I draw in a breath. "I understand why you need a woman by your side," I repeat. "But understanding it and liking it are two different things."
"I know, baby. I do." I can see the pain on his face as he looks at me. "But I'm not willing to give it up. I can't give it up. Not Deliverance as a whole, and not the women I use as camouflage."
His words are blunt and brutally honest, and I want to cry out, Not even for me? But I can't manage to force the words out. How can I ask him to be someone other than who he is? The leader of Deliverance. A man with a mission.
Maybe I don't entirely understand or agree with what he does, but it's part of who he is. It's there at his core.
And, dammit, I want the man. The full man, with all of his hopes and dreams and flaws. Not half the man. Not a man who compromised for anyone. Not even for me.
With a sigh, I shake my head. "I'm not asking you to. Really. I didn't even mean to open the Deliverance door. It's just that I--well, I didn't like you touching them. The blonde. The chick with the tattoos. And I didn't like that you've fucked Christine."
"I haven't fu--"
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I do."
He tilts his head, studying me. "Not that long ago, you liked it a lot. So did I. You watched another woman take my cock in her mouth and it got you off."
I nod, because he's right. Hell, just the memory of the game we played that night--the pictures he sent me, the things he demanded of me--make my body thrum. I lower my eyes to the ground, and softly admit, "I think I came harder than I had in a very long time."
He sits beside me once more, then puts his hand lightly on my thigh. He moves his thumb lightly back and forth, stroking me. "But?"
"But that was then. That was before we were together." I look up and meet his eyes. "That was when I had even less claim on you than they did."
"That was never the case."
I shrug. "Maybe not, but it felt like it." I press my hand on top of his. "It doesn't feel that way anymore. You're mine, Dallas, but you can't touch me like that. I love you, and we're not victims anymore, but we're still trapped. We're still held captive by this huge secret that we have to keep. And sometimes I think we're never really going to be free. We're always going to be trapped together in the dark. Maybe it's not a cement cell, but it's still a prison."
I squeeze his hand as I look imploringly at his face. "We deserve better," I say. "And I want better."
"So do I." He brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. "Oh, baby, so do I."
For a moment he says nothing else. Then he tilts his head slightly to the side. "Do you want to go public? Just be us, together, out there in the open?"
Yes. Oh, god, yes.
The words are wild and dangerous in my head. But they're not true. There are too many obstacles. Too many horrors. Our parents' reaction and the tabloid attention leap to mind. Just thinking of the way the cameras would inevitably focus on us makes me want to shrink into a ball and cry.
And oh, god, what would Grams or Poppy say? At eighty and one hundred, respectively, the revelation about me and Dallas would probably put our grandmother and great-grandfather in their graves.
I shake my head. "No. No, the idea terrifies me. I want it--I want so badly to be with you one hundred percent--but going public scares the crap out of me even more than I hate all the secrets."
He nods, and I think it's relief I see in his eyes. "I know," he says. "Eventually we'll figure out a way, but until then, going public stays tabled. Just as well. Better to deal with one obstacle to happily ever after at a time."
I frown, wondering what other obstacles he's worried about. "You mean the women on your arm?"
For a moment he looks confused, and he doesn't quite look at me when he nods and says, "Of course."
"Dallas?"
He looks straight at me, and I see no shadows on his face. No deception. Mentally, I roll my eyes at myself. I'm on edge--looking for secrets and obfuscation where none exists.
"Jane? Are we okay?"
I manage to conjure a smile. "I just don't like sharing you."
"You're not. Whatever I do--whoever they are--those women don't have a claim on me."
I nod, then close my eyes for a moment to gather my strength. "I get that you need them for appearances. That you need to touch them and put on a show. But I don't want--"
"To play our game anymore. I understand." He shifts so that he is facing me more directly, then strokes my cheek as he slides his hand back to cup my head. He pulls me toward him, then captures my mouth in a kiss. It's hot and deep and I feel my body start to melt.
"No more games," he says when we come up for air. "I only want you."
