Glass Houses
His mouth closes over mine, hot and demanding, and every thought in my head disappears like dandelion fluff in the wind. Somewhere in my mind, I know that I should press him—that we have things to talk about—but I don’t have the willpower.
Where Dallas is concerned, I have no strength at all.
“I need you,” he says, breaking the kiss and cupping my face with his hands. “I need you to understand. To know.”
I start to ask what that means—what he thinks I don’t understand—but the words stall in my throat when he unzips my skirt, takes the two halves of the waistband, and rips it completely off my body.
I gasp, and some small part of my brain tells me that I should be angry. I love this skirt, and it cost a small fortune. But I’m not upset. On the contrary, I’m so desperately turned on that I feel the muscles of my core clenching with need. And I’m incredibly wet. That one violent, wild act of possession has completely stripped me of my defenses and I’m open and desperate and wanting.
“The shirt.” His voice is as hard as his expression. “Take it off or I’ll take it off for you.”
I lick my lips, and part of me wants to challenge him. There’s something unfamiliar and dangerous in his eyes. Something possessive and primal. I want to push—I want to taunt him into going as far as he wants and needs—but some instinct tells me to hold back, and so I quell the urge and very slowly peel my shirt off and toss it on top of my tattered skirt.
I never put on fresh underwear, so now I am standing in nothing but my bra and three inch strappy sandals. I reach back to unfasten the bra, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says. “You look too damn delicious.”
“Do I?” I step closer, then slide into his arms, my essentially naked body pressed against his still fully-clothed one. “Then maybe you should eat me?”
“Believe me, it’s on the agenda.” He takes a step back, and I frown as the distance between us grows. “To the window,” he says, nodding at the floor to ceiling window that looks out over one of the side lawns and across the dunes to the ocean.
I walk slowly, not sure what he’s up to.
“Hands on the glass,” he says, coming up behind me. “Spread your legs.”
I stay perfectly still, not making a single move to comply as he tugs the cups of my lacy bra down to expose my breasts.
“Breasts, too,” he says. “Think how nice the cool glass will feel against your warm nipples.”
“Dallas.” My voice is hoarse. “Someone might see.”
“They won’t. The guests are mostly on the pool deck and by the band and the bar.” He pushes me forward, then lifts my hands and places my palms against the glass. Then he spreads my legs and eases me forward. I whimper as my nipples touch the cool window, and then I suck in a sharp breath as he traces a fingertip down my spine, over my ass, and then slides his warm hand between my legs.
He is standing right behind me, and I can see the reflection of his face in the glass, and beyond that the foam on the cresting waves glowing in the moonlight. “No one will see us,” he murmurs in my ear. “But even if they did,” he adds as he slides his fingers deep inside me, “all that would mean is that they know you are mine. That you’re the woman I want. Not Fiona or Christine or any of them. Only you.”
I want to argue. I want to remind him that there’s a whole hell of a lot that people would know. Like what Dallas and I are to each other, and how we are breaking the rules.
But I can’t say it. Hell, I can barely think it. He has completely undone me, and right now I am nothing but sensation and need and desire.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, and I realize that I’m grinding my hips, trying to find release as he teases me so intimately. “Do you like this?”
“Yes.”
“Then beg for it.”
“Please. Please, Dallas, make me come.”
He’s touching and stroking and teasing, and I’m so close. I shift, trying to find release, but it’s always just a little bit off, just a little bit further away. I’m so turned on and so frustrated, and all I want is for him to take me the rest of the way, fast and hard and wild.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he urges. “Tell me you understand that it’s only you. That it’s only ever been you.”
“I do,” I say. “I understand.”
“No,” he says, as he spins me around and then presses my back against the glass. “I really don’t think you do.”
I’m breathing hard, and so is he. I’m wet, and so wildly turned on, and the sensation thrills me. I’m completely out of control—I’ve surrendered everything to him—and I’m okay. I’m okay.
“Dallas.” I hear the plea in my voice. “Make me. Make me understand.”
