by J. Kenner
"I know," she said, and he knew she meant their family and the idiotic law that turned anything sexual between them into a goddamn crime. But there was more to it than that. Because even if there was no taboo, she still deserved a hell of a lot more than a man like him.
"But the thing is--" She bit her plump lower lip. "The thing is that I don't want to just walk away. Not without trying to be friends. But I can't handle this. We have to make it stop. This tension. This wanting."
He cocked his head, a little bit amused and a little bit intrigued. "What exactly do you suggest?"
Her head was tilted so that she was looking more at the floor than at him. "I want you to fuck me," she said softly. Except that couldn't be what she said.
Then she lifted her head and he saw the boldness in her eyes. And the heat. "We need to fuck each other out of our systems."
--
I want you to fuck me.
Dallas clenched the steering wheel tighter as he flew up the 9A highway on his way to Westchester. It was still early enough that the road wasn't clogged with rush hour traffic, and his Spyder had more than enough zip to let him weave in and out of the scattered cars that blocked his path.
We need to fuck each other out of our systems.
Christ, she'd really said that. She really wanted it.
Hell, so did he.
Need curled through him, and he pressed on the accelerator, jacking the car up by another ten miles per hour, as if he could out-race this persistent craving. He couldn't, of course. It would dog him until he had Jane, which meant that it would dog him forever.
He thought of how she'd looked when he'd said no.
"Dallas, I know it sounds crazy, but--"
"If that's the only way we can get past this and be friends, then I guess we won't be friends."
She'd flinched, as if he'd slapped her. Hell, in a way he supposed he had.
"You don't mean that." Her voice was low. Urgent. "You know I'm right."
At that, he did take a step toward her. "So what if you are? It's still not happening. I'm not a man you want in your bed. You may think you do, but you don't. I promise you that."
She'd lifted her chin and looked at him with fire in her eyes. "Because you like it rough? Because you like it dirty? Don't look so shocked, brother. I have ears. And most of the time, you're the best gossip in town."
"Like it? That's the way I need it." He'd grabbed her shoulders. "And I am not--do you hear me?--not dragging you down with me."
"Dallas--"
He'd heard the break in her voice and wondered if maybe he'd gotten through to her.
"Just go," he'd said. "Just turn around, walk out the door, and go."
He ran the scene over and over in his head, wishing each time that the ending was different. But like every other woman in his life, she'd obeyed.
Unlike every other woman, she'd walked away.
Fuck.
He'd left Manhattan in a crappy mood, and the mood still lingered as he pulled into the drive of the perfectly restored nineteenth-century Westchester County mansion. He stalked to the door, realizing he probably should have called first, and rang the bell.
He expected Adele. But it was Colin who answered the door. "Well, Dallas. So good to see you, son." He stepped back so Dallas could enter, then clapped him on the back. "I've been thinking we should make plans to meet and catch up."
"I'd like that." Before the kidnapping, Colin had fallen off the family radar. Not surprising since the court had terminated his parental rights, and Eli had adopted Jane.
But when Jane begged to be closer to her birth father after the ordeal, Colin had slid back into the Sykes's orbit. He was still mostly estranged from Eli and Lisa, but both Jane and Dallas made it a point to see the man.
Originally, Dallas had simply wanted a conduit into Jane's life during those early years when she'd been too raw to see or talk to him. Over time, though, he and Colin had developed a genuine friendship, and Dallas was grateful that Colin had never become aware of the strange, yet undeniable, sexual tension between him and Adele.
Now, he followed Colin into his ex-wife's sitting room, professionally decorated in hues of ivory and beige.
"Adele didn't mention you were coming."
"She didn't know," Dallas admitted. "You heard about Ortega?"
"The suicide?" Colin shook his head sadly. "Jane told me."
"It's been weighing on me," Dallas said, which was true. "I thought I'd talk to Adele," he added, which was not. Talk, in fact, was the last thing on his mind.
"Well, your timing is perfect. I was just on my way out."
