Hottest Mess Page 7

  "I'll make sure she sees me pick it up, then watch her reaction. If we're lucky, the woman doesn't play poker."

  "Sounds good. And pass everything on to Noah. Maybe he or Quince can work some magic. God knows Archie and I haven't had any luck."

  "Will do." Liam gives me a quick hug before heading out of the room, though I'm not sure that I even hug him back. My mind is in too much of a whir, my chest tight with memory and fear, and it's all I can do to keep quiet until the door shuts behind him.

  The second it clicks into place, I turn my attention back to Dallas. "What the hell do you mean this has nothing to do with Deliverance? You need to tell him. Even if you haven't told him the details, he needs to know." I'm talking too fast, my words tumbling out.

  Dallas stares back at me as if I've lost my mind, and I blink, suddenly realizing that he hasn't a clue what I'm talking about. He honestly doesn't see the connection between these letters and our kidnapping. "You really have no idea who's sending them."

  It's a statement, but he takes it as a question. "None of the women I've--"

  "Open your eyes, Dallas. It's not one of your bimbettes."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about the woman sending the letters. I'm saying it's obvious who she is."

  The Usual Suspects

  "Obvious?" Dallas repeated, not entirely sure he was comprehending her words. Because it sure as hell wasn't obvious to him. "Just from glancing over the letters, you know who's sending them? Fiona?"

  "No." She shook her head. "Not Fiona."

  The tightness of her voice belied the way she perched casually on the edge of his desk. And he couldn't help but notice that her hands were clutching the mahogany desktop so tightly her knuckles were white.

  Not Fiona, he thought, as a chill crept up his spine. And not good.

  "Who."

  Her throat moved as she swallowed, then glanced toward the door. "Does Liam know what happened to us inside? What the Woman did to you?"

  He frowned, trying to follow her thoughts. "No. I've told him enough that he knows they fucked me up. But only you know what she did."

  She shook her head, then looked back at him with a sad smile. "Some, maybe. But not everything. Not yet."

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how the hell they'd gotten back on this topic. "It's not because I don't trust you, or because I don't want to tell you. I do. Hell, I need to." He hoped she knew how much he meant those words. But it was so damn hard, because every time he thought about what happened in that dark room with that psychotic bitch, he got pulled back in. Lost the little pieces of himself that he'd reclaimed.

  Remembered just how fucked up he was--and why.

  "Dallas, we--"

  "Christ, Jane," he snapped. "Why are we talking about this? What the hell does the Woman have to do with--"

  He cut himself off and stared at her. "The Woman? You can't possibly think that the Woman is sending these letters?"

  But she was nodding, so clearly she did think that. Which would be absolutely ridiculous except for the fact that it actually made some sense.

  "It's been seventeen years." He realized that he was simply stating a fact, not raising the years as an argument against her theory. Because, goddammit, if he weren't so close to it--if the Woman hadn't messed with his head so damn much that he'd do anything to keep her the fuck out of it--maybe he would have seen the possibility, too.

  "I know how long it's been." She spoke softly and steadily, as if she knew that every word hurt him. "But we were both in that cell, Dallas. We both know these people. They were cold. Calculating. Tenacious. Smart. Prepared. More than that, she was a psycho. A seventeen year wait is nothing to someone that warped."

  "I don't know," he said, but the words were only for show. He knew, all right. Even if she was wrong, it was a damn good guess.

  "We need to at least consider it," she said. "And--and we need to talk about her, too. About what happened."

  "No." This time the protest was real. "Not now. I don't want her in my head."

  "You need to talk about it."

  He thought of the memories that had been haunting his dreams since Liam gave him the news about Colin. "I said no."

  She threw her hands up, her fingers curled like she wanted to punch the air--or him. "Dammit--you always do this. Anytime it looks like I'm winning an argument you dig in. It drives me nuts."

  "I dig in? You're the one pushing and pushing."

  "God, you're infuriating."

  "Are you talking to me as my lover or as my sister?"