"Are you okay with that? You don't need to touch them while you think about me? You don't want to?" Just saying the words is making me wet, and I squirm a little as I wonder what kind of a hypocrite I am that I'm putting the brakes on something we both found so deliciously erotic.
I bite my lower lip thoughtfully before continuing. "It's just that I know you like sex dirty. That you need it--"
"Fucked up?" he interrupts. "I do." His eyes drop to my breasts, where my obviously hard nipples are apparent through the lace of my bra and the thin material of my simple pink T-shirt. "I think you like it, too."
I don't deny it. "So?"
His mouth curves up. "I told you before. That's just playing. I don't need it. Not with you."
"Oh. Well, then that's my--what do they call it?--my hard limit. No playing those kind of games unless--"
I cut myself off. I hadn't intended to go there.
"Unless?" His eyes sparkle with amusement, and I'm absolutely certain he knows what I'm going to say.
I glance down at his hand on my thigh. "Unless I start it." I don't look up, but I bite my lip as the hand that has been resting gently on my thigh starts to slide up, pushing my skirt as he goes.
"So, you're saying you like it? That watching me cup another woman's ass turns you on? That seeing her suck my cock makes you wet?" His words are raw. Almost vulgar. And yet I can hear the humor beneath them.
"It's not funny." Damn the man, he knows me so well. Lover. Brother. Friend. And he gets me better than anyone. Maybe even better than I understand myself.
"I'm not laughing." He's not. In fact, the humor in his voice has been replaced by a low, burning heat. His hand is midway up my thigh now, so close to my core that I'm practically shaking with anticipation. "Someone doesn't want to cut off her options," he says as he gently tugs on my thigh, urging me to spread my legs. "Tell me why."
Considering I'm losing the ability to form words, I find his demand entirely unreasonable. My skirt is up over my knees now, and I'm not wearing panties--those are probably still on the floor of the cabana. That means that with my legs spread, I'm completely open--and the cool night breeze against my hot, wet pussy feels beyond incredible.
"Jane." His fingertip traces along the soft skin between my pubis and my thigh. "Tell me why you want to keep the option open. Why you might want to slide your hand between your legs and stroke yourself while you watch me bite some other woman's nipple." As if in illustration, he strokes his finger over me from clit to core and I whimper from the incredible pleasure of it.
"Tell me," he demands again.
"Because I do like it." My voice is a whisper at first. "Even tonight, it was hot. I hated that I liked it, but I did. I just ..."
"You didn't want to share."
"Now that you're mine--"
"I am yours," he says, pushing his fingers deep into me.
"I know." I move my hips, my body on a mission to draw him in further. Harder. "And I don't want to share." I tilt my head so that I can meet his eyes. "Not yet, anyway. But later. When I feel more certain, I--" I drop my eyes again. Another thing I hadn't intended to admit.
"Are you not certain about how I feel?"
"No." I blurt the word out. There is no doubt in my mind that Dallas loves me. Fully. Completely. Even pain
fully. "Never."
"Then you mean the future."
I nod.
"We'll make this work."
I want to ask how, but I don't. I just nod. "You're everything I want," I say. "You know that, right?"
"I know it, because I feel the same way."
"And I don't share my toys easily." I shift, sliding off his fingers as I rise up so that I can move to straddle his lap. "I'm pretty much a greedy little bitch."
"Oh, really? How greedy?"
"Very." I slide my hand down his chest and press my palm against his very stiff cock. "Very greedy."
His hand moves to my waist. "Come with me into the shed."
"No. Here."
His brow lifts. "Someone might see."
I take the hem of my blouse and tug it over my head, leaving me in only my sandals, skirt, and a very skimpy bra. "Only if they get through the hedge."
"Interesting," he murmurs as his hands move to my breasts, tugging the lace down so that I am fully exposed.
"What?" I reach behind and draw down the zipper on my skirt. I don't want to get off his lap even for a second, and so I lift the skirt over my head as well, then toss it onto the side of the bench with my shirt.
