by J. Kenner
But we're mostly past that now. Not one hundred percent, but pretty damn close.
Right now, though, he's not inside me, even though he's moved back to the bed. And I'm starting to realize that unless he's changed his approach to sex, he's totally not going in that direction.
"Dammit, Dallas, what are you doing?" I ask when he lifts his head from between my legs and aims a slow, sexy smile at me. "Or rather, what is your tongue doing and your cock not doing?"
His low laughter seems to rumble through me. "I told you, baby. Tonight is all about you."
"Then do what I ask and fuck me. Please," I add, then reach down and grab his hair so that he has no choice but to slide up my body when I tug. "You won't hurt me," I whisper, then lightly kiss the corner of his mouth. "Or if you do, I promise I'll enjoy it."
I can tell by the twitch of his lips and the gleam in his eye that any additional argument he puts up will be only for show. And when he lowers his head and slides down my body, I tremble and spread my legs wider, relishing the feel of him, the touch of him. And losing myself in the anticipation of what is to come.
Roughly, he grabs my thighs, tugging me down the bed as he wraps my legs around his hips. My sensitive pussy rubs against his cock and I arch up, my body aching for more.
"Fuck, yes," he says, and there's no longer any humor in his voice. Just need. Desperation. The tip of his cock teases me, sliding over my clit, dipping inside me just enough that I almost cry out in frustration.
I squirm against him, pleasure rising in my body, electricity swirling in my belly and between my legs. I clench the sheet and shift my hips as his cock strokes my clit.
"Please, Dallas. I'm begging. Now, please, now."
He growls an unintelligible response and then grasps my hips, pulling me toward him as he thrusts forward. I'm desperately wet, and he enters me deep in one hard, violent thrust that has me crying out as he fills me, then pulls out and slams into me again.
It's hard and hot and wild and exactly what I wanted even though with each tug on my hips he slides me down the sheet, irritating my abraded shoulder. But I don't care. On the contrary, I relish the pain. It underscores the moment, marking the return of a reality in which I belong to Dallas, wholly and completely. Because the pain means that I'm here.
The pain means that I'm alive.
And I never feel more alive than in Dallas's arms.
Again and again he thrusts inside me. "I'm close," he says. "Touch yourself, baby. I want to watch you play with your clit--and I want you to come with me."
"Yes." It's the only word I can manage, but I obey. I slide my fingers down, then brush against his cock as I stroke myself. It's wildly erotic, and a shudder rips through me, pushing me closer to the edge and then, yes, all the way over so that I cry out, my body tightening convulsively around his cock, taking him all the way, too, so that we both explode at the same time.
I swear I see stars, and when I finally come back to earth, he is on the bed on top of me, and we are both breathing hard. "Oh, baby," he murmurs, then eases over so he doesn't crush me. "I love you," he says, and to me his voice sounds like it's underscored by chimes.
Chimes?
And then it's not chimes that I hear, but Dallas's low curse as he bolts off the bed and rips into his jeans pocket in search of his phone.
I prop myself up on my elbows. I'm about to give him shit for his lack of sexy time manners, but then I see the expression on his face.
"That's Liam," he says, and meets my eyes. And in that second, I feel a shift. Neither of us know what Liam is going to say, but we both know it won't be good, and that this sweet, warm moment is about to evaporate completely.
I sit all the way up and reach for Dallas, then hold his wrist as he answers the call.
"Jane's with me. You're on speaker. What's happened?"
"We were working on Jane's phone when it received a series of texts."
For a minute, I'm confused. What's the big deal about my phone getting some texts? Then, of course, my stomach twists and knots.
I get it.
I understand.
"She sent them," I say. "The bitch who attacked me."
"Forward them," Dallas orders.
"Doing that right now," Liam says, and only seconds later, Dallas's phone dings to signal incoming text messages. Dallas opens the app and bile rises in my throat as I see the words that pop up on the screen:
Dallas, I could have done so much worse. I didn't, because I knew it would upset you.
But that's not really fair, is it? Because you've upset me.
How can you be with her when you should be with me? How can you touch her when you should be touching me?
I can forgive you because I love you, and you deserve a second chance.
But I will only bend so far before I break.
I know you don't really love her--how could you when I am the one who fills your heart? Who belongs at your side?
But maybe you do care for her. She's your sister. She's family. And you two shared a traumatic past.
You see? I understand and forgive. To a point.
So if you care for her, leave her.
Because the next time I meet her on the street, I'll truly end this. I have to, my love. How else can I protect what is mine?
I read the words once, twice. I know that Dallas will do everything he can to protect me. I know that Liam and Quince and the rest of the Deliverance guys are doing everything they can to find my attacker.
But I also know that she's whacked. That she truly thinks that Dallas is hers.
And that she has just flat-out sworn to kill whoever stands between them.
"Whoever," of course, is me.
"That. Fucking. Bitch." Dallas's voice is cold and hard and even. If I weren't already scared by the damn text, his tone alone would have terrified me. "Track it," he says to Liam. "Find her."
And then he hangs up. Just ends the call. He tosses the phone across the bed. It slides off, and lands with a thud on the carpeting. As far as I can tell, he doesn't even notice.