  She whirled on him, her expression ferocious. "Are you trying to push me away? Because it won't work. You think you're the only one trying to deal with all this? That's bullshit."

  She marched right up to him and poked him in the chest so hard he winced. "You're the one who kept me here, remember? I was trying to get the hell away from this place so that maybe--maybe--I could get my head around the fact that we have to live in this gray plastic bubble where we can't touch or even look at each other in the real world because you're my brother and we're fucking--"

  "No." Her words had been pounding on him like a hammer, but that one finally broke him.

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "No, that is not what's between us." He pulled her close and captured her mouth, then shifted his hands to her back and pulled her tight against him. He wanted to absorb her. Consume her. And when he broke away from her, he felt the loss like a physical blow. "That is not all there is," he said breathlessly, "and you know it as well as I do."

  She was breathing as hard as he was, her chest rising and falling, her skin flushed, her eyes wild. "I do. Of course I do. It's so much more."

  She fisted her hand in his collar and used that hold to lever herself to him. "And I want even more, Dallas. I told you. I'm greedy. Where you're concerned I'm the greediest woman on earth." She reached out and brushed his cheek with the side her hand. "I want every bit of you. Even the scary parts. Even the part she touched."

  "Jane." He couldn't find words. He wanted to argue. He wanted run.

  He wanted to pull her close and kiss her again just to shut her up.

  And because he wanted it so damn much, that's exactly what he did.

  Glass Houses

  His mouth closes over mine, hot and demanding, and every thought in my head disappears like dandelion fluff in the wind. Somewhere in my mind, I know that I should press him--that we have things to talk about--but I don't have the willpower.

  Where Dallas is concerned, I have no strength at all.

  "I need you," he says, breaking the kiss and cupping my face with his hands. "I need you to understand. To know."

  I start to ask what that means--what he thinks I don't understand--but the words stall in my throat when he unzips my skirt, takes the two halves of the waistband, and rips it completely off my body.

  I gasp, and some small part of my brain tells me that I should be angry. I love this skirt, and it cost a small fortune. But I'm not upset. On the contrary, I'm so desperately turned on that I feel the muscles of my core clenching with need. And I'm incredibly wet. That one violent, wild act of possession has completely stripped me of my defenses and I'm open and desperate and wanting.

  "The shirt." His voice is as hard as his expression. "Take it off or I'll take it off for you."

  I lick my lips, and part of me wants to challenge him. There's something unfamiliar and dangerous in his eyes. Something possessive and primal. I want to push--I want to taunt him into going as far as he wants and needs--but some instinct tells me to hold back, and so I quell the urge and very slowly peel my shirt off and toss it on top of my tattered skirt.

  I never put on fresh underwear, so now I am standing in nothing but my bra and three inch strappy sandals. I reach back to unfasten the bra, but he shakes his head.

  "Don't even think about it," he says. "You look too damn delicious."

  "Do I?" I step closer, then slide into his arm
s, my essentially naked body pressed against his still fully-clothed one. "Then maybe you should eat me?"

  "Believe me, it's on the agenda." He takes a step back, and I frown as the distance between us grows. "To the window," he says, nodding at the floor to ceiling window that looks out over one of the side lawns and across the dunes to the ocean.

  I walk slowly, not sure what he's up to.

  "Hands on the glass," he says, coming up behind me. "Spread your legs."

  I stay perfectly still, not making a single move to comply as he tugs the cups of my lacy bra down to expose my breasts.

  "Breasts, too," he says. "Think how nice the cool glass will feel against your warm nipples."

  "Dallas." My voice is hoarse. "Someone might see."

  "They won't. The guests are mostly on the pool deck and by the band and the bar." He pushes me forward, then lifts my hands and places my palms against the glass. Then he spreads my legs and eases me forward. I whimper as my nipples touch the cool window, and then I suck in a sharp breath as he traces a fingertip down my spine, over my ass, and then slides his warm hand between my legs.

