Hottest Mess Page 14

  I'm intrigued enough that I almost forgive him for withdrawing his touch, and I wonder for a moment if he's bought me a necklace. But when he hands me the box there is almost no weight to it at all, and no rattle when I gently shake it.

  "What is this?"

  "Happy birthday," he says, and I light with pleasure.

  "Thank you, but that's not for four more days."

  "Open it."

  I can hardly argue with that, and so I pull off the lid, then squeal when I see the two tickets. "Dominion Gate?" It's a Finnish heavy metal band I adore. "Dallas, that's incredible! I thought about going but their New York dates have been sold out for ages. When did you--"

  "It's not New York. It's LA. Westerfield's in West Hollywood. A small venue for a concert, but a friend of mine owns the place and so I managed to score a couple of tickets." He grins, looking more than a little pleased with himself. "I figured you wouldn't mind going to LA for the concert since you've probably been putting off things out there anyway."

  "Smart man," I admit. "I've been trying to decide if need to go back for a few weeks." I shrug. "Before, it was no big deal to go to LA for a while. Now, I prefer to be in New York."

  "Is that so?" He lifts a brow. "Why?"

  He knows perfectly well why, of course, but I tell him anyway. "I used to like being out there because it kept me away from you." I smile, then take a sip of my martini.

  "I'm shocked," he says as he slides his hand back under the table. Once again, he gently strokes my thigh, the sensation making want to curl up and start purring. "Why on earth would you want to be away from me?"

  I sigh a little, but finally manage to form words. "Because when I was near you, all I could think about was touching you."

  "And now?"

  "Now I want to be here. In New York. Wherever you are."

  "Why?"

  I look at his face and see the heat I feel reflected right back at me. "Because when I'm near you, all I can think about is touching you."

  "I think it's time to go home."

  "Yes," I agree. "It absolutely is."

  He texts our driver and the limo is waiting for us as we step out onto the street. Unfortunately, so are two men with cameras.

  "Dallas! Hey, Dallas! What's the story? You and your sister patch up your rift?"

  I freeze, my body going completely cold as the driver holds the door open for us. I expect that Dallas is going to hustle me into the limo and ignore them. But he doesn't. Instead, he looks straight at them.

  "Rift? No idea what you're talking about. My sister and I just wanted to spend some time together before she heads back to LA. We both lead busy lives and don't get to hang out often enough."

  "So the rumors you two have been feuding for years are false?"

  Dallas flashes his most photogenic smile. "Come on, guys. Do you know how many rumors there are about me out there? How am I supposed to keep up?"

  "Dallas! Dallas! Jane, can you--"

  But the last is cut off as Dallas finally does take my hand and urges me into the limo, then follows, shutting the door behind him.

  I collapse into the seat, breathing hard, my heart beating wildly, and all I can think is that we were almost discovered. What if Dallas had been holding my hand? What if he'd forgotten himself in the moment and kissed me? What if the woman from the lounge had recognized him? Had figured out exactly who we were and what we'd been doing?

  Oh, god.

  Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.

  He pulls me close, and I realize I'm trembling. "Shhh. It's okay. It's fine. We covered and it's all good."

  I cling to him. "You covered. I froze. I completely froze."

  "Doesn't matter," he repeats, kissing my hair. "They didn't see anything. They didn't suspect anything."

  "But--"

  "Jane?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Look at me." When I do, he continues, his voice firm. "I wanted this. I think we needed it."

  "To be hounded by the press?" I can practically hear the hysteria in my voice. "Our affair almost revealed?"

  "No," he says calmly. "To go out in public. To act like we're just a couple on a date. To feel like we're part of the world, and not still in a concrete cell in London."

  His words push through my fear, because I understand that. How many times have I felt like he and I are still trapped, social taboos and laws and our family's disapproval keeping us as firmly imprisoned as the Jailer and the Woman once did?

  "I don't regret, tonight," he says. "I didn't intend for the media to notice us, but I don't even regret that. Okay?" He takes my chin and turns my head so that I have no choice but to look at him again.