One of his hands is against my shoulder, pinning me back against the glass. The ferocity—the hunger—is so clear on his face that I expect him to take everything I’m offering and more. And I want it. Oh, dear god, I want it.
I’m breathing hard, and I feel the perspiration bead at the back of my neck, on my upper lip, between my legs. I’m nervous with wanting, fired with anticipation. I’m ready. I’m so, so ready.
I lick my lips, and that simple gesture seems to spur him to action. He looks back over his shoulder toward the desk, and I feel a wildness circle inside me, remembering my earlier fantasy about him taking me on that very desktop.
I expect him to jerk me toward him. To force me to bend over the desk.
I imagine him spreading my legs wide and holding my head down while he spanks me, then teases and strokes me with his cock before thrusting deep into me with his fingers.
Or maybe this is it—maybe this is what he needs—and I’ll finally feel him slamming hard into me. His cock filling me. His fingers clutching my shoulders so hard he marks me as he takes me fully and completely.
I want it—and at the same time I hate myself for wanting it because I know it might not happen. But the passion—the wildness—that I know is coming.
I really cannot wait.
And so I’m more than a little befuddled when his gaze shifts back to me, and the feral look is gone, subjugated to a slow-burn of passion and the face of a warrior who’s just fought the battle of his life.
I shake my head slowly, not wanting to understand, but I do. I get it, because I get him.
And I don’t like it.
“Dallas—”
“Shhh, baby.” His forefinger presses against my lips, quieting me, as he moves closer, then presses his hands lightly over my breasts before trailing his fingertips down my body, the contact making me tremble with a desire that is significantly more tame, but no less real. His fingers move lower, teasing the fold of skin between my thigh and my torso, stroking the soft skin of my vulva. Driving me deliciously wild because he is taking such care to completely avoid my clit.
With his other hand, he cups one breast, his thumb playing lightly over my nipple even as he bends forward and closes his mouth over the other.
I gasp, my body shaking with desire. With need. I feel as though I am on fire, like every millimeter of my skin is a sensual playground.
He has reined himself in, but the effect on me is no less dramatic. His touch is a garden of sensual delights, but when he pulls back, his teeth grazing my nipple in the process, I open my eyes and look at him. That’s when I see that his soft caresses are belied by the fire in his eyes.
He wants more, damn him. And yet he’s holding back, cheating us both.
“Dallas,” I say again.
“What, baby?”
I start to protest that he needs to stop protecting me when I’ve told him I’ll go with him wherever he needs me to go. But then I realize this isn’t about protecting me, but about protecting himself.
He’s fighting hard to hold it all in. To push it all back. His memories. His fears. The dark desires that he loathes.
I want him to stop fighting—to let it out—to share with me all of what happened in there, in the dark. To tell me what it is he craves.
I want that—even more, I need it. And I know that he needs it, too.
But I don’t say a word. I can’t push him on this. Not now. Not when we’re both still raw.
“Jane?”
I hear the concern in his voice and force a smile to my lips. “I love you,” I say. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
“Oh, baby.”
He pulls me to him and kisses me gently, then eases me down onto the area rug. It’s soft and thick, and I stretch my arms above my head as he straddles me. Slowly, he kisses his way down my body, then gently parts my thighs.
I feel the whisper of breath on my clit and arch up, my hands over my breasts. My palms brush my sensitive nipples in time with his tongue laving my clit, sending waves of pleasure crashing through me with such wild brutality that my entire body is trembling.
His fingers are inside me, his mouth playing me. I’m lost in pleasure, and I want to explode even as much as I want this sensation to last, but I have no control at all. I’ve surrendered entirely to Dallas. His touch, his demands, his teases and caresses, and it’s all too much. Building and building until finally it is as though reality is yanked out from under me, and I burst apart, with Dallas right there to hold me and put me back together.
I gasp and shudder, my body lost in pleasure as he slides up my body and holds me close, telling me he loves me. Telling me that I’m his. Telling me that everything is going to work out.
