by J. Kenner
I take my phone from him and start typing out a new text.
You say you don't want to play the game. You say you want to move on. But I know better. Because I know you. I see you with all those women, and I see what no one else out in Twitterland does.
I see you watching me. Imagining me.
I'm right, aren't I? You slide your palm over a brunette's ass and you pretend it's mine.
You cup a blonde's tit and you remember your mouth on my nipple.
Do you slip your fingers in their panties on the dance floor? I bet you do. And I bet they're wet for you. But not as wet as me. And while you finger-fuck them to Lady Gaga, you remember the way it felt when your tongue made me come.
Don't try to deny it. I know it. And I'll see you soon and prove it.
I glance at Brody, whose mouth is hanging open just a little. "Shit, woman. Who are you and what have you done with my innocent little Jane?"
I roll my eyes, because I have never been innocent. "Just expanding my palette," I say as I think about how incredible it felt to masturbate on the beach with Dallas watching. "Trying new things."
I read my draft text again, and I'm just about to send it, when Brody's steady voice stops me.
"Wait."
I tilt my head, confused. "Not the right tone? I thought you liked it."
"No, that's not it. Shit, Jane," he adds, then runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm about to break some rules that matter to me, I want you to know that. But the truth is, you matter more."
He looks flustered, and I don't remember Brody ever looking flustered.
"What the hell, Brody?" I don't even know what the trouble is, and yet I'm worried. "What is it?"
"You know I take clients to The Cellar."
"Sure." I've never been, but I'm familiar with the downtown kink club. "So what?"
"What goes on there--who goes there is confidential. Telling someone who's not a member is grounds for expulsion. So I shouldn't be saying anything at all. But I love you, and I want to make sure you know what you're walking into. It was one thing to fuck him out of your system, but if I'm reading you right, now you're hoping to fuck him right into your life."
"I am," I say, a little bit numb as I process everything that Brody is saying--or, more accurately, not saying. "You're trying to tell me that Dallas is a member."
"He's a dom."
I raise my brows. "Professionally?"
Brody laughs. "No. But when he plays, he tops. He's not there all the time, but often enough that I've seen him. Never spoken to him, don't know him personally, and I don't think he's into the lifestyle so much as he's into control."
"That doesn't surprise me."
"And that control translates to kink."
"What kind of kink?"
"I don't know. That's my point. I've heard rumors that he's got a playroom set up in that fancy Hamptons house of his."
"Really?" I think about the huge basement that used to house a Ping-Pong table and a variety of freestanding videogame machines. I haven't been down there in ages, and now I'm wondering just how Dallas has redecorated it.
"Just what I hear, although he must not use it all the time--you told me he was with those two girls in his bedroom, right? But I doubt it's gathering dust. So you need to think about that. If you start this thing, are you willing to follow where it leads?"
I know Brody is thinking about our sessions and my less than enthusiastic reactions. But the truth is that the thought of getting kinky with Dallas is already making me wet. I can imagine him blindfolding me. Spanking me. Flogging me.
And, yes, I know that he may like it a lot darker than that, but the question isn't what Dallas likes, but where I'm willing to go.
With Dallas, I'll go to the ends of the earth.
With Dallas, I think I might--might--even be able to do bondage.
I meet Brody's eyes, then rise up out of my chair so that I can kiss his cheek. "Thank you for telling me. It means the world that you did."
Then I sit back down and very firmly--very deliberately--I send my reply to Dallas.
I catch Brody's eye, and he's grinning. "Guess that answers my question," he says.
"Guess it does." I get up to make a cup of coffee. The truth is, I don't expect to hear back from Dallas soon. Maybe not ever.
The phone pings before I've even poured the cream.
Don't play these games, Jane. You won't win, I promise. And it's a losing battle. We can heal apart. Together, we'll just keep fucking each other up.
