by J. Kenner
"You know what I mean," he says as he takes a seat beside me. "When we were married. Why didn't you tell me then?"
I stand again, unreasonably irritated with him for making me give up my comfortable perch. "It wasn't my story to tell, Bill." Which is a true answer, but not the full answer. I had my own story I could have shared with my husband. But I never once told him about my kidnapping, either.
He sighs, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "I wish you would have." He looks at me.
I lift a shoulder. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
"It's just that I always liked your brother, but he always kept his distance, you know. Not rude, not usually anyway, but ..."
"But what?"
"Like he was holding on to some big secret."
"He was," I say, thinking that Bill doesn't know the half of it. The kidnapping, sure. But the other secret was me. How could Dallas and Bill ever have been close when I was married to one man and in love with the other?
I shiver and hug myself, and Bill stands up and puts his light jacket over my shoulders.
"It's chilly out," he says. "You should have grabbed a wrap."
I just nod. It's not the morning chill that has made me tremble, but the simple fact that this is all on me. I never should have married Bill. Hell, I never should have fallen in love with my brother.
Even though Dallas and I weren't together then--even though we both believed we would never, ever be together--the bottom line is the same: I'd kept huge secrets in my marriage.
I'm keeping them still.
"Anyway, I'm glad I know now. I understand him better. And I understand you better, too."
At that, my eyes snap to him.
"Your fascination with kidnappings. The books, the articles." He nods, as if to himself. "It makes sense. Dallas is messed up, but you are, too, Janie. And writing is your way of working through what happened to your family."
"It is," I say, because that's one hundred percent true, even if it's not the full truth.
"Does it help?" His voice is gentle, reminding me of why we'd started dating. Why I'd thought that maybe a marriage could work.
"Yeah," I say. "It does."
"Dallas needs to work through it, too. Finding his kidnapper will help."
I don't answer. Mostly, because I don't disagree. But for the first time, it truly hits me that Bill is absolutely right. Finding who took us really will help Dallas put it behind him once and for all. But it needs to be Dallas who finds them. It needs to be Deliverance.
Bill sighs. "Look, I get that this is hard, but talk to him, okay? Because this thing is bigger than me, and even if I wanted to stop it, I couldn't. The investigation into the Sykes kidnapping is officially moving forward. You should try and help him realize that's not a bad thing."
"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.
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When he finally pulls back, I whimper, wanting and needing more, and I can't help myself when I whisper, "Dallas."
His mouth curves up in what looks like a smile of victory, and he tightens his grip on my hair and forces me down to my knees. My blood pounds through me, wild and hot. I like this--being at his mercy, knowing that my only purpose in the moment is to please him. To obey him.
I peek up at him through my lashes just long enough to see him looking back down at me, his expression stern, but his eyes filled with the same desire I've seen all my life. Then he tugs on my hair and says, "Now, dammit. Your mouth, my cock," and I feel a shiver of pure pleasure cut through me with such intensity that it rivals an orgasm.
I unbutton his pants and ease out his cock. He's hard--so damn hard--and absolutely perfect. I cup his balls with one hand and fist his cock with the other, then tease the tip with my tongue, gratified when a tremor cuts through him and he moans, low and deep. I want more, though. He thinks he's the one in control, keeping me silent and on my knees, but right now, I want to break him. I want to take him all the way.
And even though I know he says he can't, I want to feel him explode in my mouth.
I take him in, slowly at first, teasing and sucking. Letting the sensation build and gauging his reaction by the way he holds my head. The almost pained noises he makes. I take him deeper, reveling in feminine power as he holds me tight with one hand and reaches back to balance himself against the sideboard with the other.
He's close--his body trembling, his cock tightening. And oh, god, if I can just take him there. If I can just get him off that would be one step closer--one bit of proof that we can make this work. That we can work past all the loss and horror--all the crap--that's followed us around for seventeen long years.
As if he realizes it too, he releases the sideboard and grabs my head with both hands, holding me motionless. So that now it's not me going down on him--it's not me in control--but Dallas. Dallas fucking my mouth. Using me. Taking himself to the edge, and me with him. Because I'm on fire. Every inch of my body tingling. My yoga pants soaked. And all I want is release. All I want is for him to break, to come.
He's thrusting hard into me, his cock pounding into the back of my throat so that I have to concentrate to breathe through my nose, to not gag, but I want this. I crave it. I fucking love it, because it's wild and it's him and he's not holding back.
But even as the thought cuts through me, he gasps, the sound choked. He roughly pulls out of me, releasing my hair and pushing me back at the same time, so that I fall backward, my arms out to keep me from landing flat on my back.
I'm breathing hard from my position on the floor, and he's doing the same from above me. Our eyes lock, and I can see both frustration and need on his face. At first I think that he's frustrated because he couldn't reach release, but then he lowers himself to me and tugs off my pants. My chest tightens as I realize what he wants--what he's willing to try.
"You're mine, Jane," he growls as he straddles me. "Mine," he says as he kisses me. As he reaches between us and strokes me, his fingers slick as he thrusts inside, readying me.
"Say you want me."
"You know I do," I whisper, then feel the head of his cock at my core. I bite my lower lip as he pushes against me, as his eyes meet mine, and I see the flair of victory as he enters me--and then the gray shadow of defeat as he goes soft.
I press my lips together, my heart breaking for him. "Dallas, it's--"
"Okay?" His eyes flash. "Is it? Is it really?"
I start to answer but he shakes his head, and I stay silent, uncertain if we're playing the game again or if he just needs the silence. I expect him to get up. To pace and fume and work out his frustration. But as his hands start to stroke along my body, hard and possessive, I realize that it is not the world that will bear the brunt of his frustration, but me.
