Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(33)

“The funny thing about Dallas is that he tends to see things for himself.”

“He sees you, too,” Bill says, not understanding just how right he is.

Once again, I say nothing. I just pull his jacket off my shoulders, then pass it to him in a not-so-subtle signal that he should go.

Thankfully, he takes the hint and walks toward his car. He pauses by the driver’s door. “I still love you, you know.”

“Bill—” There is no disguising the pain in my voice.

“Just tell me—did you ever love me? And don’t lie. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

I almost smile, because he wouldn’t. I’m far too practiced a liar for him to be able to tell. But we shared a life, even if only for a short time, and he deserves the truth. “I did,” I say. “Or, at least, I thought I did. You’re right about one thing, I’m messed up. It’s nothing to do with you. You’re a wonderful man and I am so grateful that you didn’t write me out of your life. But we weren’t meant to be married.”

He comes back around the car, pausing at the trunk but looking like he wants to continue on and close the distance between us. “How’s the screenplay coming? The new book? I’m heading back to DC today. You can come anytime if you need to do more research. And you know you can stay at my place.”

My chest tightens at the thought. “Bill—don’t push me.”

He taps his fingers idly on the trunk. “I was devastated at first when you wanted to leave me. Then I thought fine. She wants to go, I’ll consider it an opportunity.” He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “But that turned out to be a load of bullshit. I’ve been dating on and off for years now but I’ve never found anyone who moves me the way you do.”

I say nothing. I just stand there wishing he’d stop saying these things that I really don’t want to hear.

“Dallas says you’re not seeing anyone.”

I almost laugh at the irony. “Yeah, he’d say that.”

“Maybe … maybe now that I know the truth we could try again. Maybe whatever distance you felt was because of those secrets.”

“It wasn’t the secrets, Bill. We just never … fit.”

“Maybe what you think you want doesn’t exist,” he presses. “It’s not as though you’re making wedding plans with someone else, right? It’s not like you’ve found the right guy.”

“No.” I force out the lie. “I haven’t found him.”

“So you’re sacrificing something solid for something you might never really have.”

My heart hitches, because without even understanding what he’s said, he’s hit a little too close to the truth.

“Yeah,” I finally say. “I guess I am.”

When I go back inside, Dallas is still in the den, and I notice right away that he’s switched from orange juice to bourbon.

“Little early, don’t you think?”

He looks at me, his face a mixture of fury and exhaustion. “You know, I really don’t.” As if to drive home the point, he tosses back the drink, then pours another.

I’m at his side in an instant, my hand covering his before he can raise the glass. “Dallas. Don’t.”

He ignores me, pulling his hand from under mine and holding tight to the Waterford highball glass. He starts to raise it to his lips, hesitates, and then hurls it against the far wall where it shatters into a million pieces, littering the polished wood floor with some of Kentucky’s finest liquor and Ireland’s best crystal.

“Goddammit,” he says, then reaches out as if to grab another glass.

I take his hand, sliding in front of him. “I like those gla—” But I don’t finish. He pulls me hard against him, his mouth on mine, wild and rough and desperate. Claiming me. Teeth and tongue warring and tasting as he holds my head in place, his fingers twined tight in my hair so that I have no choice but to submit to this assault that is melting me, burning through me.

When he pulls back, I lick my lips and taste blood. I’m breathing hard, my body singing with desire. He is looking at me, his eyes wild, his expression hard. He’s taken a step back so that he is leaning against the sideboard, his hands gripping the edge of the antique piece as if it is the only thing that is anchoring him.

But I don’t want him to be anchored. He’s on the edge, so close to going under, and dammit, I want to go there with him.

“Dallas—”

“No.” He pushes away from the sideboard, and comes to me, his hands going to the hem of my tank top. “No talking. Right now I can think of much better uses for that very pretty mouth.”

He yanks the shirt up over my head, then tosses it onto the floor. I’m not wearing a bra—I’d only pulled on yoga pants and a tank—and now I’m bare from the waist up, and the sensation of the cool air against my hot skin is delicious. All the more so when Dallas cups his hands on my breasts, and teases my nipples with his thumbs.

“Mine,” he says, and though I start to say yes, I’m silenced by his sharp look reminding me that I’m to stay quiet.

He hooks his arm around my waist, and then pulls me to him, arching me back with a firm tug on my hair before he bends over and takes my breast in his mouth, sucking and teasing until my nipple is so hard it’s painful, and I can feel each bite and suck and lick all through me, making me so wet and needy that I have to bite my lower lip in defense against the urge to beg and plead for him to touch me, stroke me, make me come.