I start to snuggle back against him, ready to fall off into sleep and the warmth of his arms, but Dallas is having none of it.

“No,” he says. “I’m not through with you.”

The command in his voice eviscerates my exhaustion and sends a trill of anticipation shooting straight through me, getting me excited all over again. “Oh?” I roll over and start to straddle him, but he holds me still.

“Oh, no, baby. For this, I want you dressed.”

I frown—because “dressed” is not the direction in which my thoughts were going—but when I start to ask why, he gives just the slightest shake of his head and I keep my question to myself.

I go to my closet and start to pull on a pair of jeans, but once again he stops me. “Tank top, no bra. Skirt, no underwear. As short as you own.”

“We’re going out?”

“Did I say you could ask questions?”

Another tremor of excitement cuts through me in response to both his words and his tone, and I wonder what the hell he has in mind. This may be New York, but it’s already after three, and even the late night clubs are shutting down and will be empty by four.

“Now,” he says, and I start to rummage in my drawer for a tank top. I find a pink one, but then I remember the very thin, near transparent tank that I bought to go over a workout bra. It’s not meant to be worn by itself, and I hesitate for a few minutes, but finally I put it on. I want to see the look on his face, yes, but more than that, I want him to realize that I’m willing to go with him. Wherever. However.

As for the skirt, I have a short leather skirt that I usually pair with leggings, since it barely hits the bottom of my ass. This one is a little more dicey, as I won’t even be able to sit in a taxi without my bare rear touching the upholstery.

But same principle, right? He orders, I obey. He needs to know that I get that.

I turn to look at myself from all angles in the tri-fold mirror. I look hot, yes. But only if you define hot as the latest in streetwalker fashion.

Still, I did as he said, and that should count for something.

He didn’t tell me what to do about shoes, so I slip on my tallest stilettos in fire engine red, then strut out of the room. Or try to. With the heels and my own self-consciousness working against me, I can’t say that I’m really rocking it.

He is standing as I enter and he’s wearing his suit again, and with his hair mussed from sleep and sex, he looks all the hotter.

I look at him, trying to read his expression, but this is a man who knows how to hide his thoughts, and so I can only stand there nervously as he comes toward me, moving as smoothly and sensually as a panther on the prowl.

When he’s less than a foot away, his eyes skim over me, pausing at my hemline and again at my breasts before finally focusing on my face. “I can see your nipples, baby. Hell, I can practically see your cunt.”

The words are raw, deliberately vulgar, and I can’t help but think that he’s testing me. I take a step toward him, then press my fingertip lightly against the indentation at the base of his neck, then trail it down his chest and abdomen to finally hook on the waist of his slacks. “And you like it,” I say, trying to put a purr in my voice.

For a moment, his expression doesn’t change and I think that I’ve misjudged him. Then I see the heat—and the amusement—flare in his eyes as an easy smile touches his kissable mouth. “Yes,” he agrees. “I do.”

He presses his hand to my back and steers me out of the room. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” I ask.

“What do you think?”

“No,” I say, as we go down the stairs. “You’re not going to tell me a thing.”

“Does that turn you on? Knowing that everything is in my hands? Not having the slightest clue where I intend to take you or what I intend to do with you?”

We’ve reached the landing, and I’m breathing hard.

“Tell me, Jane,” he orders. “I want to know if that makes you wet.”

“Why don’t you touch me and find out?” I pause as I say the words, then spread my legs just a little in invitation. My heart is pounding. My skin tingling from the electricity between us. There has always been heat between us, but there were always boundaries, too. We’re unfettered now, and even though infinite possibilities lie between us, in this moment all I need is the slightest brush of his fingertip over my clit to make me completely explode.

He doesn’t answer. He simply smiles and heads toward the door, then pauses before opening it. “With me, baby.”

“Always,” I say.

The night is warm, which is convenient since I’m practically naked. He leads the way to the subway station, and I can feel my anticipation grow, because I’m certain that he intends to finger me in the car, and I’m not certain how I feel about that, and when I realize how empty the car is, I start to think that train motion and Dallas and an explosive orgasm would be just fine by me.

But the bastard doesn’t once touch me.

“Patience,” he says, when we finally get off the train, and I’m so frustrated that I don’t even know where we are because I haven’t been paying attention to the signs or to my surroundings.

Which, frankly, is a big deal. I’m always aware of my surroundings and I never let down my guard.

Never, that is, until I had Dallas back in my bed.

“What?” he asks.

“You make me feel safe.”

