The Man with the Golden Cock
The party is still going strong as I scurry from the cabana, my mind in a jumble. I know I should stop and talk to Dallas—but the truth is that I don’t know what to say. What just happened in there was, well, absolutely fucking incredible. I can’t deny that I liked it. Hell, I loved it.
Or at least I did until the fantasy ended and Dallas talked to Christine. Christine. He knew her name. Why? Because he’d slept with her, of course.
Well, fuck.
This is hardly a revelation, and yet I can’t deny that it bothered me the same way that watching him touch the blond bitch or the tattooed brunette bothered me. Even though there’s something so incredibly hot about that game of ours—even though I know he was thinking about me and only me—the whole thing just felt wrong tonight. And now that wrongness is sitting in my gut. Raw and sour and festering.
And I can’t talk to Dallas about it, because the most wrong thing of all is that it didn’t bother him. To Dallas, it was playtime as usual.
To Dallas, nothing has changed over these last four days. But to me, the entire world is different.
Ergo, the running.
I keep my head down as I slide through the crowd, skirting the cabana and heading to the lush, manicured lawn. This section of the property isn’t well-lit in order to keep most of the guests on the pool deck, in the house, or on the temporary dance floor that’s been set up on the lawn closer to the residence.
Despite the dim lighting—or perhaps because of it—there are still a few people mingling about, but I soon leave them behind. By the time I reach the hedge maze that blocks this area from the more private family garden, I’m the only one around.
When Dallas and Liam and I were children, this maze was exceptionally easy to navigate, primarily because the hedge was only a foot high. Now, more than twenty years later, it’s eight feet tall, but I still remember my way through, and I’m clear in under five minutes and heading toward the garden shed.
As soon as I reach it, I collapse onto the small wooden bench that sits flush against the stone wall. I breathe deeply, grateful to be hidden from view. Away from the party. From Dallas. From everything.
Except I’m not. He’s followed me, of course.
I hear him first—the sound of his footsteps. Firm. Determined. Steady.
He’s not running, but walking quickly. Then he is standing in front of me. My head is down, so I see only the soft leather of his Brioni loafers and the cuff of his Dior Homme jeans. Casual clothes for a casual party. But there’s nothing casual about his manner. His stance alone radiates power, and though he says nothing, I know that he is worried about me.
Hell, I’m a little worried about me.
Slowly, I tilt my head up to look at him. I’ve stared at him for hours tonight, but despite my roiling emotions, I can’t help but be riveted by him now. Or maybe it’s because of those emotions. Because Dallas Sykes is beautiful. A living sculpture. A model of male perfection.
His legs are clad in the faded denim, tight enough to accent his muscular thighs, not to mention his semi-erect cock. He wears a plain white T-shirt under the thin gray cashmere sweater that I bought him for his birthday almost four months ago. He looks sexy as hell—like he just walked off the runway of a men’s fashion show. And it’s all I can do to still my fingers that want nothing more than to grab a fistful of cashmere and pull him violently toward me.
I don’t. Instead I continue my inspection, tilting my head back further to see his face. I expect the hard line of his jaw to be tight with frustration and his emerald green eyes to burn with irritation. I expect those lips to scold me—to ask what the fuck is wrong with me.
Instead, he says, “I’m sorry.”
I blink, the words as unexpected as a slap.
“I thought you’d like it,” he says. “Something hot. Something for us.”
“Something hidden. Something secret.” As soon as I say the words I regret them. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It was hot—incredibly hot. And I did like it. You know I did. It’s just …”
“We can’t be open,” he says, then sighs. “I know.”
He drags his fingers through his caramel-colored hair, and I watch as his expression hardens.
“It’s not just us, you know,” he says, moving to sit beside me. “Everything about these parties is secret. I’m playing a role. I know we haven’t talked much yet about Deliverance, but you understand that, right? I’m—”
“The man with the golden cock,” I say. “Yeah, I get that.”
He winces. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Dallas.” Shit. Fuck. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t, and it’s fine.” He looks at me gently, his voice turning softer as he says, “I told you that I’m glad I’ve never actually fucked any of them. I only want you.”
His words warm me, but they don’t fully soothe. “I believe you,” I say, matching his soft tone. “But being glad that you haven’t fucked them is completely different from being glad that you can’t.”
He closes his eyes for a moment and nods, acknowledging the truth of my words.
I’d been shocked to learn that I was the only woman Dallas has ever penetrated—and that was seventeen years ago when we’d been captive and terrified. Before he’d been tortured.
Before he’d been broken.
Now he plays a game of smoke and mirrors, satisfying hordes of women, but never literally fucking any of them. And since no woman who’s romped in his bed wants to admit that he didn’t actually lay her out and fuck her hard, his reputation just keeps growing. And frankly, considering his skill in bed, I bet most women didn’t even realize he was never inside them; they were too busy wallowing in the aftershocks of multiple orgasms.
Honestly, it’s one hell of a marketing scam. All of it is, really. The playboy persona. The King of Fuck reputation. He flirts with, touches, and beds a procession of women because that feeds an illusion and serves his purpose—Deliverance. An elite vigilante organization dedicated to rescuing kidnap victims and punishing their tormentors.
