Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(19)

A muscle in his jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his words are a little too crisp. “What happened to you’ll go anywhere with me? Or did you only mean that you’d go if it was comfortable?”

I stumble back, his words shocking me. I’d expected an apology. Instead, what? He’s admitting it? He really did intend to have Fiona and me in bed together?

I feel bile rise in my throat even as tears sting my eyes. I swallow in defense against the first, and look down at the floor so he can’t see the second. I need a moment to think. To adjust. Because I did tell him I would go wherever he needs—and I meant what I said.

I just hadn’t expected this.

Finally, I feel confident enough to speak. But, dammit, my voice still shakes. “I will go wherever you want me and do whatever you want. But I guess I thought you’d do me the courtesy of telling me what to expect.”

“Jane.”

His voice is tender and I can’t handle that right now. I toss up my hand to silence him, then continue speaking because I need to get these words out.

“I mean it,” I say. “I will go into the dark with you. But I just think—hell, Dallas, you blindsided me. You told me you only wanted me.” I meet his eyes now, sure that mine are bloodshot and weepy. “That’s what you said, and I believed you.”

“Oh, baby.” He pulls me against him before I can react, and I stand stiff in the circle of his arms. “I do only want you.”

I tug free of the embrace, hating how vulnerable I feel. Hating that this man has the power to hurt me so very deeply. “Do you think I don’t have eyes? I saw her touch you. Even from where I was standing I could see how hard you were.”

“Shit.” He turns away from me, then goes to sit in one of the guest chairs in front of the huge mahogany desk. I watch him, thinking that I’ve won this round of the argument and wondering why the hell I don’t feel victorious.

It seems to take forever for him to speak, and when he does, it’s low. Almost monotone. As if he has to hold in the emotion, because if he lets go the words will burst out of him. “Do you think getting hard is only about desire?” he asks. “Goddammit, Jane, do you think I wanted to get a f*cking erection with Fiona? How about back when the Woman touched me?”

I suck in a breath, his words conjuring memory and pain. And regret, because I pushed this, and I know how tied up sex is with the kidnapping for him. I may have suffered in captivity, but it was Dallas who truly went down into hell.

“Look at me,” he demands, and I realize that I am studying the pattern in the carpet. I lift my head, and feel a tear snake down my cheek. “Do you think I wanted her? That bitch who tormented us? Do you think that I wanted to be aroused?”

The monotone is disappearing, giving way to a hard edge honed by pain.

He pushes himself out of the chair, then sweeps his arm violently over the desktop, sending papers and pens flying. “I f*cking hated my body. Hated myself.”

He crosses to me, his strides long, then grabs me by the shoulders. “I was fifteen, and I thought that if my cock was hard then I must want sex. Must want her. I thought that I was royally f*cked up because she was turning me on.”

“No.” I clutch tight to him, as if I can make him believe the truth simply by holding tight to him. “God, Dallas, no. You can’t believe that.”

“I don’t,” he assures me. “Not anymore.” I feel the rise and fall of his chest as he gathers himself. And then, very gently, he tilts my chin up so that I am looking right at him. “But you do.”

“What? No, I don’t.” I’m shocked he could even think such a thing. I know that what the Woman did to him was torture, even if he hasn’t told me all of it yet. And there is no way in hell that I would ever believe he wanted it just because she got him hard, made him come. “I don’t believe that at all.”

“And yet you thought I wanted Fiona.”

It actually takes me a moment to figure out what he means, but the moment I do, the only thing I can say is, “Oh.”

I’m mortified. I’m ecstatic. And I’m desperately relieved.

I’m also pretty damn confused. “But if you don’t want her, then why did you invite her into your bed when you knew I was coming?”

“Our bed,” he corrects. “And I didn’t.”

I raise my brows. After all, the woman is right across the hall, naked between his sheets.

He chuckles and drags fingers through his hair. “Jesus, Jane—do you really think that I set this up? That I want to share you?”

“But you said—” I frown, because just a few minutes ago he’d lashed back at me, reminding me that I’d promised to go anywhere with him.

“Well, you pissed me off,” he admits, then drags me to him and kisses me hard. “I want you, you little idiot. I don’t want her. And I’m not going to say it again—I didn’t invite her.”

I believe him, but I don’t answer for few seconds anyway, simply because I want to savor the truth of his words.

Still, I can’t deny the oddity of the situation, and so I ask the most obvious question I can think of. “If you didn’t invite her, then why is she naked in your bed?”

“I really wish I knew.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, and I watch, baffled, as he sends a quick text.