He knew that out of politeness he should urge Colin to stay a bit longer. He didn't. Right then, he wasn't in the mood to be polite.
"Colin?" Adele's voice drifted in from the back of the house followed a moment later by the woman herself. She wore a silk robe tied around her waist and, from the way the material clung to her breasts and hips, not a thing on underneath it. "I thought you'd gone. Did you--Oh. Dallas! What a lovely surprise."
She came closer, then pressed a palm to his arm as she air-kissed him.
"I'm on my way out now," Colin said. "I'll see you next week." A flicker of a smile touched his lips as he skimmed his eyes over her.
When the door was shut and locked behind him, Dallas raised his brow.
"What?" she asked innocently. "I told you we still sleep together sometimes. Just because we couldn't survive marriage doesn't mean the sex was bad."
"I didn't come to talk about you and your ex," he said. "I came because--"
"Of Ortega. Yes, I overheard." She crossed the room to the sofa and sat, then indicated that he should join her. He did, sitting slightly sideways so he could look at her directly.
She did the same, and as she turned, her robe shifted, revealing one creamy thigh. And almost revealing more. Though in her fifties now, Adele had stayed in incredible shape. He sometimes wondered how much of it was real and how much was surgical. She once told him that she'd been in a car accident in her twenties and had done several rounds of plastic surgery. For all he knew, she'd kept it up over the years.
"But it's not really Ortega that's bothering you." She looked straight at him, as if daring him to argue. "It's Jane."
He didn't deny it. He didn't say anything.
Adele tilted her head to the side as she studied his face. "I'm right." She scooted closer to him, making the robe ride up just a bit more, so that when he glanced down he could see the shadow at the apex of her thighs. "She's why you're here. Why you're with me."
He lifted his chin so he could meet her eyes and saw the hint of a smile.
"Did you sleep with her?" she asked.
"Christ, Adele."
She pressed her hand lightly on his knee. He felt the weight of it through his slacks. The heat of it.
And right then, he absolutely hated himself.
The fucked-up reality was that he had come for this. Not to talk about Ortega. Not to rely on her professional expertise to help him with Jane. But for this. Because he'd wanted the release. Because she was the one woman he'd had in his bed who knew what he really wanted. Who he really wanted.
The one woman who was kinky enough to indulge his fucked-up fantasies.
But now that he was here, the real truth was undeniable: He didn't really want this. He didn't really want her. Not now. Never again.
And the weight of her hand on his skin seemed overbearing.
"It's a simple question," she said.
He pushed her hand aside and stood. "No. I didn't sleep with her."
"Mmm." She turned on the sofa and stretched her arms out on either side of the couch. She was still covered, but the sash of the robe had loosened, and it seemed to Dallas that even her wardrobe was participating in her effort to taunt him. To remind him that he'd driven all the way out here because he was so screwed up he'd thought another woman could take his mind off Jane.
"You may not have slept with her," Adele said. "
But you wanted to."
It was a statement, not a question.
He answered anyway. "We're just friends. Or, at least, we're trying to be."
"You're not just friends, mon cheri. Any man who's slept with his sister isn't ever going to be just her friend again. You may not have sat on my couch, but you've seen enough therapists over the years to know that."
"Fine." He crossed the room and leaned against the wall. "We're trying to overcome our past. We miss each other. We're trying to find our way to some version of normal."
"Who do you think you're talking to? That's bullshit and we both know it."
"Adele--"
"No." She stood up and started walking toward him, the robe loosening with every step. "You want her. That's why you came." She was only steps away, the sash undone, the robe open and flowing around her. Her breasts were small but high, and her body was toned, sleek and slim like a dancer. "Let me give her to you."
He told himself he didn't want to go there. His cock, now uncomfortably tight in his pants, argued the point.
"Stop being contrary," she said softly. "You know I'm right. It's her who's got you hard, not me."
He couldn't deny the truth. And as she leaned back and let the silk slide off her shoulders to pool on the ground, he knew he should get the fuck out of there, but right then he couldn't seem to work up the impetus to move.