  "But what if they push the story? What if Daddy hears about it?" The idea of our relationship trending on Twitter scares the crap out of me. But not as much as the ire that will come down on us when our father gets wind of what is between me and Dallas.

  "Then we'll deal," he says reasonably. "If it happens, we'll survive. We've survived worse, Jane. We've survived hell." He holds my gaze, his so tender I feel like weeping.

  "Okay?" he asks gently.

  I nod, and before I can add a spoken yes, he slants his mouth over mine, kissing me long and deep, making me forget my lingering fears. Soothing me. Saving me. Letting me lose myself in the pleasure of this man who has sworn so many times that he will always protect me.

  He will, I know, and I melt gratefully into his arms for the short drive home.

  When we arrive, we hurry up the steps, both of us wanting to get inside. Wanting to touch and kiss and finish this night lost in the warmth of each other's arms. I'm giddy as he unlocks the door and leads us through the main door to the small alcove that doubles as a mudroom.

  But my laughter fades when he stops cold and I slam against him, not expecting him to freeze so suddenly.

  "Dallas, what's wrong?" I ask, but I don't need him to tell me. I see the answer well enough--a blue envelope sitting menacingly on the floor. It's in a clear plastic bag and was obviously pushed through the mail slot. "Oh, shit. Here?" I ask as he bends to pick it up. "Oh, god, if she sent it here, then she must know about us, and--"

  "No, it's okay." There is relief in Dallas's voice. "There's a messenger slip in the envelope. It came to the mansion. Archie sent it over."

  "Oh." I'm ashamed at how relieved I am. I don't want Dallas receiving creepy stalker letters, but I really don't want the creepy stalker to out the two of us to the world.

  "Come on," he says, leading us the rest of the way inside before opening the note.

  I read over his shoulder, then murmur, "Bitch," as I see the words:

  When will you understand? When will you touch me? When will you see that there is no woman except me? They are all just noise coming between us?

  I meet Dallas's eyes. His are hard. Mine, I'm sure, are full of worry. "Give it to Liam," I say. "Tell him to pull out all the stops. You have to figure it out before she does something."

  "You think she's unstable."

  "I think she's a fucking nutcase," I admit, and I see Dallas's shoulders drop as he nods.

  "Liam's on it," he says. "He doesn't think it's Fiona, by the way. She could have an excellent poker face, but he told me he didn't see even a hint of a reaction when he showed her the envelope in my room and led her out of the house."

  "I already told you who I think it is. And Fiona's way too young to be the Woman."

  He sighs. "I know." He pulls me into his arms, then kisses my forehead.

  I cling to him. "If it is the Woman and she saw us together--" I tremble, because the Woman is one of the few people in the world who knows what Dallas and I are to each other.

  Apparently Dallas is thinking along the same lines, because he asks if I noticed anyone watching us at the movie or at the Balcony.

  "No one. You?"

  He shakes his head, then kisses me again. "No more worrying about this tonight. Come on," he says, taking my hand. "I want to take you to bed."

  I smile,
forcing myself to shove aside all the fear and worry. "Do you?" I ask as we head for the stairs. "How very bold. And here I thought you were a gentleman."

  "I am," he says. "I will absolutely make sure that you come first."

  I burst out laughing, then pause on the stairs to look down at him. "I love you."

  "Now who's being bold on a first date?"

  "That would be me." I step down one so that I am right beside him. "By the way, Mr. Sykes, I intend to take advantage of you tonight."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Just fair warning. I'm going to use you. I'm going to take what I want." I smile, imagining all the delicious possibilities. "I just thought I should let you know."

  Wrecked

  Despite my bold pronouncement to take complete advantage of Dallas, we'd made love slowly and sweetly, then curled up in each other's arms. He never said a word about my apparently unfulfilled promise, and I hadn't mentioned it either.

  But I hadn't forgotten.

  Now, I lay propped up beside him on an elbow, watching his eyes move behind his lids as he dreams. I'd dozed briefly as he'd slept, but then I'd climbed out of bed to go work a bit on my screenplay, too charged up emotionally to succumb to slumber.

  Besides, I had a plan, and that required making sure that I didn't sleep through until morning.

