Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(3)

I expect his hand to stroke the soft leather and cup her ass, but that isn’t what happens. Instead, his nimble fingers unfasten the button of her waistband, loosening it just enough so that he can slip his hand inside her skirt and slide it down over her ass. For just a fraction of an instant, he looks up, his eyes finding mine. Heat pours through me, turning me liquid, making me wet.

I know what he is doing—we’ve done this before. Him touching another woman. Me watching. And both of us pretending that he is touching me.

The first time, it was hotter than sin. I’d been alone in a bathroom, watching the scenario play out on video. We weren’t together yet—in fact we were doing everything to stay apart—and that moment had been a turning point for both of us. A bold—albeit completely f*cked up—statement of just how badly we wanted each other. Of what we were willing to do.

Of how far we were willing to go.

I bite my lower lip and swallow, wanting to take what I know he is giving, but also wanting to run far and fast. My reaction surprises me—but at the same time it doesn’t. I don’t want this. Yes, it’s hot. Yes, it’s exciting.

But I really, really don’t want it.

Before, it had been my only option. Vicarious lust. Fantasy f*cking. I’d allowed myself to get lost in a sensual haze while I watched him with another woman. I’d touched myself and come violently, over and over again, pretending that it was Dallas stroking me. Knowing it was me that he wanted, and that the woman with her mouth on his cock was nothing more than a poor substitute.

But back then, I wasn’t his. Not yet. Not really.

Now I am.

Now he can have me whenever and however he wants.

Except that’s not really true. Because he can’t have me now. He can’t touch me here in his own backyard. Not with all these people around.

He and I have to stay in the shadows. But he can fondle Skull Girl whenever the hell he wants to.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

I turn away, my skin still tingling. My breasts still tight. I want to watch—so help me, I do.

But I really, really don’t want to want to.

The door to the cabana is now right in front of me—our cabana. Where it all began between us, and where we finally, fully committed to each other, promising that we would somehow, someway, make this impossible situation work.

Memories flood over me as I move toward the door. I want to lose myself in them even if I can’t lose myself in the man.

I push the curtain aside, then stop dead. I don’t know the people on the daybed, but I know only too well what they’re doing. I watch, transfixed, as a fully clothed man with his fly down thrusts his cock into a very naked, very willing woman.

I make a small noise, my hand going immediately over my mouth to stifle it, but I make no move to leave. I’m hidden from their view, I think. From where I stand, I am mostly behind the man, at an angle to the daybed. There is the curtain behind me that leads to the pool deck, and also a solid sliding pocket door that I’m surprised they didn’t close and lock. Maybe they didn’t know it was there.

In front of me are two more layers of gauzy curtains, designed both for both privacy and to repel bugs in the evening. The lighting is dim, and although I’m sure they would realize I was there if they looked closely, I know from experience that they would see only shadows. And that so long as I don’t move, they probably won’t even notice me.

I don’t move a muscle.

Instead, I stand perfectly still, lost in the hot, decadent scene that is playing out in front of me. I don’t care about these people, and I don’t want to. Instead, I’m imagining that it’s me on the bed, my body stripped bare. That it’s Dallas behind me, still dressed for the party, his fly down, his cock hard and thick and thrusting inside me.

He bends over, his hands cupping my hips, then my waist, then sliding up to grab my tits. He squeezes hard, the pain shooting all the way down to my cunt, making me even wetter, making my muscles clench ever tighter around him as he pounds inside me.

His cock fills me, his balls slapping hard against my ass as he f*cks me from behind, harder and harder, riding me until I want to scream from pain and pleasure and the wild, frantic need for release.

I taste blood and realize that I’m biting my lower lip in an effort to stay quiet. I haven’t made a sound, but I have moved. My hand has slid down, brushing the thin cotton of my floral print skirt, easing it up slowly until I have to clutch tight to the material in defense against the overpowering urge to ease the garment all the way up.

I’m breathing hard, lost in my fantasies. I’m so wet now, and all I can think about is sliding my fingers under my panties and fingering myself.

I want to imagine it’s Dallas touching me. Dallas wanting me.

Me, goddammit. Not some tattooed bitch he grabbed as a prop and who now thinks she’s got a claim on him.

A warm hand falls on my shoulder and I jump, my cry stifled by the hand that is suddenly pressed over my mouth.

“Don’t startle them.” It’s Dallas, of course. His voice low, his lips so close to my ear that his breath makes me shiver. “They haven’t seen you. We wouldn’t want to interrupt the moment.”

I swallow, understanding that he doesn’t mean their moment, but ours.

His hand slides over my rear, cupping my ass through my thin skirt. Slowly, he starts to inch the material up, mimicking what I’d been on the verge of doing only moments before.