She tilted her head up and smiled at him, her eyes filled with mischief. Then she gently cupped her hand over his cock, so goddamn hard it was painful.
"Fuck me," she whispered. "Imagine I'm her, and fuck me."
He wanted to--he hated himself for how much he wanted to. He wanted Jane in his head. He wanted to imagine that he was buried inside her.
But no way was he going there. She deserved better. And, dammit, so did he.
Roughly, he pushed Adele away, right as she was tugging down his zipper. "Dammit, Adele, I told you no. I'm not doing this. We're not doing this."
For a moment, her eyes flashed with anger. Then her face calmed, and she smiled. "Good," she said, as if he was one of her goddamn patients. "You're making progress. But you still haven't fully dealt with the fact that she's never going to be more to you than your sister."
She ran her hand lightly over the curve of his jaw. "Until you let her go, Dallas, you're never going to heal."
"He told me to go."
I'm sitting at Brody and Stacey's kitchen table sipping coffee and reliving my moment of extreme mortification.
"Well, what did you expect?" Brody asks. "That he'd strip you naked and bend you over his desk?"
I try very hard not to whimper simply from the mental picture of that very thing.
"For goodness sakes, Gregory." Brody's given name is Gregory Allan Brody, but god forbid anyone but Stacey should ever try to use it. "You're the one who put this crazy plan in her head. Now you're saying you expected it to backfire?"
Since Stacey is currently my ally, I don't point out that she had seconded the crazy plan.
"That's not what I meant," he says. "But come on, Jane. I've never even met the guy and I know he won't do anything to hurt you. Not on purpose. And you aren't just two people deciding to have a good time. He's your brother, which makes it a big fucking deal, no pun intended."
"We don't share a drop of blood. I don't care what the law or our parents or all of society says. It's stupid."
"Doesn't change the fact. Doesn't erase the taboo."
I glance up at Stacey and then over to Brody. "Then let me just second what your wife said. You're the one who suggested this in the first place."
"And I stand by my suggestion. I'm just saying that my take on this guy is that he's a gentleman--"
"Do you read the tabloids?"
He narrows his eyes at my outburst. "As far as you're concerned, he's going to tread carefully."
I resist the urge to throw my arms up in defeat. "So where does that leave me?"
He spreads his hands and shrugs, looking more like a Jewish mother than a half-Irish bartender-turned-dom. "You want a fuck, you're going to have to make the first move."
I scowl. Because frankly, I thought I had.
--
"There's my pretty girl!" Grams, my dad's eighty-year-old mother, holds out her hands to me and urges me over.
She moved to Florida three years ago after Gramps died, and I don't see her nearly often enough. Now I hurry into her arms and give her a big hug. She seems more fragile now, and the knowledge that I will probably lose her soon keeps my smile from blooming all the way.
She peers at me with eyes that seem tiny now, lost in a wrinkled face that has never seen plastic surgery. "These are my battle scars," she told me once after a friend pointed out that Grams could easily afford the best. "Do you know how much work it was to live a good life? Why should I hide it?"
"What's that frown for?" she asks me now, her hands cupping my cheeks.
I shake my head and glance over at my mom. "I just miss you, I guess." I lean over and give her another big hug.
"Well, that's because you don't visit often enough. Millions of dollars in a trust fund and you can't hop a plane to Florida once in a while?"
She's grinning when she says it, and I know she's only teasing. But she's right. And I make a promise right then and there to visit more often.
"Where's the guest of honor?" I ask. Poppy is Grams's father-in-law, and although he'll be one hundred years old tomorrow, he still does the New York Times crossword puzzle every Sunday, even though his hand shakes too much for him to write the answers in himself.
"Your dad told Becca to take a little break and took him down the boardwalk to the beach," my mom tells me. Becca is Poppy's live-in nurse and crossword helper, and has been for the past twenty years. Which pretty much makes her one of the family.
