Dirtiest Secret

by J. Kenner

  She was laid out like a feast for him, and he leaned forward to take a nibble, grazing his teeth over her tight nipple, and then sucking on her breast. She squirmed in pleasure, and the soft noises she made only fueled his desire.

  He wanted to taste the rest of her, and he started to slowly drift down her body, biting and kissing as he moved lower toward heaven. As her gasps and sighs became more desperate.

  She arched up as he teased her navel, and he could make out her soft, whimpered words. "Don't stop. Please, please don't stop."

  He had no intention of stopping. He'd wanted this, needed it, for years.

  Hell, forever.

  He kept his head down, his attention on the soft skin of her abdomen as he kissed his way lower. But he felt her fingers when she twined them in his hair. When she pushed him downward, urging him to move faster, to taste her and take her higher.

  Which was exactly what he intended to do.

  He slid lower on the bed, then teased her inner thighs with the tip of his tongue. He held her tight as she writhed, obviously coming undone from the pleasure he was giving her.

  Slowly, he kissed his way up, then laved her pussy with his tongue. She tasted sweet and smelled of sex, and in the moment when he closed his mouth to suck her clit, he remembered the first time he'd done that very thing. Her trusting innocence, his fumbling exploration. And the wild, incredible union they'd felt when she'd exploded in his arms--and they'd both managed to escape the dark. Even if only for a moment.

  Now he knew his way around a woman's body better, but no woman had tasted like Jane. Had responded like Jane. And as he teased her with his tongue, he thrust two fingers inside her, filling her, urging her, making her struggle against his hold on her as she tried to ride up to passion.

  And then he felt it. That distinctive tremor as she cried out and bucked and exploded beneath him, and oh, holy crap, the look on her face. Passion. Pleasure. Bone deep satisfaction.

  He was the one who had given her that. And he couldn't understand how anything as exceptionally right as this moment could be wrong.

  "Dallas," she murmured meeting his eyes. "Hi. And wow."

  He chuckled, amused, as he moved up her body, and then let her taste her own desire as he kissed her hard and deep.

  "More," she whispered when he broke the kiss. "Please. I want you inside me."

  He could see the heat spike in her eyes, and he could feel the way his cock tightened with just the thought of it. The wonderful, incredible thought of it. Hell, he could already imagine what it would feel like to bury himself inside her and he was so damn hard right now--and she was so incredibly wet--that he could probably fill her up with just one, hard thrust.

  And here she was, spreading her legs wider, opening herself to him. She was ready, so ready, and he had longed for this moment for more than half his life.

  He had to do it. He had to take her.

  Urgently, he moved over her, hard and ready. The feel of her against the tip of his cock was beyond incredible, and as she bit her lip and urged him to please, please hurry, he used his fingers to open her. He was trying to keep control. Trying to overcome that urge to just thrust hard toward heaven. He knew better. He knew he wanted to take it slow.

  He pushed against her, just a little bit--and oh, Christ, she felt so good, and he held her hips so that he could go deeper, and then--

  And then he lost it.

  Lost everything.

  Control of himself. Of the moment.

  Lost his goddamn erection.

  A wild burst of fury and self-loathing shot through him and he lurched back off the bed.

  "Dallas? No, please." She propped herself up on her elbows. "We need this. Please don't stop. Please."

  "This?" He cupped his soft, useless dick and watched her eyes widen from the harsh tone of his voice.

  At first she only looked confused, but then she twisted so she could see him better. She was looking at his face at first. Then her eyes flicked down and he saw awareness--and shock--bloom on her beautiful face.

  "Is this really what you want?" He couldn't keep the self-loathing out of his voice.

  "Dallas--" He heard the pain in his name, and the confusion.

  "I thought--I'd hoped. Oh, fuck, Jane, they destroyed me. But I kept you in my head when they--" He couldn't say it. Hell, he couldn't even think about what the Woman had done to him.