I'm so euphoric that I prompted such a quick reply that I don't even care that he's trying to shoot me down. My reply is swift and firm:
We never fucked each other up. We healed each other. And I think you know it.
I'm about to send it when Brody snatches the phone from my hand. "Hey!"
"Just wait."
He taps out an additional sentence, and as he does my hand goes to my mouth. "Okay?" he asks.
I nod. Honestly, I love it. And at this point, I have nothing to lose.
(P.S. I'm going to still play this game. You can't stop me, but a spanking might punish me.)
He sends the text and then grins at me. "So where is this party, and do Stacey and I want to go, just to watch the show?"
"Don't even think about it," I say firmly. "I'd be a nervous wreck. As for where, I'm just about to find out."
This time when I pick up the phone it's to dial Gin Kramer.
"Ms. Martin," she says. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you could help me. I'm so scattered. But I know that somewhere on my desk is an invitation to a party that Peter Crowley is throwing, and I can't find it anywhere. Didn't you RSVP for Dallas when I was in his office the other day?"
"I did, yes. What do you need?"
"Just the time and the address. And if you wouldn't mind sending in my RSVP?"
I imagine there will be a guest list with the doorman. And anyone who RSVPs through Dallas's email account will be added without question.
"Of course," she says. "And it's this Friday at eight in his apartment on Fifth. I'll email you the address so you have it handy."
"You're wonderful," I say, then hang up and look at Brody. "Friday," I announce. "It's countdown time."
Dallas was on edge, and it didn't have a damn thing to do with the fact that he'd just bugged Peter Crowley's office while the man himself stood only five feet away, sipping scotch and ogling the woman on Dallas's arm.
It didn't even have anything to do with the fact that the woman, a sweet girl named Nina who just landed herself a role in Chicago, had noticed his stiff cock, assumed he was thinking naughty things about her, and promised to give him a blow job as soon as they found a quiet corner.
No, Dallas was on edge for one reason and one reason only--his sister had just sent another text message. And he was going out of his mind until he could get to his phone to read it.
He said it again, hard and harsh in his head. Sister. Because if this little game of hers led to its obvious conclusion, then they both needed to understand what they were getting into. All of it. No pretending like it wasn't fucked up. Like law and society and all its stupid taboos didn't exist.
Like their parents would look the other way.
He thought he was on edge now? He was the picture of calm and cool compared to what he would be if the tabloids got wind of the dark and dirty Sykes family secrets.
And the real hell of it was that right then, right there, he didn't fucking care. There wasn't any room in his head to care. It was too full of her. Too full of Jane and her delicious mind fuck.
He was seated in one of the guest chairs in front of Crowley's desk. His date, Nina, was in his lap, her hand lightly stroking his cock. And, just like Jane had predicted, he was imagining that it was her.
He knew he shouldn't look right now. Jane's name would be right there at the top of the text.
But goddammit, he had to see what she said, and so he reached into his jacket pocket,
and then glanced at the phone as discreetly as he could while Peter Crowley continued to talk about the real estate market on the Upper East Side and Nina continued to stroke his cock.
I'm not wearing any underwear.
Oh, holy Christ.
He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried damn hard to gather himself. Then he tapped out a reply.
Prove it.
He'd told her he wasn't going to play, but who was he kidding? He'd never block Jane's texts. And he was anticipating them so much now that he got hard just from the chime that signaled her incoming messages.
She'd sent three yesterday. One had been a selfie of her in the shower, obviously done on a timer. The glass was steamed, so that he could make out nothing more than the outline of a woman's form behind the fog.
He'd known it was her--and he'd jacked off to the image twice, then taken his own shower.
That evening, another text had arrived, this one a picture of the lingerie she was going to sleep in. A tiny babydoll gown and matching panties of the barely there variety. He'd imagined her in his bed wearing both--and then he'd imagined ripping them off her body and teasing her mercilessly, taking her just to the edge, but not letting her come. Not, at least, until he was ready.