“Promise?” I whisper when I can form words again.
“Always.”
I smile, then slide my hand down to stroke him. I’m pretty much bare, but he is still very clothed. And very hard.
I meet his eyes as my hand cups his steel-hard cock. “You really should do something about that. Or perhaps I could volunteer my services? Take over until you want to finish?”
But he only shakes his head as he presses his hand on top of mine. “I like this,” he says. “I like feeling what you do to me.”
Oh.
“When you put it like that, I like it, too.” I kiss him lightly and curl against him, and for the first time since the party began, it feels like we’re us again. I sigh, thinking of what happened. Of my fears and doubts. Then I tilt my head back to look at him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you earlier. Thinking that you wanted a three-way with Fiona. I’m just—I saw that you were hard and I got jealous.”
He brushes a kiss over my forehead. “We said no secrets,” he says softly, “and I already told you that I didn’t want her. That I don’t want her. And that’s the truth. But I did hold something back.”
“You did?” I shift a bit, not because I want to put distance between us, but because I want to see him better.
“She is attractive,” he says. “And I know she’s a good time in bed.”
I scowl. “Gee. Now I feel better.”
He chuckles. “I’m not finished. The thing is, the kidnapping has been on my mind lately what with—well, us. And this thing with Darcy and Deliverance. But it was unfair of me to compare getting hard because Fiona touched me with what the Woman did.” He twists a lock of my hair around his finger. “Unfair to her and unfair to you.”
I swallow, trying to dissipate the lump that has settled in my throat. “So, are you saying that you do want her?”
“Now? Oh, baby, no. But I won’t deny that she’s hot. Or that I’ve had good times with her in bed before. I meant what I said, sweetheart. Only you. But I play this role and I have to be … receptive. It’s hard not to—”
I lift a brow. “Method act?”
“You could say that.”
I sit up so that I can hug my knees as I look at him. “This is going to be hard, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer, but he really doesn’t need to.
“You know, if I was another woman—” I say airily, as if the words mean nothing. “If I wasn’t your sister, I could join you. Be the second girl in your bed.”
His brows lift. “Would you like that?” he asks, his eyes studying my face.
“Would you?” I counter, because I’m still trying to figure out what the line is for him. What he wants. What he needs. I know because of his reputation and because I’ve seen it with my own eyes that he often entertained more than one girl in his bed. Is he going to miss that dynamic with me?
He is silent for so long that I think he is going to simply avoid the question. Finally, though, he answers. “I’ve had two women at a time. Often, actually. Most of the time, frankly.”
“Oh.” He’s not really doing a good job of soothing me here. I mean, I’m reasonably confident of my skill in bed, but I can’t be two girls. Just not physically possible.
“Do you know why?”
“Because you’re an insatiable manwhore?”
He laughs out loud. “It definitely feeds the reputation, but no. Because of the distraction.”
I shake my head, not understanding.
“Oh, baby, don’t you get it? Not one of the women who has ever shared my bed is the woman I truly wanted. And rather than share so much intimacy with a woman I didn’t really want, I’d bring in a second—or sometimes a third. But with you—oh, God, Jane, don’t you know that I only want you in my bed?”
I exhale, my relief so intense I feel light-headed. He leans toward me and kisses me softly. “Okay?”
“Very much,” I say, and realize that I am grinning like a fool.
He grins, too, and I see the moment his expression turns mischievous. “Now, to be clear, just because I don’t need another woman in my bed doesn’t mean that you can’t invite one. I mean, if you want to romp naked with one of your girlfriends, possibly with whipped cream …”
He trails off, and I smack him lightly in the arm. “You are such a guy.”
“I’m very glad you think so.”
“Oh, I more than think so. I can prove it.” I move to straddle him, then stroke my hands over his shirt, tugging it up as I move down his body. It’s untucked by the time I reach the waistband of his jeans, and as my fingers go to the button on his fly, my kisses trace the arrow of hair that leads from his abdomen to his cock.
