“Oh, god, Dallas, yes.” I’m leaning back against a bath pillow, my mind drifting from the scent of lavender even as my senses fire from the temptation of his hands on my heated body.
I’m still sore—my muscles tight and my bruises tender—but those aches are nothing compared to the burning need that Dallas’s touch is driving within me. I don’t care about the pain or the stiffness or the exhaustion that seems to pull me down like weights sinking in a churning ocean. All I want is his touch. All I care about is that I am back in his arms.
I know that he can tell how desperate I am. How could he not? This is the man who anticipates my needs. Who knows me at least as well as I know myself. And there is no way that he can miss the desire that I know is so palpable it must be wafting off my body like perfume.
I crave his body against mine. I long for wildness. For heat. For bone-melting passion.
And yet it doesn’t come.
Instead, he teases me with soft touches and gentle strokes, and I moan softly, biting my lip to keep from begging as his fingertip traces up and down my arm, the sensual rhythm soothing me even as it stokes the embers of my growing passion.
I know what he is doing—he is tending me. Coddling and protecting me. I can feel the tension in his touch, a tightness that underlies the slow and easy sensuality of his caresses. He wants to lose himself in the fire as much as I do, and yet he’s holding back. Reining in his own desire in order to pamper me.
But, dammit, I want more than just gentle touches. And though I say nothing, I shift my body, arching my back so that my breasts rise out of the water in a not-so-subtle hint. I want to feel everything building inside me, and then, dammit, I want to explode.
Dallas, however, steadfastly refuses to satisfy me. Instead, he continues his leisurely assault. Fingertips tracing from my shoulder to my wrist. His lips brushing my forehead, his tongue teasing my ear. I feel a throbbing demand between my thighs, and I can’t hold back any longer. “Please. Dallas, please.”
He says nothing, but the lazy progression of his fingers shifts direction, slipping easily up my arm to caress my shoulder, careful to avoid the still red and tender scrapes from where I fell back on it. Slowly, his fingers tease down toward my breasts. So slowly that I can hardly stand the anticipation, and I hold my breath, waiting for that sweet moment when his finger will caress my nipple.
He draws out the torment—and the pleasure. Slowly, he cups my breast, slipping his hand into the water before bringing his dampened fingers out to toy with my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as I bite my lip and moan, losing myself in the fiery pleasure now throbbing between my legs.
“Do you like that?” His lips brush my ear as he speaks, and a flurry of sparks course through me.
“Yes. Oh, god yes.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You. More. Please.” I have been reduced to single syllables, and I slide my hand down beneath the bubbles and between my legs.
Gently he reaches under the water, takes my wrist, and tugs my hand away. “Oh, no, baby. That’s for me.”
“Then touch me, dammit.”
“Whatever the lady wants,” he says, his low voice rumbling with amusement. He stands, moving forward a bit so he’s now in my field of vision. His jeans and T-shirt are damp, but he doesn’t seem to notice. As for me, all I’m noticing is that he’s no longer touching me, and I whimper in protest.
A slow grin plays across his mouth as he leans over to turn the taps back on. The tub has a handheld nozzle, and as he lifts it from its hook, he orders me to stand up, then flips the toggle to drain the tub.
I shiver a bit now that I’m out of the tub, but Dallas soon aims the gentle spray over my body, warming me and sending clusters of bubbles sliding down my skin to melt in the tub before swirling down the drain. He’s thorough in his washing of me, aiming the spray at my shoulders, then down the curve of my back. He circles around and concentrates on my breasts, then slowly moves the nozzle down and down until the spray is gently teasing between my thighs. With a little gasp, I spread my legs, wanting more.
He doesn’t disappoint, and I release an impassioned moan when he aims the spray at my clit, then reaches between my legs with a cloth to carefully cleanse me, the friction making my core clench tight. I close my eyes, then reach blindly for the towel bar, wanting to steady myself for the storm I know is coming.
Except it doesn’t.
I open my eyes, confused.
“Not just yet,” he says.
Bastard.
“In that case, I may as well get out.” I start to reach for the towel, but he beats me to it.
“Tonight, I’m taking care of you.” Slowly—gently—he eases the towel over my body, drying me off, and, in the process, igniting my senses even more. I know it’s intentional, and I bite my lip so as to not beg for a more intimate touch. I already know damn well he’s not going to touch me until he’s ready. And I know that he wants me to beg.
Right now, I’m determined to practice the art of self-control.
I manage for a while. My breath is shaky as he strokes the towel over my breasts, then slides it behind my neck before easing it between my legs. I sigh when he finally wraps me, warm and soft and safe, in the thick terry cloth, then lifts me effortlessly into his arms.
