodice so that I can try on the next outfit, when the salesgirl taps on the door. “I found something else you might like. May I come in?”
    “Sure. Thanks.” I tug the top back down so that I’m fully covered—at least as fully covered as one can be wearing a see-through, low-cut, semi-baby-doll nightie—and watch as she opens the door. I expect frills and lace and silks and satins. What I see instead is Damien.
    “Oh!”
    His eyes are fixed on my face, the near-black one seeming to reach all the way into my heart, and the amber one so soft with apology that I think I’m going to cry. He steps inside the room and my head goes weak, as if all the air has been sucked out of the space. “I thought you might need a second opinion,” he says, his mouth curving into a half-smile.
    “I—yes. That would be great.” I am a tongue-tied mess. My gaze darts to the salesgirl, who grins and backs away, shutting the door behind her. “Um, are you allowed to be here?”
    “Apparently I am.” He takes a step toward me, full of that Damien-esque arrogance I know so well.
    I grin. In relief, in excitement, in joy.
    “I’m sorry.” His simple words seem to burst with emotion.
    “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I say. His face doesn’t change, but I see the smile touch his eyes, and my relief grows exponentially. “How did you know where to find me?”
    He moves forward again, this time stopping only inches from me. My body thrums merely from his proximity. I want to launch myself into his arms, but I stand motionless. Today, it must be Damien who makes the first move.
    “I’ve told you before that I’ll always find you.” His words are as soft as the silk on my body, and just as intimate. It occurs to me that the valet probably mentioned seeing me, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now except the desire that burns in his eyes. It is more dangerous than the wildest flame, but I don’t care. On the contrary, I am craving the heat. He may have doused that fire back in the hotel, but it is back tenfold now, and all I want is for it to burn free. To engulf the two of us and render us to cinders.
    Slowly, his gaze skims over me and this barely-there outfit. He doesn’t touch me, but that doesn’t matter. My skin tingles anyway, and the tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise from the charged energy that crackles in this room. It’s a good thing I’m buying these panties, because I am already wet simply from being near him. “We’re going to end up in the tabloids again,” I whisper.
    He shakes his head. “I can be very persuasive when I try. She won’t say a thing.”
    “Is that a fact? Just how persuasive were you, Mr. Stark?”
    “Persuasive to the tune of a thousand euros.” His eyes crinkle as he grins. “She’ll ensure our privacy. From the press and from her own curiosity. Of course,” he adds as he finally reaches out to touch me, “the more interesting question is what does she think is going on in this small, private room?”
    “I’m sure she has a very vivid imagination,” I say dryly.
    “Really?” Damien appears to consider the possibility. “Maybe she thinks I’m touching you like this,” he says as his fingertip moves slowly over the swell of my breast. I draw in a sharp breath, fighting the riot of sensations that threaten to overwhelm me. The black nightie is designed for maximum lift, and is cut so low that it barely contains me. I’m breathing hard, and that only increases the illusion that I’m about to spill out over the cups. My nipples are hard beneath the material, and when he slides his