Until I learned that Deliverance was essentially Dallas’s brainchild, I’d been firmly of the opinion that it was a dangerous group that needed to be stopped. I’d done enough research and written enough articles and books on kidnappings and vigilante justice to know that mercenaries often do more harm than good. But I know Dallas; I understand his motives. And, honestly, I’m not sure what to think now, at least not about Deliverance. And so I’m officially withholding judgment until I learn more.
That in-depth educational experience hasn’t happened yet. But I know enough to understand what he’s doing. Creating camouflage. Hiding in plain sight behind the facade of a man who is too much of a player to be a threat.
“I’ve been living a life built on secrets for years, Jane.” His voice is soft, pulling me back from my thoughts. “Secrets are familiar territory.”
“We said we weren’t going to have any more secrets.”
“Between you and me. Not between us and the world.” He draws a breath, looking away from me as if to gather himself before turning back to meet my eyes. “I’ll tell you whatever you want about how Deliverance works. You know that.”
“I do.”
“So, do you want me to tell you now?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” I sigh, then run my fingers through my hair. “That’s not what’s bothering me.”
He nods. “Yeah. I know.” He stands again and starts to pace, obviously frustrated. “Tonight—this party—maybe I should have sent you back to New York. Maybe you should be at your own house tonight.”
I shudder, feeling suddenly cold. “You don’t want me here?”
“Oh, baby, no.” He stops in front of me and reaches down, taking my hands to pull me to my feet. “I want you with me more than anything. But I planned this party for one purpose only—I need to talk with Henry Darcy. I need to find out if he has any idea who’s behind Deliverance. And I need a woman on my arm when I talk to him.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to make sure he sees the playboy, not the man who might have set him up with Deliverance. I need him to talk to me, but I want his attention split. And a beautiful woman is an excellent distraction. This has been my camouflage for years, baby, and if I step out of character, I risk everything.”
“Which means the woman on your arm can’t be me.” The statement is rhetorical; obviously I can’t be the woman at his side. Even so, he opens his mouth to answer. I lift my hand to cut him off. “No. I get it. I do.”
About a year ago, Henry Darcy hired Deliverance to rescue his kidnapped daughters. He’d jumped through all of the hoops to contact the group, and as far as Dallas and his team knew, Darcy was ignorant of the identity of the individual players in the vigilante group. For that matter, he didn’t even know the name “Deliverance.” Or, at least, the team had assumed he didn’t. It was, Dallas explained to me, an internal code name only.
That’s the way all Deliverance operations work. Contact is made through a very complex system that Dallas hasn’t yet described to me. But the bottom line is total anonymity.
So when Henry Darcy revealed publicly that the vigilante group that had rescued his girls was called Deliverance, Dallas and the team were more than a little concerned. What else did he know? Was he a threat?
Apparently, Dallas decided that the best way to find out was to host a party, invite Darcy, and chat the man up. He wanted a sexy woman beside him as a visual diversion, so that whatever questions he asked or conversations he started would come off as simple chatter, not the interrogation of a man who masterminds an elite international vigilante group.
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 painfully. “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.
When he finally breaks the kiss, his expression is as raw as his voice. “You’re at my mercy, baby.”
“Yes.” I can barely force the word out. “God, yes.”
“Come for me, Jane. I want you to explode for me, now.”
It is as if the primal command in his voice is the final piece of a puzzle I’ve been assembling, and I do as he commands, screaming his name as my body rips apart in one wild, sensational orgasm. I tremble all over with such violent rapture that I don’t notice at first that his finger is no longer inside me. Now he’s using that hand to stroke his cock, and the moment his eyes meet mine, we are locked together.
His breath is ragged, and I realize that mine is, too. We are perfectly attuned, and waves of pleasure crash through me as he explodes. He comes over my legs and belly, marking me. Claiming me. And I absolutely love it.
I keep my eyes on his, then slide my finger over my legs and stomach before lifting my hand to my mouth. I suck, relishing the salty taste of him almost as much as the look on his face. Lust. Desire. Appreciation. And, yes, love.
For a moment, we just look at each other, both our chests rising and falling as we breathe. Then he hooks one arm around my waist and another under one of my legs. He shifts me so that I am sideways in his lap, and I can cradle my head against his shoulder.
“You do know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Sykes,” I say.
I feel his chuckle rumble through my chest. “I try.”
I smile, but the laughter never quite reaches my lips. I’m too overwhelmed by the moment. By what I feel. By the presence of this man I love. With a sigh, I tuck my head under his chin, snuggling close. “This whole thing is a hot mess, you know. How are we ever going to make this work?”
The silence between us is long, but then finally he answers. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But we will. Don’t ever doubt it. Don’t ever doubt us.”
The passion in his voice calms me, and I close my eyes as he holds me tight. I cling to him, relishing his certainty. His strength.
And desperately wishing that he was strong enough to truly crush all of my fears and worries.