Slowly, sensually, he traces his fingers over my body. Grazing my shoulders. Circling my breasts. Teasing my nipples so relentlessly that I arch up in a silent, demanding claim for more.
He moves lower, his hand rubbing my belly as his mouth sucks each of my fingers, the sensation rocking through me, making me squeeze my thighs together in defense against he growing pressure building at my core.
He's pushing it aside--the failure to fuck me. He's turning it around and turning me on. Owning me. Claiming me. Proving that he deserves his reputation, and that whether he can penetrate me or not, he can still take me all the way to heaven and back.
I don't know know what's going on in his head--I don't understand what triggered this or why he tried to fuck me now. And at the moment, I don't care. I'm content to lose myself in sensation. In the feel of him. Sucking. Stroking. And then his hands are working lower and lower until he thrusts two fingers inside me and orders me to ride him.
"Tell me," he says, teasing just around my clit, but not quite touching where I so desperately want pressure. "Tell me you're mine."
"I am."
"Mine," he repeats, and this time the demand is coupled with the deep, rhythmic thrust of his fingers and the relentless tease of his thumb against my clit. "Not Bill's. Not any other man's."
I can barely think, much less talk, but I understand now. Bill. My ex-husband. A man Dallas knows has fucked me. Has been inside me.
I want to tell him that he's an idiot. That I love him, not Bill, and I always have. That I want him inside me--I do--but if it never happens I'm okay because I want him more. As much of him as he can give me, in every way he needs me.
I want to say all of that, but my body is too overwhelmed, the pressure rising too fast. And when I finally tumble over the edge, sound bursts from my lips and I can say only the words he wants to hear. "Yes," I scream, hoping that he understands I mean everything. "Yes, I'm yours."
Afterward, we lay together, breathing hard, holding each other. I'm not sure what to say--or even if I should say anything at all. But this is Dallas, and I can neither lie to him nor keep things from him, even though I know that there are still things he is keeping from me.
I roll over and prop myself up on an elbow so that I can face him. "I am, you know."
"What?"
"Yours," I say. "I'm yours now, and I've always been yours." I lean forward and brush a kiss over his lips. "I was never Bill's. And maybe that's horrible because it's so unfair to him, but it's true. I wasn't his. I couldn't be his."
"And yet he's had a part of you that I never have."
"But you have." We were together countless times in captivity.
"I had the girl," Dallas says. "Bill had the woman."
I roll my eyes. "Don't be a Neanderthal, Dallas. I've slept with more guys than you and Bill. And you've slept with enough women to populate a small country. But you're the only one who has my heart."
"And you mine." He sighs deeply. "And I'm sorry. I am. I know I'm acting like a fucking caveman. I just want--well, I want everything."
"I know." I curl up beside him again, idly stroking my fingers over his chest hair. "I do, too."
He presses a kiss to my temple, and the moment is warm and sweet and wonderful.
Naturally, I can't just keep my mouth shut. "That wasn't all that upset you, though."
He chuckles. "No. I'd say that nothing your ex brought with him sat well with me."
"There's no stopping it, you know."
"I know."
I have to smile, because I'd been more than a little cryptic, but I knew Dallas would understand. We may have been out of sync earlier with the whole Fiona fiasco, but we're back now, and he's followed my thoughts perfectly.
"Bill and WORR and the UN and the FBI are all going to do what they're going to do," he says, then shifts position so he can press a kiss to my forehead. "And Deliverance has to do what it has to do."
"I get that," I say, then frown. "Have you found anything? The team, I mean. Ortega was a huge lead. Even dead he can help, right? So have you found anything about our kidnappers?"
I
shift in time to see his expression go hard. "Dallas?"
"No," he finally says, his voice oddly firm. "We haven't found one concrete thing."
I study his expression. "What is it? What aren't you telling me?"
He drags his fingers through his hair. "What aren't I telling you?" he repeats. "For one thing, I'm not telling you how frustrated the whole thing makes me."
I nod; that makes sense. Deliverance had gotten so close--hell, Dallas had gotten so close. And Ortega's death stopped the investigation cold. "Maybe you should work together. Deliverance. WORR. You're both hunting the same people."
"No." His tone leaves no room for argument.
I press anyway. "Why not?" I know the answer, but I need to hear him say it.
"Deliverance doesn't operate like WORR. They want to prosecute."
"And you?" My mouth is so dry I can barely get out the words.
"I want to execute."
I swallow, then nod slowly as I push myself to my feet. I'm naked, and I grab his shirt off the floor and put it on, feeling just a little too exposed at the moment.
This room has an adjacent private garden, and I walk toward the curtained French doors and push the drapes aside enough that I can slip through. I'm sandwiched there, my hand to the glass and my back to the curtains, when he joins me.
"I know it upsets you," he says as I keep my eyes fixed on the morning glories blooming outside the window. "I know you think it's reckless. Stupid. That we don't have the right to play judge and jury. I understand all that," he says as he softly presses a hand between my shoulder blades, "but I have to. I can't find them and look at them and not destroy them."
I say nothing.
He sighs, and in the glass I can see the pain reflected on his face. "Even if it hurts you, baby, I have to. They stole part of our lives. I need to take it back. I have to," he repeats. "I need you to understand that."
I close my eyes, draw a breath, and then turn to face him. "You know what I went through. How those men Daddy hired went in and tried to rescue you. How the place exploded and we thought you were dead."
"It was a setup, Jane. We know that now."
"Doesn't change the way I felt. Doesn't erase the wound in my heart that just kept bleeding for those weeks I thought you were gone forever."
"I'm standing right beside you." He takes my hand and twines his fingers with mine. "And I'm not letting go."