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.
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.
That he is going to leave me in order to save me.
But all that will really do is destroy me.
I have to do something—I have to get through to him somehow. I have to make him see me—really see me—and believe me when I tell him that I can handle whatever he needs.
But I don’t know how to do that. I’m lost, so damn lost.
And I can think of only one person who can help me find my way.
Brody.
I pull on loose-fitting jeans and a Moschino T-shirt and tie my hair back in a messy ponytail. I jam my feet into a pair of ratty Converse skids, grab my purse, and head out into the real world. The sun is bright, the clouds are fluffy, and the temperature is pleasant in the low seventies. It’s an absolutely gorgeous day—and I’m not enjoying it at all. Instead, I’m on auto-pilot. Standing in the street. Hailing a cab. Closing my eyes and letting the rhythm of the vehicle soothe me as the taxi speeds toward the Village.
Except, of course, I’m not sootheable at all.
I pay, get out, and then climb the stairs to the main door of Brody’s building. He and Stacey rent the entire third floor of the converted townhouse, along with the roof garden that’s accessed by a private staircase. I’m about to ring the bell when the door opens and Stacey says, “Oh!”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She’s wearing workout gear and carrying a gym bag. “Is Brody—I mean, is it okay if I go in?”
She studies my face, and I’m sure she can see that I’ve been crying. “Of course you can. He was in the shower when I left, but he’ll be out soon. There’s coffee in the kitchen and some croissants in a bag. Make yourself at home.”
I’m eating a chocolate croissant when Brody comes into the kitchen wearing absolutely nothing. And, with the kind of aplomb that is so very Brody, he doesn’t even blink when he sees me sitting there.
I, of course, am completely flustered.
“Oh, please,” he says, dropping into a seat opposite me at the table. “Like you haven’t seen my junk before.”
“But now your junk belongs to Stacey.”
He shrugs. “And yet I still rent it out.”
I roll my eyes. Brody may be a professional dom, but he’s also my best friend. And I happen to know that he’s very limited in the clients that he actual fucks. Still, there are a few. And Stacey is actually cool with that, which impresses the hell out of me.
Right now, I’m just glad that he’s seated. He’s still shirtless, but at least the rest of him is hidden from view.
“Considering the early hour, I’m guessing this is either the apocalypse or you’re still having Dallas issues.”
“It damn sure feels like the apocalypse,” I admit, then cringe when an unexpected tear trickles down my cheek.
“Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry.” He reaches across and squeezes my hand. “Tell me.”
I start to do exactly that—and then I realize that in order for Brody to give me the advice I crave, I have to tell him everything. I have to share my secrets. More to the point, I have to share Dallas’s.
I take a breath. “I need to tell you some things. Lots of things. But they’re private—even more than what you already know about—but I need help.” I lick my lips. “I—I thought about talking to one of my therapists, but this is—it’s sex. Except it’s more than sex. And I—”
“Hey, whatever you need. You know I won’t break your confidence.”
I nod, because I do know that.
“So tell me what’s going on.”
I try to gather my thoughts. Brody already knows a bit of what happened during our captivity. He knows that Dallas and I were together, and he knows that Dallas was tortured. But he doesn’t know the extent of it—hell, I only just learned that myself. He doesn’t know that Dallas is afraid of physically hurting me. And he doesn’t know that Dallas hasn’t been able to penetrate a woman since he and I were fifteen.
But he needs to know all of that if he’s going to really help me. So I grab another coffee, sit back down, and start at the beginning.
When I finish, Brody looks a little shell-shocked, which says a lot about how fucked up everything is with Dallas and me. Because Brody has seen a lot.
“And now you’re afraid it’s over?” he asks. “Because of the way he freaked out and left.”
I nod. Then I shake my head. Then I nod again. “I guess I’m afraid that what I thought was the beginning was really just us ending with a bang.”
Brody leans back, his arms crossed over his chest as he studies me.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
He nods slowly. And then he leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, never taking his eyes off me. “Bullshit,” he says, and the word is so unexpected that I shift to sit more upright. “Yeah, I said bullshit.”
“What the fuck?”