As I following that trail to heaven, his phone rings in his back pocket. He reaches for it, pulls it out and silences it with a firm touch of a button.
I smile and ease his zipper down, watching with satisfaction the way the muscles in his lower abs tighten, evidencing his effort to keep control.
“See?” I say. “This bit of hair, these very nice muscles. Definitely a guy kind of thing.”
“I do appreciate a woman who searches out the evidence.”
I laugh and start to tug his jeans down, gratified when he lifts his hips to help.
He’s wearing black boxer briefs, and I tug them down to reveal his very hard cock. And then, with one quick glance at him, I slowly lick him from balls to tip.
He arches up, and the sound of his moan fills me up and turns me on. I start to tease the tip, and his damn phone starts to ping, signaling a text.
“Fuck,” he says, then glances at the screen. “Well, shit.”
“What is it?”
He starts to answer, but the phone rings. “What it is, is that I have to take this call. It’s Adele. She texted to say I need to answer. That it’s important.”
I lift a brow, wondering what the hell my birth father’s ex-wife could be calling about that’s so important. “Go ahead,” I say. “Don’t mind me.”
“Jane …”
But I ignore him, drawing his cock into my mouth and fighting a laugh as he groans, “Oh, fuck me,” before picking up the phone and managing to croak out, “Yeah, I’m here. What is it?… Actually, no. I’m hosting a party, and at this particular moment I’m having a conversation with Jane … Very funny. Yes, we’re being very civil to each other.”
At that, I gently nip the tip of his cock, making him gasp. As far as Adele knows, Dallas and I still mostly avoid each other.
“Why did I need to answer the phone?” he asks. “I have guests here.”
It’s clear from the conversation that they know each other pretty well, better than I know her, actually. I know that Colin—my birth father—and Dallas repaired their relationship when he was in college, after the kidnapping. That was about the time Colin met and married Adele, and I know Dallas and Adele stayed friends after she and Colin divorced. Apparently, pretty good friends.
I think—though I don’t know for sure—that Dallas has even talked to her a bit about the kidnapping. She’s a professional therapist, and I’ve actually considered seeing her. But the family connection makes it too weird. Probably unethical, too. Plus, I’ve never really clicked with her. She’s always been nice enough, but I still never felt like it would be easy to open up to her.
Right now, though, Adele is the last person I want to think about, and I wish she’d tell Dallas why she called so he can get off the phone.
“Yeah,” Dallas is saying. “I made plans to have dinner with him later this week. He mentioned that he’d finished some of the remodeling on the house and … well, of course you’re welcome to join us … Adele, do you really think—fine. Fine, I’ll ask and I’ll let you know. Was that it?… Okay then, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” He tosses the phone aside, then twines his fingers in my hair as I run my tongue over the length of him.
“That was seriously surreal,” he says.
I lift my head long enough to look at him. “Having a woman go down on you while you talk to her former stepmother? What is it you always say? How you like it fucked up?”
A shadow seems to cross his face, and I regret the joke.
“Hey,” I say. “I was just being glib. You okay?”
“I’m great.” He tugs my hair, urging me up to him. “Come here.”
“Don’t you want—”
“You. I want you.”
I ease in next to him, trying to find a comfortable position on the floor. “What was so important?”
He rolls his eyes. “She wants to join me and Colin at dinner next week, but didn’t want to include herself without asking. And she said I should invite you, too. Since we’re being civil.”
“Oh.” I consider that. “Well, I guess I could come. That’s the civil thing to do, right?”
He nods, but he doesn’t look happy, and in the back of my head, a few little alarm bells start to tingle. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just incredibly tired.” He stands, then picks me up, cradling my naked body against his chest. His jeans are still open and hanging on his hips, and despite our relative nakedness, he heads straight for the door.
“Time for bed,” he says. “And I hope to hell Liam’s got Fiona out of the bedroom, because if he hasn’t, they’re both about to get an eyeful.”