"This." He looks me up and down, his expression as hot and hard as his cock. "There's a bit of an exhibitionist in you." He leans forward and runs his tongue over my nipple. "I like it."
I shiver, as much from his touch as from his words. The truth is that I like it, too. And not just because the cool breeze on my hot skin feels delicious. I like the fantasy of discovery. Of having someone see us and realize what they're seeing. Who they are seeing.
I like the fantasy that our secret has been revealed and that, for better or for worse, we're no longer living in shadows and we just have to move forward and deal, all the hiding over. All the secrets finished.
I like the fantasy, yes. But the reality scares me to death.
Right now, I'm not scared. I meant it about the hedge. No one is going to come back here. Hell, none of the guests know this secluded section of the yard even exists.
We're safe to do what we want. And what I want is Dallas.
I lean forward to kiss him, then straighten before arching my back and cupping my own breasts. I watch his face, the expression of intense longing as I tease my nipples. Then I keep my eyes firmly on his as I lower one hand from my breasts and start to finger my clit as little frissons of pleasure shoot through me.
"That's it, baby," he murmurs as I succumb to pleasure and close my eyes, letting the sensations grow. "Get yourself off. Take what you want. Do it while you can."
It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and when they do, I open my eyes and peer at him. "While I can?"
"Do you think you're running this show, baby? You're getting off because I say you can get off. You're mine, remember? Every touch. Every orgasm. Your pleasure is my prerogative, and there will come a day when I'll take it away and make you beg for it."
"The hell you will," I retort, but it's a bullshit response. Maybe if I wasn't naked, I could pull it off. But it's only too easy for him to see how his words have made my nipples tighten. And it's too damn obvious that I'm soaked now, his jeans probably ruined from how incredibly wet his words have made me.
"I own you," he says, reaching out and capturing my clit between his thumb and forefinger. The wild, unexpected pressure makes me gasp, and when I jerk back a little, his hold tightens and I cry out from the sweet pleasure of an unexpected jolt of pain. "I've always owned you. Say it, Jane. Lift your hands up above your head and tell me that you're mine."
"You know I am." My voice is breathy. I'm so fucking turned on I can barely get the words out.
"Say it," he growls, pinching my clit again. "Say it and lift your hands."
"I'm yours," I say as I thrust my hands toward the stars. "I've always been yours."
I see the impact of my words on his face, the harshness melting into passion. I expect a kiss, but one doesn't come. Instead, he unfastens my bra.
"Arms behind your back," he says. "Wrists crossed."
I start to ask what he's doing, but I hold my tongue. I've told him repeatedly I'll go as far as he needs me to. And I want to see where tonight is leading.
Where it leads is to my hands bound behind my back with my very own bra. I'm still straddling his legs, my knees on the bench and my pussy over his crotch. My crossed wrists are against my tailbone, and my hands are pretty much useless for keeping my balance.
He's only bound me in that one place, but even so I'm antsy. This is Dallas, of course, and I trust him. For that matter, I've offered to let him tie me up before. We never got there, but he knows I was willing. More than that, he understands what a big step that offer was for me. I'd been bound and left alone during our kidnapping, and as a result, bondage isn't exactly my kink of choice.
Dallas knows that--and yet he's tied my wrists anyway. He did it boldly. Taking what he wanted. Taking charge. And not asking for permission at all.
I'm surprised to realize that the thought of being bound doesn't scare me. On the contrary, it makes me more excited. My body burning with desire. My sex clenching with need. He may not have asked, but that's because he knows. He knows my limits. More than that, he knows I trust him.
He meets my eyes, and for a moment his are soft with understanding. He waits, and I tilt my head in the tiniest of nods. He says nothing to acknowledge my assent, but I know that he has seen it when the corner of his mouth lifts. "Is this what you want?" he asks as he slowly strokes my sex, sliding his index finger in and out of me, and brushing over my clit with each and every stroke.
"Yes." My voice is barely a breath, and I arch back, supported by his other hand held firm against my spine. "Oh, god, yes."
"Then take it." He gently pulls his finger away, and I open my eyes, surprised at the sudden cessation of his incredible touch.