  He shuddered from the memory, then pushed it away. "All these years, you've been my light." He thought of Adele telling him that if he wanted to actually manage to fuck her, then he should think of Jane, because surely he'd keep his erection.

  But he wouldn't try. He would never sully Jane like that.

  And now it turned out that even Jane herself wasn't enough for him to keep it up.

  He shook his head, disgusted with himself. Embarrassed. Lost.

  "Dallas, it's okay. It's not--"

  "What? Important? The hell it's not." He drew in a breath, then laughed at the dark irony of it all. "You think we should fuck each other out of our systems? Well, guess what. It's never going to happen. Can't happen."

  He clenched his hands at his sides, trying to forestall the urge to put his fist through the wall out of sheer frustration. "I'm broken and I'm your brother. And I can't be the man for you."

  He didn't wait to hear what she had to say. He didn't wait to see her expression.

  He just turned and went into the bathroom, then shut the door behind him. He turned the lock, then slid down to sit on the floor.

  Right then, that was about the best he could manage.

  And the award for worst handling of a moment ever goes to me.

  I frown as I hesitate outside the bathroom door, my hand poised to knock. I don't though. Because I don't know what to say.

  I sigh, hating myself for being sideswiped and confused. For not realizing he'd lost his erection and assuming he was just taunting me again.

  And my face--oh, god, I know I must have looked shocked, and that sure as hell isn't the way to look around a fragile male ego. But even when my mind had clicked to reality, I still couldn't quite believe it. King of Fuck, after all.

  I play back his words in his head. They destroyed him?

  He kept me in his head when they what?

  I was his light?

  What does that mean?

  Except that's not a question I really need to ask. I know only too well what it means. They tortured him. They broke him.

  The Jailer. The Woman.

  They destroyed him.

  I think of all those long weeks after the botched raid--when we didn't know if Dallas was alive or dead. Was that what they were doing? Ruining an innocent boy for fun? For punishment? For the sin of sleeping with his sister?

  I don't know, but I think that must be true.

  Every therapist I've seen over the last seventeen years has listed survivor's guilt among my many diagnoses. I've always known it was an accurate assessment, but only now do I fully understand the depth of what he suffered without me. I still don't know exactly what they did to him--until just now I'd believed that he didn't remember what they did to him.

  Now I know differently. He remembers, although he'd sworn otherwise.

  I suspect that he remembers everything. Every horrible moment.

  They destroyed me, he'd confessed. But I kept you in my head.

  I tremble with the memory of those words. He still wants me, even though he should hate me. Because I'd been safe at home while he'd been left behind to suffer.

  And I really don't know how we move on from here.

  Reluctantly, I get dressed again. I gather my spilled tote and then pause by the bathroom door. I don't know if he'd rather talk to me or be alone, but I can't stand being quiet any longer.

  I knock softly. "Dallas? Dallas, will you please come out and talk to me?"

  He doesn't answer, and I close my eyes and exhale, sad for him and for us. And, yes, scared, too. Because I'd thought that we were moving forw
ard, and now I think we're farther back than when we started.

  I head to the front door, step out into the late afternoon sunshine, and immediately wish I'd stayed locked up inside.

  My parents are right there, strolling along the little path that runs through the island's interior.

  My mom smiles and waves, but my dad's expression is thunderous. I'm terribly afraid I look guilty, but turning the other way would look even worse.

  So I take a deep breath and put my acting skills to the test. "Hey!" I say, waving. "I was bummed I missed Dallas at breakfast, so I thought I'd come say hi."

  "I hope he doesn't miss dinner," my mom says.

  "I don't know what he's planning," I say. "He was on some sort of work call." My voice sounds cheery and overly perky. "I told him I'd catch him later."

  I give my mom a hug and my dad a kiss on the cheek. "I'm going to go change for dinner. I love you," I say, again in my chipper voice that I can't seem to turn off. I give them a little wave and then it's all I can do not to sprint to my bungalow.

  Dallas heard the door slam and called himself nine kinds of a fool. He should never have tested his limits with her.

