Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(49)

He is fighting.

He is fighting me.

With a groan, he slams me against the wall, one hand around my neck, the other between my legs. His expression is hard, his eyes wild, and I gasp, trying to breathe as he roughly spreads my legs and thrusts inside me, wild and untamed.

I’m scared—goddammit, I’m really and truly scared—but not of him. I’m scared of the dream. Of the fact that he doesn’t see me. He sees her. The Woman. I know that he wants to hurt her. And right now, I don’t know how far he will go.

I whimper as he tosses me back on the bed, as he forces me up on my knees, then tugs my arms behind me so that my shoulders feel ripped out of me and my weight is on my head. He still has me around the neck, and I’m completely unable to move, and he’s inside me, thrusting hard. Not his cock, but his fingers, and he’s lost in the intensity of the moment, so far gone with pain and fury that I can barely make out the words he mutters: Bitch. Pain. Never again.

I’m light-headed, and though part of me says I need to let him do this—I need to be the stand-in for the object of his rage—I cry out, the sound muffled because I can’t draw air and the room is turning gray. A darker, colder fear washes over me and I force my name out, Jane, I cry. I’m Jane. But I don’t even know if I’ve actually made sounds.

Then his grip loosens and he flips me over. His hand is still around my neck. He’s still f*cking me, thrusting deep. But now it’s slower, more methodical. His eyes are still glazed, but I see the man I love behind the shadows, and when he whispers, Mine, I know that he sees me, too, even from somewhere in his dream.

With each thrust of his fingers, he’s moving over my pelvis. Grinding himself against me. And I can see that he’s close. I feel it when his body tenses, when he tightens his grip around my throat again, when he explodes over my belly, my breasts, and then throws his head back and groans.

For a moment, I think it’s a victory, but when he opens his eyes and looks at me, all I see is horror.

Within seconds, he’s released my neck. He leaps off the bed and is flat against the wall, his chest rising and falling. His eyes wide. His face so full of pain and self-loathing it breaks my heart.

I sit up, trying not to show how sore I am. How hard it is to breathe. “Dallas,” I say, but he holds up his hand as if he can’t stand the sound of his name.

I don’t silence myself though. “It’s okay,” I say. “I told you to. You didn’t hurt me. I consented. A hundred times, a thousand times. I wanted this. You needed it.”

“Needed to f*cking rape you?” His voice is thick, and I think he is on the verge of breaking down.

“You didn’t,” I repeat. “I wanted it. I told you.”

“I could have hurt you.”

“I’m right here. I’m not hurt.”

“No.” He shakes his head, then brings his hands up and squeezes his skull. “God, no. What the f*ck? This isn’t—I can’t. Fuck.”

His eyes find me. “I was a fool,” he says, his voice low. “We can’t ever have normal. We can’t ever be normal. I’m a danger to you. Physically. Emotionally. And I can’t do this. I can’t stay with you and watch myself destroy what I love most in the world.”

He starts for the door.

“Dallas!” I call, but he just keeps going. And he doesn’t look back.

My body aches to go after him, but I hold myself still, clutching tight to the sheets as if to anchor me. I tell myself that he just needs time. After all, that was seriously intense.

I tell myself that, but I’m not convinced. Because I know that he believes that tonight is proof that he can’t do normal, whatever the f*ck that is. That at his core he’s a man who needs pain. Who needs danger. Who needs to hurt to get off and, maybe, needs to be hurt, too.

The one thing that Dallas has consistently told me throughout all of our life together is that he will protect me, no matter what it takes.

Right now, I know, he thinks to protect me he has to leave me.

And I have no idea how to convince him otherwise.

I stay curled up in bed, alternating between dozing and crying, until almost noon. Then I can’t take it any longer. I have to talk to him. He may need time, but I need to hear his voice, and right now, my need is the one that’s winning.

I hit the speed dial for Dallas, then hold my breath as I wait for him to answer. And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Then I get voicemail.

Shit.

I don’t bother leaving a message. Instead, I call the house line, which Mrs. Foster answers on the first ring.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” she says, as soon as I say hello.

“I didn’t realize you were back,” I say.

“Just an hour ago.”

I grin. “And naturally, you’re already dug in and putting the house back to rights.”

“Now don’t you say that like you’re surprised,” she retorts, making me laugh outright.

“Fair enough. I’m not surprised at all. But I was hoping to speak to Dallas. He must be away from his cell. Can you grab him for me?”

“Of course I can. You just hold on for a second.”

She means that literally, and hold music starts to play, and when it clicks off, I expect to hear Dallas come on the line, so I’m completely surprised to hear, “Miss Jane. What can I help you with?”