I snuggle against him as he carries me to the bedroom. It’s still a mess, filled with open boxes, books, papers, and clothes piled up in corners. He sits me on the edge of the bed, then brushes the hair off my face. I feel like a child, being soothed after a bad dream, and yet there is nothing childlike about the way his touch makes me feel.
“Dallas,” I say, and it’s all that I say. But I know he hears the plea in my voice.
He bends and kisses me, sweet and gentle and so full of emotion that it makes me gasp. Makes my heart constrict.
He breaks the kiss and meets my eyes, and though I know him almost as well as I know myself, I can’t read what I see there. I start to ask, but his finger on my lips silences me.
He takes my towel away, then eases me back so that I am stretched out on the bed. Slowly, he kisses me down my body, and I slip into a state of bliss, my head on the soft feather pillow, my body floating in space as his lips and hands trail gently over my breasts, my belly, my thighs.
I shift, parting my legs, not even trying to be coy about where I want those kisses next, but that touch doesn’t come. Instead, I feel the cool brush of material moving up my body.
With a frown, I open my eyes and see that he is pulling up the crumpled sheet to cover me.
“You need rest,” he says in response to the astonishment that surely covers my face.
“The hell with that. I need you.”
“You have me. Always. I can’t believe there was a time when we fought it, because I can’t live without you.”
The intensity of his voice breaks through me, and my throat feels suddenly thick with tears. “Me neither.” I may have walked away from him before the attack, but I could never have stayed away. We’re bound, he and I. We’re inevitable. And despite the taboo, those binds between us don’t feel like chains, but like a gift. Because how many people actually find the one person in all the universe with whom they can fully share themselves?
“Then sleep,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed beside me and strokes my hair. “I’m not going anywhere. Let me take care of you.”
“Then do it. Take care of me.” I take his hand and guide it beneath the sheet to my breast, then arch back against his palm. I want him so bad I am aching. And while I know that he feels like he needs to coddle me, right now I need more.
“Letting me sleep isn’t helping me,” I insist. “Letting me sleep is ignoring me. Dallas, please. Please,” I repeat as I slowly guide his hand down over my ribs, my belly.
His eyes are on mine, all dark heat and wild desire. But there’s something else, too. He’s still holding back, still second-guessing what he thinks is best for me.
“This,” I say as I spread my legs and guide him lower, trailing his fingers over my smooth pubic bone and then lower still to cup my sex. “Touch me,” I say. “Fuck me,” I beg.
Electricity shoots through me, and I quiver, closing my eyes as I arch up and manipulate his fingers to tease my clit.
“Oh, Christ, baby.” His words are low and hard, almost a growl, and I know that I have him.
“Bye-bye sleep,” I murmur as he eases two fingers inside me even as he bends forward to take my breast in his mouth.
He moves over me and lowers his mouth to my breast. His teeth graze my nipple, and I cry out, bucking against him as he nips and bites, then kisses his way down my body. He pauses at my pubic bone, then tilts his head up to look at me. “Is this what you want? My mouth on your pussy? My tongue teasing your clit while I thrust my fingers deep inside you?”
My body clenches in response to his words, and I manage a garbled sound that is reasonably close to a yes.
“I’m going to take you to the edge, baby. Right to the edge, but not over. Not yet.”
I whimper, then almost beg, but his tongue flicking over my clit silences me, and I arch up, the pleasure almost too much to bear. But he won’t let me escape any of the delights with which he torments me. Instead, he holds my hips firmly in place as his tongue works a wild magic on me. I’m close, so close, and my breath is shallow as I focus on that one spot, that one place where all the pleasure in the world seems to be trapped, and Dallas is so close to releasing it, and if he would just—
But then he stops, and I’m left on the precipice. I cry out in frustration, but as I do, he releases my hips and thrusts his fingers inside me. My body clenches around him and I almost cry with relief.
I need this so much. No, not this. Him. I’ve missed him. Hell, I’ve missed us. And the feeling of him inside me is like coming home. “More,” I whisper. “Dallas, please, more. Everything. You.”
I’m not even coherent, but I know he understands.
Even so, he backs away from me, and I’m about to call him every dirty name I know, when I realize that he’s not leaving. On the contrary, he’s stripping, peeling off the damp jeans and then tossing his shirt across the room. He stands there for a moment, naked and perfect, his cock hard and ready. Just seeing him makes my body respond, my pussy clenching in anticipation of him filling me. He’s mine. And right now, I want him inside me.
More than that, I want it hard. Fast. I want the wildness of being claimed. The surrender of being filled. And I’m completely shameless when I beg him, “Please, please, please, just fuck me.” The words rush out of me without thought, and it’s only after their echo has lingered that I think how wonderful it is that I can make that demand. For so long, Dallas hadn’t been able to penetrate a woman, and I’d feared I’d never feel him inside me again.
But we’re mostly past that now. Not one hundred percent, but pretty damn close.