  For that matter, he should never have kissed her, should never have touched her.

  They'd had their moment when they were young, and they needed to both just get over it. They were chasing fantasies, and it was going to destroy them both.

  He stood up and leaned against the bathroom counter, then looked at his face in the mirror. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? He was a strong man. He ran a billion dollar empire. He headed up a covert organization. He wasn't weak. He didn't shirk from the hard shit. When he had a project or a mission, he did what had to be done to make it happen. Emotion didn't enter into the equation.

  So why had he let it with Jane?

  Because he'd wanted her.

  Because she'd wanted him. Or at least she had until she'd learned this new truth about him. God only knew what she thought of him now.

  But just because they wanted didn't mean they could have, and they'd been torturing themselves for years.

  He didn't know how to stop. He didn't know how to rip open his heart and pull her out.

  But he had to figure it out.

  Because if they kept on like this, he'd just end up dragging her down. And he loved her too damn much to watch that happen.

  He rubbed the back of his neck in defense against a rising headache. He'd never truly gotten used to his cock failing on him, but he certainly wasn't surprised anymore. Every time--every goddamn time--he lost his erection at penetration. In fact, he rarely even tried anymore.

  But that wasn't all of it. Hell, he couldn't even fuck a woman's mouth and get off. She could suck him until the end of the world, and it wouldn't make a goddamn difference. For that matter, he couldn't let her jack him off with her hand or her tits.

  He came by his own hand or not at all, and there was no therapist, no drug, no goddamn magic cure. He ought to know--he'd tried every fucking thing.

  This was who he was--who his captors had made him. And he'd gotten damn good at making sure the women in his bed were satisfied. Hell, it had become a point of both pride and camouflage. If they walked away feeling thoroughly fucked, the likelihood of them realizing they hadn't actually been thoroughly fucked was significantly less.

  But over the years, some part of him had believed that Adele was right--that it would be different if he was with Jane. Now even that had proved to be bullshit.

  He sighed. He'd said all along she deserved more. She deserved better. And although he hated the thought of her in another man's arms, he knew that's where she belonged. She was his sister. Maybe not by blood, but that didn't change the reality. And the reality was that he shouldn't even be thinking about whether or not his cock could make her happy.

  A sharp rap at the front door startled him from his thoughts, and he pulled on the pair of gray sweatpants he kept on a hook behind the bathroom door and went to answer it. Once again, he assumed the guest would be Liam, and once again he was wrong.

  His father stood on the threshold, his hands in the pockets of his plaid golfing slacks, the ones he wore when he wasn't at the office even if there was no golf course in sight.

  "Dad. Hey." He knew he sounded confused, but that's only because he was. He stepped aside and gestured for his father to enter. "What's up?"

  "Am I interrupting your phone call?"

  "What?" The moment the question was out of his mouth he realized his mistake. Obviously his father had bumped into Jane doing a version of the Walk of Shame and she'd covered for them both. "No, I've been off for a few minutes. About to make a couple more, though." He looked at his wristwatch for good measure.

  "Hmm. Good to catch you between, then," his dad said, not taking the hint. "I've been hoping to grab a few moments to chat with you."

  "Great. Do you want something to drink? I've got OJ and sparkling water in the fridge. And the bar is stocked if you want something stronger."

  "I'm fine." Eli crossed the room to the one leather armchair, then waited for Dallas to sit. He chose to stand.

  "Well, I just wanted to say that I'm proud of you, son."

  "Oh." Dallas took a seat on the ottoman. Whatever he'd anticipated his father had come to say, that wasn't it. Especially since Dallas had only yesterday told his father he was backing out on the Canadian launch events next week. "Well, thank you, sir. I'm very glad to hear it."

  "I don't approve of your string of women, but you've been through the kind of hell I can't imagine. I know you have to work through that, probably for your whole life. So while I don't like it, maybe I understand it. At least a little."

  Dallas wasn't at all sure where this was going, so he said nothing. Just sat on the ottoman and waited for his dad to keep talking.