  He is standing right behind me, and I can see the reflection of his face in the glass, and beyond that the foam on the cresting waves glowing in the moonlight. "No one will see us," he murmurs in my ear. "But even if they did," he adds as he slides his fingers deep inside me, "all that would mean is that they know you are mine. That you're the woman I want. Not Fiona or Christine or any of them. Only you."

  I want to argue. I want to remind him that there's a whole hell of a lot that people would know. Like what Dallas and I are to each other, and how we are breaking the rules.

  But I can't say it. Hell, I can barely think it. He has completely undone me, and right now I am nothing but sensation and need and desire.

  "That's it, baby," he says, and I realize that I'm grinding my hips, trying to find release as he teases me so intimately. "Do you like this?"

  "Yes."

  "Then beg for it."

  "Please. Please, Dallas, make me come."

  He's touching and stroking and teasing, and I'm so close. I shift, trying to find release, but it's always just a little bit off, just a little bit further away. I'm so turned on and so frustrated, and all I want is for him to take me the rest of the way, fast and hard and wild.

  "Tell me you're mine," he urges. "Tell me you understand that it's only you. That it's only ever been you."

  "I do," I say. "I understand."

  "No," he says, as he spins me around and then presses my back against the glass. "I really don't think you do."

  I'm breathing hard, and so is he. I'm wet, and so wildly turned on, and the sensation thrills me. I'm completely out of control--I've surrendered everything to him--and I'm okay. I'm okay.

  "Dallas." I hear the plea in my voice. "Make me. Make me understand."

  One of his hands is against my shoulder, pinning me back against the glass. The ferocity--the hunger--is so clear on his face that I expect him to take everything I'm offering and more. And I want it. Oh, dear god, I want it.

  I'm breathing hard, and I feel the perspiration bead at the back of my neck, on my upper lip, between my legs. I'm nervous with wanting, fired with anticipation. I'm ready. I'm so, so ready.

  I lick my lips, and that simple gesture seems to spur him to action. He looks back over his shoulder toward the desk, and I feel a wildness circle inside me, remembering my earlier fantasy about him taking me on that very desktop.

  I expect him to jerk me toward him. To force me to bend over the desk.

  I imagine him spreading my legs wide and holding my head down while he spanks me, then teases and strokes me with his cock before thrusting deep into me with his fingers.

  Or maybe this is it--maybe this is what he needs--and I'll finally feel him slamming hard into me. His cock filling me. His fingers clutching my shoulders so hard he marks me as he takes me fully and completely.

  I want it--and at the same time I hate myself for wanting it because I know it might not happen. But the passion--the wildness--that I know is coming.

  I really cannot wait.

  And so I'm more than a little befuddled when his gaze shifts back to me, and the feral look is gone, subjugated to a slow-burn of passion and the face of a warrior who's just fought the battle of his life.

  I shake my head slowly, not wanting to understand, but I do. I get it, because I get him.

  And I don't like it.

  "Dallas--"

  "Shhh, baby." His forefinger presses against my lips, quieting me, as he moves closer, then presses his hands lightly over my breasts before trailing his fingertips down my body, the contact making me tremble with a desire that is significantly more tame, but no less real. His fingers move lower, teasing the fold of skin between my thigh and my torso, stroking the soft skin of my vulva. Driving me deliciously wild because he is taking such care to completely avoid my clit.

  With his other hand, he cups one breast, his thumb playing lightly over my nipple even as he bends forward and closes his mouth over the other.

  I gasp, my body shaking with desire. With need. I feel as though I am on fire, like every millimeter of my skin is a sensual playground.

  He has reined himself in, but the effect on me is no less dramatic. His touch is a garden of sensual delights, but when he pulls back, his teeth grazing my nipple in the process, I open my eyes and look at him. That's when I see that his soft caresses are belied by the fire in his eyes.

  He wants more, damn him. And yet he's holding back, cheating us both.

  "Dallas," I say again.

  "What, baby?"

  I start to protest that he needs to stop protecting me when I've told him I'll go with him wherever he needs me to go. But then I realize this isn't about protecting me, but about protecting himself.