Slowly, he stands. Paces. He's like a caged cat, and it's only when I realize that I've slid backward in the bed and have pulled my knees up to my chest and am holding the sheet under my chin that I realize just how on the edge I am from watching him. Not a cat, I think wildly. A spring, wound tight.
And even as that metaphor enters my head, the explosion I'd been anticipating comes. He topples the armchair in the corner. He sweeps his arm over the dresser, sending small boxes flying. He puts his fist through the drywall beside the closet door.
But when he heads into the bathroom, I race after him, terrified that he'll punch the mirror and slice himself to ribbons.
"Dallas, don't!"
I catch him right on the threshold, and he whips around to look at me. In the same motion, he grabs my shoulders and slams me back against the wall. For an instant, I see the wild fury in his eyes. Not at me, but at the world.
And then I can't see his eyes at all, because he's too close, his mouth hot on mine. He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank my arms above my head, then holds them there, his hand cupping my wrists even as his mouth slams hard against mine.
He needs this--I know he does. And, dammit, so do I. The feel of him against me. The safe reality that it is Dallas touching me. Not fear. Not the world. And definitely not the Woman.
I want what he is taking, this demanding, heated longing. This passionate assault.
And yet despite my desperation, I can't handle it. I'm too sore, my body still too battered, and though I try to hold it back, I whimper as my abraded shoulder sings with pain, and he immediately shuts down, his anger buried fast and completely by his concern for me.
It's such a simple thing, and yet it fills me with so much joy that I wrap my arms around him and kiss him tenderly.
When we break the kiss, he looks at me softly, his hands stroking my hair. "You're mine, Jane. Don't ever leave me again."
There's a h
ardness in his words, but I know it's not meant for me. This isn't really about me walking away. It's his challenge to a fucked-up universe. It's his threat to the Woman. It's his way of telling me and the world that he can't bear to lose me again.
And though I understand all of that, the answer that comes to my lips is simple and personal. I look into his eyes and say softly, "Don't ever lie to me again."
He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides. "You're still angry."
"No. Maybe a little." I frown, because I'm honestly not sure. "Does it matter?" I ask. "The bottom line is, I love you."
"Say that again."
I raise my hand and cup his cheek in my palm. He hasn't shaved today--maybe not even since yesterday--and his face feels scratchy against my skin. "I love you," I say, and I watch as my words light his face. And then I frown as I see the shadow touch his eyes.
"Dallas?"
"I was so goddamn scared of losing you."
I swallow, then nod. I know that he's talking not only about the attack, but about the way I stormed out of our apartment. But that one's not a real fear, because we both know that I could never have stayed away. Not really. I tried before, after all, and I failed. Thank god, I failed, because now I'm with Dallas.
But the other fear--that I will be taken from him--is real, and it terrifies me, too.
I tilt my head to look up at him, wishing that he would say consoling things. That he would begin talking and tell me that it's all going to be okay, that there is no one out there to hurt me. But that's not going to happen. I have to face this. And I'm so damn grateful that I don't have to face it alone.
"You really think it was the Woman, don't you." My words are a question, but I already know the answer.
"How much did you see? Did you see her wearing the mask?"
I nod. "But it could have been anyone," I add lamely. "That text could have come from someone who thinks that killing me would erase some horrible sin."
"Could be, but it wasn't. And you know it wasn't."
I nod again. I know the truth. I just want to wrap myself tight in a warm blanket of denial.
"We have to find her. We have to keep you safe."
I close my eyes, then simply breathe. "She could have killed me then. She said so in that damn text. Why didn't she?"
"You know why."
He's right. I do. "She's playing with us." I mull over my own words, not sure how to say this, but knowing that I owe him the truth. "I'm scared," I admit. "I don't want to be, but I am. And that pisses me off, because that bitch already took too much from me. I don't want to give her my peace of mind, too."
"Jane." He reaches for me, but I turn away, not yet finished.
"I'm scared," I repeat. "But it's not just for myself. You're the one she's really after. You're the one she's going to want to hurt."
"But, baby, you're missing the point. She does want to hurt me. And she knows that the surest way to do that is to go through you."
His words chill me, and I hug myself and nod. He's right, of course. Dear god, he's absolutely right.
I take a deep breath and force myself to think rationally. "She thinks there's something between you two and I'm the thing that's keeping you apart."
"There's not. You're not."
That actually makes me smile. Almost. I tilt my head back, take a deep breath, and say, "Well, duh." Then I press on. "But what's going to happen when she's forced to realize that? It's going to be bad, Dallas. We have to find out who she is."
"Believe me when I say we're working on that."
I nod, understanding that we're working on it means Quince is working on it. Or more accurately, Quince is working on Colin.
I draw in a breath. "I need to see him."
"Jane--no."
There's a tightness to his voice that I know is worry, but I shake my head, dismissing it. "I have to. If he really did this, I'll know. I need to know for sure. Whatever little bits of doubt are left in my mind, I need them erased. Dallas, he's my father--"
"Is he?"