  Now, I'm back in bed and my plan is at the forefront of my thoughts.

  Gently, I tug the sheet down, exposing all of him. He's semi-erect, and I smile to myself, wondering what he's dreaming and planning to make it so much better.

  I stroke my hand over his belly, then watch as his body reacts. His muscles tighten in response to my touch. I'm gentle--I'm not ready for him to wake up just yet--and I'm enjoying watching the pleasure of my touch work its way into his dreams.

  He turns his head, his lips parting. And as my hand slides lower--as I press a gentle kiss to his breast and lick his nipple--I feel the movement in his hips and a tightening of the muscles throughout his body. I look down and see that he's harder now. Almost fully erect. And I hope that he's dreaming of me.

  Slowly, I work kisses down his abdomen, along the trail of hair, and then I run my tongue along the length of his cock. He groans in his sleep, and I freeze for a moment, because I'm still not ready for him to wake. I told him that I was going to take what I wanted, and I meant it.

  Tonight, I want his cock.

  I smile as I move to straddle him. We've done this before, and I essentially told him I was going to do it again, so I feel perfectly justified in taking what I want--especially when I know that he wants it, too.

  He's hard, so damn hard, and we fit together so perfectly. I sigh with pleasure as he fills me. As I raise and lower myself, taking him. Pumping him.

  He feels it, too. I can tell by the incredible sensation of him inside me as well as by the way his body writhes beneath mine. He is close, and I think that if I can just take him all the way--if he will just come inside me even in this dreamland--then it will break the spell. Like the princess kissing the sleeping prince and waking him once more.

  I think that I am succeeding. Beneath me, he begins to move more wildly, and just when I think that he is there, he opens his eyes and stares into mine.

  I gasp because he is still hard, and for a moment I am overwhelmed with the power of everything that is between us. But that changes in an instant. He moves fast, rolling us over until he is on top of me and no longer inside of me. He yanks me to my feet, his hands clenching painfully tight around my upper arms.

  I gasp, trying to read his expression, but he's not with me--I can see that clearly enough now. He's dreaming. He's fifteen. And I'm certain that in his dream he is doing exactly what I told him to do.

  He is fighting.

  He is fighting me.

  With a groan, he slams me against the wall, one hand around my neck, the other between my legs. His expression is hard, his eyes wild, and I gasp, trying to breathe as he roughly spreads my legs and thrusts inside me, wild and untamed.

  I'm scared--goddammit, I'm really and truly scared--but not of him. I'm scared of the dream. Of the fact that he doesn't see me. He sees her. The Woman. I know that he wants to hurt her. And right now, I don't know how far he will go.

  I whimper as he tosses me back on the bed, as he forces me up on my knees, then tugs my arms behind me so that my shoulders feel ripped out of me and my weight is on my head. He still has me around the neck, and I'm completely unable to move, and he's inside me, thrusting hard. Not his cock, but his fingers, and he's lost in the intensity of the moment, so far gone with pain and fury that I can barely make out the words he mutters: Bitch. Pain. Never again.

  I'm light-headed, and though part of me says I need to let him do this--I need to be the stand-in for the object of his rage--I cry out, the sound muffled because I can't draw air and the room is turning gray. A darker, colder fear washes over me and I force my name out, Jane, I cry. I'm Jane. But I don't even know if I've actually made sounds.

  Then his grip loosens and he flips me over. His hand is still around my neck. He's still fucking me, thrusting deep. But now it's slower, more methodical. His eyes are still glazed, but I see the man I love behind the shadows, and when he whispers, Mine, I know that he sees me, too, even from somewhere in his dream.

  With each thrust of his fingers, he's moving over my pelvis. Grinding himself against me. And I can see that he's close. I feel it when his body tenses, when he tightens his grip around my throat again, when he explodes over my belly, my breasts, and then throws his head back and groans.

  For a moment, I think it's a victory, but when he opens his eyes and looks at me, all I see is horror.

  Within seconds, he's released my neck. He leaps off the bed and is flat against the wall, his chest rising and falling. His eyes wide. His face so full of pain and self-loathing it breaks my heart.