"Oh. I guess I'll go catch up to them." I look around the room. There are five bungalows on Barclay Isle along with the main house, which is where we are now. It's the most understated of all the Sykes family homes, which isn't saying much. It's six thousand square feet with walls that actually open so that the entire downstairs can be converted into an outdoor living area that flows out onto the flagstone patio.
I've always loved it here. The water is beautiful and warm. The sky is blue, and there's privacy. So much privacy.
Even on a weekend like this where there are over a dozen people in the house, there's still always room to get away. As far as I can tell, that's what people are doing, because while I see my great-uncle talking with his oldest son by the window, I don't see my uncle's wife or any of their three grandchildren, all of which are about my age.
I wave to them, but don't pause to talk as I head toward the patio, intending to follow the boardwalk until I find Dad and Poppy.
My mother's voice stops me. "You should grab a bite before the staff takes the buffet away."
I nod, then apologize again. "I didn't mean to be so late," I say. It's already after noon. I dropped my bag at my bungalow--the one I've used ever since my parents said I was old enough to have my own space--and then headed to the main house. "I left New York before dawn, but I had to wait for the helicopter in Norfolk. Mechanical issue."
"You're here now," Grams says. "That's what matters."
I smile, thinking how comfortable it is to just be hanging with family. How different than the way it felt with Dallas at our game night. He's family, too, but it wasn't easy like this.
No, Dallas Sykes is in a category all by himself. Brothers with Benefits, I think, then curse my own stupid, sick sense of humor.
I draw in a breath, because now that he's on my mind, I have to ask. "What about Dallas?"
"He's been here all morning," Mom says. "I think he was disappointed you weren't here yet. He went back to his bungalow about an hour ago. Said he had to make some calls."
I nod. "Did Mrs. Foster come with you?"
Mom smiles. "Of course. And Liam's coming this afternoon, too."
I don't even try t
o hide my pleasure. I haven't talked to Liam in weeks, and it's been even longer since I've seen him, and I really do miss him terribly.
"What about Archie?" He and Mrs. Foster are the two family employees with the longest tenure.
"He's here, too, of course. How would your brother survive without him?"
Frankly, I think Dallas would survive just fine. But I don't say it. Dallas may be a fuckup, but there's more to him than he likes to show, I'm certain of it. What I don't understand is why he's so willing to let people see the screw-up and not the competent man.
That, however, isn't a question I'm going to contemplate right now.
"I'm going to go meet up with Dad and Poppy and then go catch some sun and read." The idea sounds like heaven, actually. I don't get the chance to veg as much as I'd like, and I'm looking forward to a few hours of downtime.
"Have fun. Dinner's at six. Poppy eats early," she adds in response to my raised eyebrow.
"And the party's tomorrow at noon, right?"
She tells me it is and I give her another hug, and then one more for Grams before I grab a couple of wine coolers for my tote bag. Next, I head onto the patio and then over to the wooden boardwalk. I'd taken the opportunity to change when I'd dropped my luggage at my bungalow, so I'm already set for my beach outing.
I have a paperback in my tote bag, along with a towel, a water bottle, and some sunscreen. And now I have the wine coolers, too, which is always a plus. I'm wearing a pink V-neck T-shirt over my bikini top and a scarf wrapped around my hips like a sarong over the bathing suit bottom. I take off my flip-flops and tuck them in the tote, because it's much easier to walk on the beach in bare feet. I'm not worried about splinters. The boardwalk is well-trafficked, and after so many years, it's as smooth as stone.
I see my dad at the end of the boardwalk standing beside Poppy's wheelchair and hurry down to them and give them both a hug. Poppy's smile is wide and toothless, and he reaches out a shaking hand for me. I take it, then wish him a happy birthday.
I stand there for a while, just talking with my dad and great-grandfather, and the conversation is light and easy. For a while after the kidnapping, I was uncomfortable around my dad. I'd been so angry that he'd kept the authorities out that it had caused a rift between us. He'd seen the change in me, of course, but I'd never explained myself, and I know he thinks that I was just dealing with the horror of being kidnapped.