  He's fighting hard to hold it all in. To push it all back. His memories. His fears. The dark desires that he loathes.

  I want him to stop fighting--to let it out--to share with me all of what happened in there, in the dark. To tell me what it is he craves.

  I want that--even more, I need it. And I know that he needs it, too.

  But I don't say a word. I can't push him on this. Not now. Not when we're both still raw.

  "Jane?"

  I hear the concern in his voice and force a smile to my lips. "I love you," I say. "I just wanted to tell you that I love you."

  "Oh, baby."

  He pulls me to him and kisses me gently, then eases me down onto the area rug. It's soft and thick, and I stretch my arms above my head as he straddles me. Slowly, he kisses his way down my body, then gently parts my thighs.

  I feel the whisper of breath on my clit and arch up, my hands over my breasts. My palms brush my sensitive nipples in time with his tongue laving my clit, sending waves of pleasure crashing through me with such wild brutality that my entire body is trembling.

  His fingers are inside me, his mouth playing me. I'm lost in pleasure, and I want to explode even as much as I want this sensation to last, but I have no control at all. I've surrendered entirely to Dallas. His touch, his demands, his teases and caresses, and it's all too much. Building and building until finally it is as though reality is yanked out from under me, and I burst apart, with Dallas right there to hold me and put me back together.

  I gasp and shudder, my body lost in pleasure as he slides up my body and holds me close, telling me he loves me. Telling me that I'm his. Telling me that everything is going to work out.

  "Promise?" I whisper when I can form words again.

  "Always."

  I smile, then slide my hand down to stroke him. I'm pretty much bare, but he is still very clothed. And very hard.

  I meet his eyes as my hand cups his steel-hard cock. "You really should do something about that. Or perhaps I could volunteer my services? Take over until you want to finish?"

  But he only shakes his head as he presses his hand on top of mine. "I like this," he says. "I like feel
ing what you do to me."

  Oh.

  "When you put it like that, I like it, too." I kiss him lightly and curl against him, and for the first time since the party began, it feels like we're us again. I sigh, thinking of what happened. Of my fears and doubts. Then I tilt my head back to look at him.

  "I'm sorry I didn't trust you earlier. Thinking that you wanted a three-way with Fiona. I'm just--I saw that you were hard and I got jealous."

  He brushes a kiss over my forehead. "We said no secrets," he says softly, "and I already told you that I didn't want her. That I don't want her. And that's the truth. But I did hold something back."

  "You did?" I shift a bit, not because I want to put distance between us, but because I want to see him better.

  "She is attractive," he says. "And I know she's a good time in bed."

  I scowl. "Gee. Now I feel better."

  He chuckles. "I'm not finished. The thing is, the kidnapping has been on my mind lately what with--well, us. And this thing with Darcy and Deliverance. But it was unfair of me to compare getting hard because Fiona touched me with what the Woman did." He twists a lock of my hair around his finger. "Unfair to her and unfair to you."

  I swallow, trying to dissipate the lump that has settled in my throat. "So, are you saying that you do want her?"

  "Now? Oh, baby, no. But I won't deny that she's hot. Or that I've had good times with her in bed before. I meant what I said, sweetheart. Only you. But I play this role and I have to be ... receptive. It's hard not to--"

  I lift a brow. "Method act?"

  "You could say that."

  I sit up so that I can hug my knees as I look at him. "This is going to be hard, isn't it?"

  He doesn't answer, but he really doesn't need to.

  "You know, if I was another woman--" I say airily, as if the words mean nothing. "If I wasn't your sister, I could join you. Be the second girl in your bed."

  His brows lift. "Would you like that?" he asks, his eyes studying my face.

  "Would you?" I counter, because I'm still trying to figure out what the line is for him. What he wants. What he needs. I know because of his reputation and because I've seen it with my own eyes that he often entertained more than one girl in his bed. Is he going to miss that dynamic with me?

  He is silent for so long that I think he is going to simply avoid the question. Finally, though, he answers. "I've had two women at a time. Often, actually. Most of the time, frankly."