  I sit up, trying not to show how sore I am. How hard it is to breathe. "Dallas," I say, but he holds up his hand as if he can't stand the sound of his name.

  I don't silence myself though. "It's okay," I say. "I told you to. You didn't hurt me. I consented. A hundred times, a thousand times. I wanted this. You needed it."

  "Needed to fucking rape you?" His voice is thick, and I think he is on the verge of breaking down.

  "You didn't," I repeat. "I wanted it. I told you."

  "I could have hurt you."

  "I'm right here. I'm not hurt."

  "No." He shakes his head, then brings his hands up and squeezes his skull. "God, no. What the fuck? This isn't--I can't. Fuck."

  His eyes find me. "I was a fool," he says, his voice low. "We can't ever have normal. We can't ever be normal. I'm a danger to you. Physically. Emotionally. And I can't do this. I can't stay with you and watch myself destroy what I love most in the world."

  He starts for the door.

  "Dallas!" I call, but he just keeps going. And he doesn't look back.

  My body aches to go after him, but I hold myself still, clutching tight to the sheets as if to anchor me. I tell myself that he just needs time. After all, that was seriously intense.

  I tell myself that, but I'm not convinced. Because I know that he believes that tonight is proof that he can't do normal, whatever the fuck that is. That at his core he's a man who needs pain. Who needs danger. Who needs to hurt to get off and, maybe, needs to be hurt, too.

  The one thing that Dallas has consistently told me throughout all of our life together is that he will protect me, no matter what it takes.

  Right now, I know, he thinks to protect me he has to leave me.

  And I have no idea how to convince him otherwise.

  I stay curled up in bed, alternating between dozing and crying, until almost noon. Then I can't take it any longer. I have to talk to him. He may need time, but I need to hear his voice, and right now, my need is the one that's winning.

  I hit the speed dial for Dallas, then hold my breath as I wait for him to answer. And wait.

  And wait.<
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  And wait.

  Then I get voicemail.

  Shit.

  I don't bother leaving a message. Instead, I call the house line, which Mrs. Foster answers on the first ring.

  "Hey there, sweetheart," she says, as soon as I say hello.

  "I didn't realize you were back," I say.

  "Just an hour ago."

  I grin. "And naturally, you're already dug in and putting the house back to rights."

  "Now don't you say that like you're surprised," she retorts, making me laugh outright.

  "Fair enough. I'm not surprised at all. But I was hoping to speak to Dallas. He must be away from his cell. Can you grab him for me?"

  "Of course I can. You just hold on for a second."

  She means that literally, and hold music starts to play, and when it clicks off, I expect to hear Dallas come on the line, so I'm completely surprised to hear, "Miss Jane. What can I help you with?"

  "Archie? I--I thought Mrs. Foster was getting Dallas."

  "I'm afraid he's not available right now."

  "Not available," I repeat, as cold chills race up my spine, caused as much by my own fear as by the stark, unfamiliar formality of Archie's voice. "Did he ask you to say that to me?"

  "Miss Jane ..."

  I close my eyes in defense against the truth that I hear now in Archie's voice. The warm, paternal voice that used to comfort me and put Bactine and bandages on my skinned knees.

  "If you want to leave a message--I'm sure he just needs some time to get back to you."

  "No." I'm fighting not to cry. "No, that's okay."

  I hang up. I actually hang up on Archie, and then I realize that my knees are weak, and that's because I'm not breathing. I'm too busy choking on the tears caught in my throat to catch my breath.

  I slide down the cabinets until my ass is on the tile and my back is against the wood, and I'm holding my phone tight and feeling lost and needing Dallas.

  But Dallas isn't here for me--and god only knows when he will be again.

  Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.

  Maybe he really is going to walk away from me. Maybe he wants us to go back to the way we used to be, desperately wanting each other, but not having. Not touching. Hardly ever even seeing each other because it was just too damn painful to be together and not give in to passion.

  I would hate him for that--and he damn well knows that. But Dallas would rather I hate him than hurt me, and the more I think about it, the more I fear that this is the end.