“You’re not scared. At least, you’re not scared of it ending. You’re scared of where it’s going. Of how hard it might be. You’re confused because he’s not acting according to script and you don’t know what to make of that.”
I hug myself. “No, I—”
“Oh, come on, Jane. You’re vulnerable; I get that. And maybe you two really are sliding backward, but backward doesn’t mean it’s over, just that there’s more work to be done.” He reaches out and takes my hands. “Listen, kid. As hard as it was for you seventeen years ago, it was even harder for him, right? And everything you two do together brings it all back for him. There’s a connection in his mind between you and that place. That time. That torture. He’s used to that—hell, he’s even been handling it in his own way. Then you go and suggest that he put you in the role of the woman who tortured him and, yeah, that’s gonna fuck anyone up.”
I nod slowly, because he’s right.
“And except for this hitch, you two were moving forward, right?”
“Yeah. We’ve stumbled a bit, sure. But this is the first time I’ve been really scared.”
“So, that’s good. That’s progress.”
“I guess so.” I frown. “Except he’s been holding back all along, keeping me on that damn pedestal. I mean, we still haven’t done anything in the playroom,” I add, referring to a converted maid’s room in my townhouse.
His brows rise. “Well, that was a huge waste of my considerable talents.” After Brody told me in confidence that he knew that Dallas belonged to a kink club called The Cellar, I’d had him help me redo the room with a BDSM flair in an effort to convince Dallas that he could trust me to go with him as far as he needed.
Apparently that’s a battle I’m still fighting.
“So what do I do?” I press. “I love him. And I’m so damned afraid I’m going to lose him.”
“Like I’ve said all along, you have to prove to him you can handle it. That you can take whatever he gives.”
“And like I’ve been saying all along, I’ve been trying. So far, not succeeding.”
“Honestly, kiddo. I’m not sure what the best approach is. But I’d start by going to The Cellar.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell yeah. If you go and tell him you’re there to play, I promise you he’ll show up, if only to keep you away from anyone else.”
“But I wouldn’t do anything with anyone else. And he knows it.”
Brody lifts a shoulder. “Knowing it and knowing it are two different things. He’ll come.”
I nod. About that, Brody’s probably right.
“You need to make it clear that even though he’s the one in control, he won’t hurt you. Pick a safe word. I can’t guarantee it would have made a difference, but if you’d yelled a safe word—something offbeat—I bet it would have crashed through his dream, zen state, whatever the fuck it was. And if he knows you’re thinking in those terms—”
“Then maybe he’ll understand that I can handle it. That I want to handle it.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “Honestly, this is out of my league. But that’s my best advice. We’re not talking a normal dom/sub relationship, here. You get that, right? This is all Dallas. All pain and past, and I don’t really have a road map for you.”
“I know. I don’t need a map. I just need—I don’t know, I guess I just need help.”
“I’ll always give you that in spades.”
“I know. And I love you for it.” I exhale, then nod. “Okay. So, back to The Cellar. Do I just … show up?”
“I’ll arrange it for you. And I’ll make sure you two have a private room available, too, because—hang on.” He tilts his head, obviously considering something. “You know what? I take it back. Forget The Cellar.”
“What? Why?”
“This is not a man who wants to share you, and we already know he’s afraid of freaking you out or humiliating you.”
I lean forward, listening. “Go on.”
“Dallas wants the kink, sure. Hell, he needs it. But he doesn’t want to need it. And he sure as hell doesn’t like that he wants it. He goes to the club to fill a need, not because he likes it there or is comfortable being there.”
I nod, because all of that rings true. “So where does that leave me?”
“You need privacy. And we’ve already set up pretty much what you need back in your townhouse.”
“Except I told you that he seems entirely uninterested in christening that room. And, honestly, after the way he bolted from me, how the hell would I get him in there, anyway? I mean, after last night, I’m not sure he’ll set foot in my house again.”
Brody’s grin is devious. “Oh, I can get him there. He may end up being pissed as hell and a little freaked out, but I think you can manage him.”
“Pissed and freaked?” I repeat, then widen my eyes when I realize what Brody’s thinking.
I almost start to protest, but then I close my mouth tight. It just might work. And, honestly, I’m desperate enough to try anything.