Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(23)

“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.