The last text had done him in, and he'd gone to bed early simply so that he could fall asleep with his cock in his hand and his mind on Jane.
Changed my mind. Sleeping naked. Fingering myself. Thinking of you.
There'd been no image, but it didn't matter. He could see the picture clear enough in his mind, and he'd thought about calling her and describing everything he wanted to do to her. Every reaction he wanted to elicit. Every pleasure he wanted to see played out on her face.
But that wasn't the game, and he hadn't called.
Now here he was at this party with a lovely and willing young woman who had made it perfectly clear that she would do whatever he wanted. Be whatever he wanted.
Except she couldn't be Jane.
He exhaled and gave Nina's hip a little squeeze, signaling her to stand. Maybe he couldn't get his mind clear of Jane, but he could at least get his damn job done.
He'd placed the bug in the foyer as he'd arrived. Not hard. He'd just dropped a few coins, bent to pick them up, and attached the adhesive back of the small, round bug to the leg of the marble table right by the entrance.
The second one here in this office hadn't been a challenge, either. He'd pressed it to the underside of one of the many shelves in the room, tucked into the back corner where it wouldn't be noticed.
With luck, both would remain indefinitely. After all, with Noah's tech, the bugs wouldn't be found by any currently existing electronic surveillance sweep equipment.
The third was the trickiest, simply by virtue of the location. Liam had said either living room or bedroom, but Dallas knew damn well that the quality of the intel would be a thousand times better if he could get it in the bedroom. So that's what he intended to do.
He stood, then curved his hand possessively around Nina's rib cage so that his fingertips cupped her breasts.
"So if you're looking for a place near the park..." Crowley was saying, still going on about the real estate market.
"You'll be the first one I'll call," Dallas promised. So far the man had said nothing to suggest that he had any ties to Ortega's criminal activities, and maybe he didn't. But that was the point of the bugs. So that the team could listen and learn. And maybe, just maybe, kick-start an investigation that had stalled with Ortega's death.
"In the meantime," Dallas said as he pinched Nina's nipple just enough to make her moan and Crowley's jaw drop, "I was hoping for a little favor."
"Of course." Crowley's eyes were glued to the girl's tit. "Anything."
"I've got a...cramp. My lovely friend Nina's going to help me work it out. Perhaps we could continue this conversation in a few minutes?"
"I--what? Oh. Well, of course." The man was stuttering, which didn't surprise Dallas. It wasn't the way polite business chats normally concluded.
"Pleasure talking with you," he said as he released Nina, then moved across the room to shake Crowley's hand. Then he turned and headed for the door. Just for show, he actually snapped his fingers as he said, "Nina, with me."
A flicker of envy bloomed on Crowley's face as Dallas strode out of the study, the petite brunette hurrying after him.
He'd gone only a few steps into the living area where the party was in full swing when he saw her.
Jane.
He actually stopped and stared, acknowledging to himself that she'd truly scored points with this move. He'd had no idea she was at the party, and yet there she was, talking with a woman who'd almost certainly given Dallas a blow job in the back of a limo a few years prior.
Jane had noticed him, too, and now she lifted her head, looked right at him, and smiled very slowly. A second later, she lifted her phone, tapped the screen, and winked at him.
An instant later, his phone chimed. He tugged it out of his suit pocket, opened the app, and just about lost his shit.
It was a photograph--and not the kind of photograph he would ever have expected of her, although after their moment on the beach, he wasn't as surprised as he might have been.
It was a photograph of her pussy, slick and wet. And of her finger teasing her swollen clit.
It was dirty and hot, and the camera flash made it clear that this was the kind of shot that skewed toward porn, not art. And Jane had sent it. Jane.
He almost came right then.
And it was clear from her smile that she knew it.
He'd always assumed she'd be shocked by the way he liked to play. That the Jane who was willing to get fucked up with him lived only in his imagination.