"I--what?"
"You want to come." His grin is hot. Wicked. "Do it."
I start to protest, but realize at once that it would do no good. He knows perfectly well that I can't possibly touch myself with my hands tied behind my back. He probably expects me to protest--to beg.
No way.
I have a much better plan.
I lean back so that am using his hand at my back for support and balance, gaining leverage as if I had the use of my hands. It's dicey, of course--if he moves his hand, I'll tumble backward. But I trust him not to let that happen. Because the truth is, he wants the same thing I do.
I want to get off.
And he really, really wants to watch.
Right then, I'm ready to satisfy us both.
Slowly, I move my hips, grinding against the bulge of his cock, the friction of the rough denim against my sensitive clit all but driving me insane.
"Oh, baby." His voice is low, like rolling thunder, and I feel him grow harder. I'm wet and slippery and I'm sliding over him, harder. Hotter.
He reaches out with his free hand and holds me steady by the throat. I'm trapped like that--his hand behind me keeping me safe. His hand on my throat keeping me right there. Steady. Under his control.
He holds me in place even as I buck and slide and grind against him, and when he bends forward and tugs on my nipple with his teeth, I cry out, "Yes, oh god, Dallas, yes," so loudly that I'm surprised the partygoers don't hear me all the way back at the pool.
He releases my breast and leans back with a self-satisfied expression, then he slides the hand on my spine down, lower and lower until it's not holding me in place anymore. I'm held steady only by his hand around my throat--tight and tense and dangerous enough to make me wet.
The finger that was splayed across my back is now inside me, teasing and exploring even as I rock shamelessly against the bulge in his jeans. He brings his sex-slick finger around to my mouth and orders me to suck. I do, moaning as I taste my own desire. As I draw him in and tease him with my tongue. As I imagine it's his cock and I'm sucking him off.
He shudders violently, then groans with pleasure, the sound so intense it sends shivers through me. I meet his eyes, and I see a heated passion that matches my own, and when he tugs his finger free, I almost cry out in protest.
Then I see that he's using that hand to fumble at the button of his jeans. He manages it, then frees his cock. "Ride me. No, not like that," he says before I can protest that I don't want him trying to enter me and going soft. "Stroke me."
But even that I'm not sure of. "Can you--"
"Please, baby. I need to feel your cunt on my cock."
I don't hesitate. I want to feel him, too. Like velvet steel between my legs, and I rub myself shamelessly over the length of him, afraid at first that this is too close and he'll lose his erection. And then, when it's clear that he won't--when I realize that the moans of pleasure are full and rich and real--I buck harder and faster. I'm so caught up in the moment that I only notice that he's slipped his hand back around to my ass when I feel the finger that I'd just been sucking teasing the rim of my anus.
He thrusts his finger inside me, and even though the digit is thoroughly lubed, the sensual assault is both rough and without warning, and I bite my lower lip against a sharp, short burst of pain. But the truth is, I love this. I love that he is using me the way that I told him he could. More than that, I love the way this feels. Us together. Wild. Almost feral. It's dirty and fast and hot and edgy. And I absolutely fucking love it.
He is so incredibly hard, and I angle my body back, so that I can rock my hips so that my cunt strokes his cock, and also so that I can grind hard against the finger inside me. It's an exceptional sensation, and I close my eyes, wishing I could touch myself to take me this last little bit, but satisfied with exploring every touch and sensation. His hand at my throat, keeping me vulnerable. His finger in my ass--which is an entirely different kind of vulnerability. His hard, thick cock between my legs. And my own clit, swollen and stimulated and taking me right to the edge.
Not to mention the erotic sensation of the night air against my bare body.
It's all exceptional.
It's all pushing me closer to the edge, and any moment I will go careening over.
I'm not expecting it when he releases my throat to cup the back of my head. He twines his fingers in my hair, then pulls me roughly toward him. He captures me in a kiss so wild and hot that I swear I'm going to burst into flames, and I grind against him harder, wanting more. Everything. Him.