"Don't play that game with me. If there's anyone who knows the import of blood ties versus legal ties, it's you and me."
He holds up his hands in defeat. "Jane, I--"
"I know. You want to protect me. We've been down that road before. Protect me all you want," I add with a magnanimous smile. "But just don't stop me."
If I'd had any doubts that Deliverance was a secret organization, they would have faded by the time we reached the actual building.
Dallas took the most convoluted route possible. In taxis. On the subway. By foot. For all that trouble, I thought the place should be a palace. Especially since I've seen a Deliverance hub before, and that space probably rivaled the CIA in cutting edge tech and equipment.
But we're not standing in front of anything cutting edge. Instead, I'm staring at a ramshackle old grocery store in East Harlem.
I lift a brow as I look from the building to Dallas. "Seriously?"
But he just smiles and takes my hand as he leads me into the building. It's under renovation, and we move through the construction zone and into the small airspace between this and the next building. We enter that building through an emergency exit that opens into a stairwell, descend, then emerge in a small basement. The walls are concrete and smell of mildew. It's cloying, and I'm starting to get a little claustrophobic.
But then he strides past me and punches in a code on a hidden keypad. The doors creak open on mechanized metal hinges, releasing a hum of activity--the buzz of computers, the tap of keyboards, the low murmurs of voices. Dallas turns, holding out his hand for me. I walk the two steps to meet him, then put my hand in his.
"Welcome to the new Op Center," he says, and we step inside together.
The moment we cross the threshold, I see the change in him. Before, his focus had been solely on me, as if I were the thing that centered him. And while I don't feel abandoned or slighted, in this busy, bustling room, he seems to fill the space, growing even taller, more powerful, more focused. And considering Dallas has always had the air of command about him--even in his most playboy of personas--that's saying a lot.
I swivel my head, taking in the entire area--the banks of computers, the work desks, the dry-erase boards that cover entire walls and are filled with colorful notes and tacked up pictures. Two men I don't recognize sit in front of monitors, one talking on the phone, the other wearing headphones and bouncing slightly to some tune I can't hear while his fingers fly across a keyboard. I see Liam in the next room, separated from this one by a glass window. It appears to be a conference room, and he's speaking to someone who stands just out of sight.
The room is a mixture of tech and the almost cliched feel of old detective movies. It smells of paper and sweat and stale fast food, and it's one-hundred-percent obvious that Dallas loves it here.
He's in his element, I think, and though I have always known that the kidnapping profoundly changed both of us, this is the first time that I truly see how far the ripples of that change have extended. This secret career that has been a driving force in his life. And though it started as a way to find our kidnappers, I know him well enough to realize it's now more than that. It's about us, but it's also about the others. It's about justice. And, yes, it's about the adrenaline rush of the chase. The danger. And the thrill of moments like this when he steps into a room in which every person is working toward that common goal of saving a life.
And then there is me. I've made a career out of writing about kidnappings, victims, and the like. Articles, books. Soon even a movie.
In other words, our trauma has become our art has become our passion. I don't know if that's good or bad, but I do know that it's our reality. And if there is one thing that I have learned, it's that you can't escape reality.
Dallas's posture shifts, and he cocks his head, his eyes narrowed in question. "Ready?"
"No," I say, but I move forward anyway, letting him lead me to where Liam has joined the two unfamiliar men,
who stand as we approach, the red-haired man yanking off his headphones and tossing them onto the counter so that a faint drumbeat drifts up into the air.
"This is Noah," Dallas says, as I shake the hand of the man who'd extricated himself from the headphones. "And this is Anthony."
"Tony," the dark-haired man corrects, also offering a hand.
I don't have to ask if these men are good at what they do. Not only do their sharp, competent expressions telegraph as much, but I also know that Dallas wouldn't work with anyone who isn't at the top of their game.
"We're so glad you're okay," Noah says, then winces a little. "Well, that you weren't permanently hurt, I mean. So, you're here to talk about what you remember from the attack, right? Anything you can think of. We've gone door to door already, but the witnesses we've located haven't given us much.
"I'm still hoping to identify the van. We're still obtaining and analyzing footage from cams between the address and the dump site at Riverside Park," he adds to Dallas. "I'm not giving up yet, but so far we've got shit."
"Keep on it," Dallas says.
"Do you remember anything about the driver?" Tony asks me.
"No, I was--"
"Bro, she's here to talk to Colin, not slide into the hot seat. Not yet, anyway." The deep voice came from behind me, and I turn to see Liam. He holds out his arms. "So glad to see you up and about, baby girl. You gave us all a scare."
"Unintentional, I assure you," I say dryly. I've known Liam for almost my whole life, and along with Brody, he's one of my absolute best friends. His mom was our housekeeper growing up, so he's been around me and Dallas forever, and we three were an unbreakable trio up until the day Daddy sent Dallas off to London for boarding school.
Frowning, I glance around the room at these men. "It's not even dawn yet. Don't you guys ever sleep?"
Liam laughs. "In shifts, yeah. But when Dallas called, I got Noah and Tony out of the crib. I thought you would want to meet them."
"Definitely," I say, then smile at the guys. "Sorry to rouse you early."