Right now, though, he’s not inside me, even though he’s moved back to the bed. And I’m starting to realize that unless he’s changed his approach to sex, he’s totally not going in that direction.
“Dammit, Dallas, what are you doing?” I ask when he lifts his head from between my legs and aims a slow, sexy smile at me. “Or rather, what is your tongue doing and your cock not doing?”
His low laughter seems to rumble through me. “I told you, baby. Tonight is all about you.”
“Then do what I ask and fuck me. Please,” I add, then reach down and grab his hair so that he has no choice but to slide up my body when I tug. “You won’t hurt me,” I whisper, then lightly kiss the corner of his mouth. “Or if you do, I promise I’ll enjoy it.”
I can tell by the twitch of his lips and the gleam in his eye that any additional argument he puts up will be only for show. And when he lowers his head and slides down my body, I tremble and spread my legs wider, relishing the feel of him, the touch of him. And losing myself in the anticipation of what is to come.
Roughly, he grabs my thighs, tugging me down the bed as he wraps my legs around his hips. My sensitive pussy rubs against his cock and I arch up, my body aching for more.
“Fuck, yes,” he says, and there’s no longer any humor in his voice. Just need. Desperation. The tip of his cock teases me, sliding over my clit, dipping inside me just enough that I almost cry out in frustration.
I squirm against him, pleasure rising in my body, electricity swirling in my belly and between my legs. I clench the sheet and shift my hips as his cock strokes my clit.
“Please, Dallas. I’m begging. Now, please, now.”
He growls an unintelligible response and then grasps my hips, pulling me toward him as he thrusts forward. I’m desperately wet, and he enters me deep in one hard, violent thrust that has me crying out as he fills me, then pulls out and slams into me again.
It’s hard and hot and wild and exactly what I wanted even though with each tug on my hips he slides me down the sheet, irritating my abraded shoulder. But I don’t care. On the contrary, I relish the pain. It underscores the moment, marking the return of a reality in which I belong to Dallas, wholly and completely. Because the pain means that I’m here.
The pain means that I’m alive.
And I never feel more alive than in Dallas’s arms.
Again and again he thrusts inside me. “I’m close,” he says. “Touch yourself, baby. I want to watch you play with your clit—and I want you to come with me.”
“Yes.” It’s the only word I can manage, but I obey. I slide my fingers down, then brush against his cock as I stroke myself. It’s wildly erotic, and a shudder rips through me, pushing me closer to the edge and then, yes, all the way over so that I cry out, my body tightening convulsively around his cock, taking him all the way, too, so that we both explode at the same time.
I swear I see stars, and when I finally come back to earth, he is on the bed on top of me, and we are both breathing hard. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, then eases over so he doesn’t crush me. “I love you,” he says, and to me his voice sounds like it’s underscored by chimes.
Chimes?
And then it’s not chimes that I hear, but Dallas’s low curse as he bolts off the bed and rips into his jeans pocket in search of his phone.
I prop myself up on my elbows. I’m about to give him shit for his lack of sexy time manners, but then I see the expression on his face.
“That’s Liam,” he says, and meets my eyes. And in that second, I feel a shift. Neither of us know what Liam is going to say, but we both know it won’t be good, and that this sweet, warm moment is about to evaporate completely.
I sit all the way up and reach for Dallas, then hold his wrist as he answers the call.
“Jane’s with me. You’re on speaker. What’s happened?”
“We were working on Jane’s phone when it received a series of texts.”
For a minute, I’m confused. What’s the big deal about my phone getting some texts? Then, of course, my stomach twists and knots.
I get it.
I understand.
“She sent them,” I say. “The bitch who attacked me.”
“Forward them,” Dallas orders.
“Doing that right now,” Liam says, and only seconds later, Dallas’s phone dings to signal incoming text messages. Dallas opens the app and bile rises in my throat as I see the words that pop up on the screen:
Dallas, I could have done so much worse. I didn’t, because I knew it would upset you.
But that’s not really fair, is it? Because you’ve upset me.
How can you be with her when you should be with me? How can you touch her when you should be touching me?
I can forgive you because I love you, and you deserve a second chance.
But I will only bend so far before I break.
I know you don’t really love her—how could you when I am the one who fills your heart? Who belongs at your side?
But maybe you do care for her. She’s your sister. She’s family. And you two shared a traumatic past.
You see? I understand and forgive. To a point.
So if you care for her, leave her.
Because the next time I meet her on the street, I’ll truly end this. I have to, my love. How else can I protect what is mine?
I read the words once, twice. I know that Dallas will do everything he can to protect me. I know that Liam and Quince and the rest of the Deliverance guys are doing everything they can to find my attacker.
But I also know that she’s whacked. That she truly thinks that Dallas is hers.
And that she has just flat-out sworn to kill whoever stands between them.
“Whoever,” of course, is me.