But she'd turned his perception around, and he couldn't deny that he liked this new reality.
He didn't know how far they could go--how far he could go--but he was willing to find out. Because there was one thing Dallas knew better than anyone. And that was how to satisfy a woman in the most creative of ways.
And that's when it clicked. When he knew what he wanted.
He'd continue to play her game all right. Hell, he looked forward to it. But from now on, he was going to be the one in charge.
You're being a very bad girl.
I read Dallas's text and smile to myself, feeling both powerful and turned on.
I am, I text back. But not as bad as I can be.
It takes a few seconds for him to respond, and in that time, I realize that he's no longer standing by the door to Crowley's office. I frown and look around for him, then see him heading down the far hall with his hand on his date's ass.
I tell myself that's part of the game, but that doesn't stop the jealousy from curling inside me.
I excuse myself from the woman I'm chatting with and go to the bar, because right now I really could use a glass of wine. But my phone buzzes on the way, and I step into a quiet corner and eagerly retrieve it.
Did you see the woman I was with? Do you believe me when I tell you that I'm imagining she's you?
I answer immediately: Yes.
I wish you were here.
Yes, I text. So do I.
Go into the bathroom. Pull up your skirt. Sit your bare ass on the toilet seat and touch yourself. Don't stop until I tell you to. But don't you dare come.
I read it twice. I'm pretty sure I moan both times.
I look around and see the powder room. I hurry that way, step inside, and lock the door behind me. I lean back against the door and breathe hard. I'm aroused--so damn aroused. My nipples are hard, my pussy is aching for release.
I want Dallas. Hell, I need him. His hands, his mouth.
But at the same time, I want this, too. This game that we're playing--and the way that he's shifting it around, telling me what to do now. I don't want it to stop because I like the way it makes me feel. Like I'm falling into him. Like I'm surrendering to him, but it's not scary and it doesn't make me crazy. Instead, it mak
es me feel safe.
I do as he says. I put the toilet lid down, then pull up my skirt. I'm not wearing panties--he already knows that much--and the porcelain feels cool against my skin. I close my eyes and slide my finger over my clit, then bite my lip as a flurry of sparks shoot through me. Just a tease for now. Just a promise of better things to come.
I'm so wet that my inner thighs are slick, and I'm throbbing because I want him so much. I'm getting close, too, and so I slow down.
He told me not to come, and I'm determined to obey.
Finally my phone pings, and I use my free hand to answer it.
Are you there? Does it feel good?
I tap the microphone button so I can dictate my answers because he told me not to stop. "Yes," I say, and my words print in the text box for him.
My phone rings, startling me. It's him, of course, and I answer immediately.
"Dallas?"
"She's sucking my cock right now."
I suck in air, his low, sensual voice doing a number on me. But it's his words that have me thrusting two fingers inside myself, my reaction shocking me--but there's no denying my full-blown arousal.
"Sucking me off while she listens to me talk to another woman. While she knows I want to fuck another woman."
I add another finger and writhe, closing my eyes as I do. Imagining it's his cock.
"Does that turn you on? Knowing another woman's mouth is on me? Knowing that I'm pretending she's you?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Yes, what?"
"It turns me on."
"Are you wet?"
"God, yes."
"How can you tell?"
I lick my lips. "I'm finger-fucking myself," I admit. "I'm imagining it's you."
"Good girl," he says, and his voice is strangled. "I'm going to send you a video. This woman on my cock who should be you. I want you to ride your fingers while you watch. I want you to come."
"Okay."
"Don't say, 'okay,' baby. You say, 'Yes, sir.' "
I moan, even more aroused by this new order. "Yes, sir," I say obediently. And then, "Dallas?" I cringe a little, because I'm so blatantly breaking this new rule, but the question is important.
"Yes?"
"The video won't--I mean, you're not going down on her, are you?"
"Do you want me to? Do you want me to eat her out and pretend it's you?"
