“More?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer, just spanks me again, and again. Eight more times, until my rear is red hot and sensitive and my cunt is so wet that I can feel my desire coating the inside of my thighs.

I am bent over the desk, my breasts rubbing against the wood with every impact, and now my nipples are as tight and hard and sensitive as my clit. I’m awash in sensation, my entire body sparking like a live wire, and with the right touch, I know that I will shatter.

I expect another smack, but this time his hands grab my hips instead. With his knee, he roughly shoves my legs apart. One hand comes down on my back, holding me in place over the desk. The other strokes my sex, opening me, readying me, though that is hardly necessary—as I am so ready for him to be inside me, I can hardly stand it.

“Damien, please,” I beg. “I need you in so many ways, but right now, I just need you to take me.”

He does, thank God. Gently at first, just the tip of his cock sliding into me as my muscles clench greedily around him. He withdraws, and I moan, immediately regretting the loss of him. Then, without warning, he slams into me, our bodies coming together brutally, violently, and I can feel his body tightening as his climax draws close. “Come with me, baby,” he says, his hand snaking around to stroke my clit.

It is that touch in combination with the sensation of being filled by Damien that sends me spiraling off the cliff, then grabbing on to the edge of the desk as Damien thrusts into me, faster and faster until he explodes as well, then collapses onto the carpet, clutching me around the waist and pulling me down with him.

I land on top of him, and he grins. “Again, Ms. Fairchild?”

“I could be convinced,” I say, though I am still breathless.

He lifts himself just high enough to kiss me. “Marry me,” he says, then grins.

“Yeah,” I say happily. “I think I will.”

“All I am saying is that there is a reason that tradition exists,” my mother says as we enter Phillipe Favreau’s Rodeo Drive boutique.

I am regretting not only having her come along today, but also that I answered her questions about my flower choices for the wedding. She has been harping on it ever since I explained that the cupcake tower would be decorated with wildflowers because that was the overall floral theme.

Wildflowers, in the world of Elizabeth Fairchild, are an epic fail where weddings are concerned.

“Orchids, lilies, gardenias. Darling, those are all lovely and elegant and classic.”

“I like what I’ve picked out, Mother.” I glance around the studio. There are only three gowns on mannequins and one very thin woman working behind a tall glass table that doubles as a desk. “Now, would you drop it?” I glance at the woman. “I’m Nikki Fairchild. I have an appointment with Alyssa for an alteration on a gown that arrived this morning.”

“Nikki Fairchild?” she repeats, looking a bit more flummoxed than is usual for store clerks on Rodeo Drive. “The Damien Stark gown?”

I frown. “Um, well, I’m going to be the one wearing it, but Damien ordered it, yes. Why? Is there a problem?”

She smiles an overly perky smile, and little knots of dread form in my stomach. “I’ll just get Alyssa. One moment.”

“Even magnolias,” Mother says.

“Would you stop it?” I am practically snarling, and Mother’s eyes go wide.

“Nichole! You need to learn to control yourself.”

I suck in both a breath and my temper, and refrain from telling her that she needs to learn to shut up. “I’m a little nervous,” I say. “I think there may be something wrong with the dress.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure it’s lovely. Do you have a picture?”

I glance sideways at her, thrown off kilter by the fact that she’s actually being soothing. “Um, sure.” I pull out my phone and call up the photographs we’d taken in Paris, both of Phillipe’s sketch and of the basted-together version that I wore for the initial fitting. Just seeing it makes me smile. It has a fitted bodice with a low neckline that reveals a hint of cleavage. The sleeves are slim and hug my arms. The skirt is not a traditional princess style, but is instead sleek in the front and over my hips, showing off my curves. The back has a modified bustle that supports a train.

The neckline and the hem and the lower line of the bodice are embroidered with tiny flowers accented with pearls, giving the pure white dress a touch of the whimsical. I think it’s an exceptional dress, and I cannot wait for Damien to see me in it.

I glance over at my mother, expecting to see approval in her eyes. I should have known better.

“Well,” she says with a sniff, “I suppose this is to be expected, considering your choice of flowers and cake.”

“I—” I snap my mouth shut. I have no idea what to say. No idea what insult to hurl that will cut her as deeply as she is cutting me, each word like a new wound.

All I want is one tiny crumb from my mother. Approval, compassion, respect. But there is nothing there, and there never has been.

And yet I have been foolish enough to let that flame of hope keep burning. God, I’m an idiot.

I turn away so as to not let her see that my eyes are bright with tears.

“A longer train,” she says. “And a fuller skirt. This is one of the few times you can completely hide those hips, Nichole. You should take advantage of it.”

I cringe, wanting to scream at her that just because I’m no longer a size four does not mean that I have to start wearing caftans. I’m young, I’m healthy, I’m pretty, and if she’s too goddamn stupid to see that—

My wild thoughts are interrupted by the door to the back room bursting open and a tall red-haired woman hurrying in.

“Nikki,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Alyssa.”

I start to hold my hand out as well, only to discover that I’ve clenched it so tight that I’ve left indentations from my nails in my palms. I flex it, then extend it to her. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid so,” she says. “This is terribly embarrassing, but your dress is missing.”

“Missing,” I repeat stupidly.

“We hope it’s just a clerical error in customs, and we’re doing everything we can.” I halfway tune her out, still stuck on that one word: missing. My dress is missing, and my wedding is Saturday. Tomorrow.

“. . . have been other shops with items missing . . .”

What the hell am I going to do? This is my dress. My wedding dress. I mean, I can’t just run to Target.

“. . . customs or the shipper, but we’re looking into it, and . . .”

And it’s not even just a wedding dress. It’s the dress I bought during my trip to Europe with Damien. It’s the dress we bought during our days and nights in Paris. The dress made by the designer who assured Damien that he would go faint with awe when he saw me in the gown. This is not a dress I can lose, nor is it a dress I can replace, and I can feel the panic, the anger, the futility rising inside me.

One goddamn thing after another, and I can’t even lash out. Because it’s not this poor girl’s fault—hell, she’s mortified, too. But everything is just piling on: the photographer and the music and the flowers. Those goddamned flowers that my mother has been talking about for the last hour.

“Ms. Fairchild?” Alyssa says, her voice ripe with concern. Her fingers brush over my arm, and I use the touch as an anchor to draw me out of my thoughts and back to reality. “Ms. Fairchild, are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” my mother says firmly. “This can only be considered a good thing. It gives her a chance to find a dress that might actually flatter her figure.”

Alyssa’s eyes are wide, and she’s staring at my mother like she’s never met such a creature before. Hell, she probably hasn’t.

“Come on, Nichole. This is Beverly Hills. I’m sure we can find you a gown.”

“Get the hell out of here.” I did not plan the words, but I know the moment that they are out that I mean them with all my heart.