I understand from the way his expression goes sweetly tender that those weren’t the words he was expecting. “I told you a long time ago that I’d always protect you.”

“You did,” I agree. “I believed you then, and I still believe you now.”

He pauses at street level and kisses me gently. Then he waits a beat, smacks my ass, and orders me to walk ahead of him.

I grin and do, adding a little swing to my step just for the hell of it.

I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, and when I see a penny on the ground, I bend over at the waist to pick it up, just to give him an extremely naughty view. I hear his soft, “Christ, Jane,” and smile with victory before I stand and continue walking without once turning around.

“Here,” he finally says, stepping up beside me as I pass in front of a twenty-four-hour bodega located next to a poorly lit pay-to-park lot.

“Here?”

“Problem?” he asks innocently.

“We rode across the city to go to a market?”

“We did.” He leaves it at that and goes inside.

I follow, both curious and amused.

The bodega serves ice cream, hand scooped into waffle cones, and Dallas orders a vanilla one. It costs less than two dollars, and we’re on our way again.

“I come here at least once a week,” he says. “Best ice cream in the city.”

“Mmm.” I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a snack break.

Instead of heading back the way we came, he leads me into the parking area, all the way into the back, past the last flickering yellow light, so that we are hidden in the shadows cast on the rough brick wall of the building that marks the back edge of this lot.

I look up at Dallas, intending to ask what happens now, but the words die on my tongue. All teasing has gone from his eyes, replaced by a burning desire so potent my knees go weak and my pussy clenches.

I watch as he licks the ice cream cone, and then have to stifle a moan when he brings the cone to my lips and orders me to taste it. I do. It’s creamy and sweet and I want to lick it from his lips.

“Remember this, baby,” he says, then taps the cone against my nose before licking the spot off. “This is as vanilla as I get.”

I swallow. “Dallas.” I don’t say anything more. I’m not even sure what I was going to say.

“Lift your skirt.”

I start to protest—we’re outside, after all—but the truth is that his words have excited me. Both the idea and the no-nonsense command with which he’s issued the order.

I raise the skirt until my sex is exposed.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. All the way.”

I bite on my lower lip, but I do as he says, and as I do, I watch him. His eyes are on my pussy at first, but he lifts his head, then meets my eyes, and I want to cry out in victory at the look in his eyes. A look that says that I am his. And, yes, that he is mine.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

“You,” I say simply. “Whatever you want me to do. Whatever you want to do to me.”

“Whatever?” I notice the cone is starting to drip over his hand. “So if I told you to turn around and let me fuck that sweet ass right here, you’d be okay with that?”

“Yes.” My nipples peak at the thought.

“If I told you to drop to your knees and suck my cock?”

“You know I would.”

He leans closer and whispers in my ear. “And if I told you to move to the light and get yourself off in full sight of anyone walking by, simply because I want you to? Because you’re mine now?”

I swallow, both aroused and repelled by the thought. But I don’t tell him that. Instead I say, “Whatever you tell me, Dallas. I’m yours. I thought I made that clear.”

My words are like an ignition switch, and he launches forward, his hands caging me, his mouth hungry on mine. I’m gasping, wildly aroused, my body on fire.

He closes his mouth over my breast, practically bare in the tank top. Then he moves lower still. I’m trembling against the brick, on fire from everything—his commands, his touch, the wild exhibitionism of this night.

Finally, he drops to his knees, and I have only a moment to be curious before he very gently strokes the melting cone over my hot, throbbing sex. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming from the wonderful, incredible, near-painful experience of the ice cream against my clit. And then his hot mouth is taking the edge off and taking me to a different edge altogether.

I grab his hair and hold him in place. I want his mouth on me. I want his tongue inside me.

I am so incredibly turned on that I pull the neck of my tank top down so that I can use one hand to tug at my nipple while I hold Dallas’s mouth against my clit with the other.

He is laving me. Eating me. He’s licking and sucking and making such wet, wonderful noises. And I’m close, but I want to be closer. I grind against him, desperate for release.

And then, finally, he thrusts two fingers inside me, then three. And as he sucks on my clit and fucks me hard with his fingers, I splay my arms out against the building, tilt my head back to the sky, and completely break apart.

My legs go weak and I collapse into his arms. He kisses me, a sticky vanilla kiss that I don’t ever want to end. I’m wrapped up in him, exhausted from the hour, aroused by the man, and absolutely satisfied.

The King of Fuck, I think, as I hold him tight. He damn sure is.

And he belongs to me.