  "And while there've been a few times when you've missed a business meeting in order to--well, in order to engage in one of your liaisons, on the whole you're doing a good job running your divisions. You're an asset to the empire, Dallas."

  "Thank you." His gratitude was sincere. But he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  "I'm your father, and I'm very proud to be. Sykes blood flows in your veins, Dallas, but you and I both know that it's not my blood." Dallas nodded slowly as his father's meandering path became more clear. "My brother made some terrible mistakes during his life. Bad choices. Choices that ruined him."

  "I don't remember anything about that, sir. I was very young." That was true enough. Dallas had only been five when his birth mother--who he remembered only as smelling of cigarettes--had left him in the Hamptons.

  Eli nodded. "You were. And I consider that a blessing." He stood and went to the bar to pour himself a scotch. "You didn't have enough time with Donovan for him to taint you."

  Dallas noticed that Eli didn't mention the trouble that Dallas got into in high school. Experimenting with drugs. Theft. He'd been a fuckup and it had gotten him shipped overseas, and at the time, Eli had been more than willing to blame Dallas's behavior on bad blood.

  Honestly, Eli had been right.

  Dallas really didn't have any genuine memories of his birth parents, but as soon as he was old enough to read, he'd made it a priority to learn what he could. He'd found nothing about his birth mother. But about Donovan--his birth father and Eli's brother--he'd found plenty.

  If it was illegal or immoral, Donovan Sykes was there. A bad boy straight out of central casting, Donovan had fucked anything that moved, been arrested for possession of both heroin and cocaine, had partied with Hollywood stars, raced high-end cars down the Pacific Coast Highway, and basically offered himself up as the poster child for irresponsibility.

  At first, Dallas had been disgusted with Donovan. But then, as he got older and started to have sexual thoughts about his sister, Dallas had been disgusted with himself. More than that, he'd feared Eli's rejection, because hadn't Eli written his brother off even before Dallas had been dumped on his doorste
p? What was to stop him from writing off his adopted son, too?

  Dallas had tested the limits of Eli's love. He'd done drugs--mostly pot, but he'd experimented with harder stuff once or twice, too. He'd stolen cars. And, yes, he'd gotten himself off to thoughts of Jane.

  And through all of it, his father had been there for him. Yes, he'd tossed around the "bad blood" insult, but he hadn't tossed Dallas out on his ass--instead, he'd sent him away. And while being shipped off to boarding school had pissed Dallas off at first, he'd come to understand that his parents were trying to pull him back to them, not push him away.

  Not that he'd realized all of that at the time. But during the last seventeen years of therapy he'd talked about more than the kidnapping. He was well aware of his litany of issues, and he knew that he'd conquered many of them.

  The ones that still lingered were the deepest and the darkest, with Jane right down there in the center. A place he really didn't want her to be, but where she would remain until he could somehow exorcise her from his heart.

  And that, he knew, was never going to happen.

  His father returned to the chair, pausing in front of Dallas long enough to hand him a drink, which Dallas took gratefully.

  "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not really sure where you're going with this."

  "I just want you to remember that, like it or not, he's your father, too. So think hard when you move through your life, son, about whose footsteps you want to follow."

  Was this about his public lifestyle? Or was it about Jane? Was his father simply giving Dallas some fatherly advice on how to behave in the world of business? Or was he issuing a subtle reminder that his threat to disinherit still lingered?

  He met his father's eyes. "I don't ever want to disappoint you or Mom."

  "I know you don't, son. And that's one of the reasons I'm so proud of you. I just thought I should tell you. I don't think I tell you often enough."

  Message delivered, Eli stood. "Well, then. I should probably go see what your mother's up to. Will we see you in the main house for dinner?"

  Dallas thought of Jane. More, he thought about how he really didn't want to run into her, not after what just happened. He was too raw. Too goddamn mortified. "I'm not sure," he said. "I've still got to run through my call list. I may just grab a sandwich and visit with Poppy later."