by J. Kenner
I'm breathing hard, lost in my fantasies. I'm so wet now, and all I can think about is sliding my fingers under my panties and fingering myself.
I want to imagine it's Dallas touching me. Dallas wanting me.
Me, goddammit. Not some tattooed bitch he grabbed as a prop and who now thinks she's got a claim on him.
A warm hand falls on my shoulder and I jump, my cry stifled by the hand that is suddenly pressed over my mouth.
"Don't startle them." It's Dallas, of course. His voice low, his lips so close to my ear that his breath makes me shiver. "They haven't seen you. We wouldn't want to interrupt the moment."
I swallow, understanding that he doesn't mean their moment, but ours.
His hand slides over my rear, cupping my ass through my thin skirt. Slowly, he starts to inch the material up, mimicking what I'd been on the verge of doing only moments before.
"Dallas," I murmur, my voice whisper-soft. "The door--"
"Is closed." He fists his hand around the thin strap of my thong panties, then yanks them off, forcing me to swallow a gasp in order to keep our secret. "Do you think I want anyone else to see this?" He lifts the back of my skirt up all the way and tucks it into the waistband, completely exposing my ass. "Do you think I want to share such an incredible view?"
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the rough passion in his voice. In front of us, the couple has shifted. Now she is on her back and he is on his knees beside the bed. He's removed his shirt, and her legs are over his shoulders. Her thighs are pressed to either side of his head, and her hips are writhing as he eats her out. No way can this guy hear a thing that we do. And the woman is too lost in the sound of her own moans to notice us at all.
"Does it turn you on to watch?" Dallas slides one hand between my legs as he asks the question. "I guess it does," he continues, slipping a finger inside me. "Fuck, you're wet."
"That's not from them," I protest. "It's from you."
He bites the edge of my ear. "Bullshit," he says, adding another finger and thrusting hard. "It's all of it. Watching them. Me touching you. Knowing that at any moment we might be discovered. I closed the door, Jane. But did I lock it?"
"Dallas ..." His name is a moan, because he's right. I'm completely and totally turned on by everything. Excitement. Fear. Danger. And, yes, I know that he locked the door--I trust him too much to believe otherwise--but that doesn't mean that the fantasy of getting caught doesn't excite me more than it should.
"Tell me," he demands. "Tell me how fucked up this is."
"You know it is."
"Tell me you like it."
My body shudders as he teases my clit. "You know I do." And so help me, it's true. Being like this with him sets me on fire. I don't know why--as a rule, I'm all about control, and right now I'm most definitely not in control of anything, myself included.
Maybe that should bother me, but it doesn't. Right now my mind is too sex-blurred to even try to think analytically. I only know need. I only understand want.
I only crave him.
"Dallas," I murmur, grateful that I have at least enough self-awareness left to keep my voice down. "Please."
"Jane." His voice beside my ear is an incantation, taking all of my senses to the next level. "Do you have any idea how much I've craved you tonight. How much I've wanted you?"
"Have you?" I retort, and though I'd meant for the words to be soft--a tease--I know that he has heard the hint of genuine uncertainty in my voice. I can feel the way his body tightens, and he hesitates, the gap in motion almost imperceptible. But not to me; I know him too well.
"Oh, baby. Don't you know that I have?"
"Dallas, I--"
"Shhh. Let me show you. Let me prove it to you. Let me make you explode." He slides his fingers back, stroking my perineum until he reaches my ass. His hand is slick with me, and I gasp as he slides his thumb deep inside me, then eases his fingers forward again until he slips his forefinger in my vagina, effectively finger-fucking me both ways.
I close my eyes, lost in pleasure, then reach out with my left hand and grab the wall to support myself as I push back against his hand, forcing him in harder. Deeper. Wanting everything he is willing to give, and then more.
"That's it, baby. God, that's so fucking hot."
In front of us, the couple has shifted again. He's fully naked on the bed now, and she's riding him. His cock is deep inside her, and as she grinds against him, I mimic her motions. My hips gyrating. My stomach tight. My back arched.
"All of it," Dallas whispers. He obviously understands exactly what I'm doing--including the fact that I'm imagining that his fingers are his cock. Something I want so desperately, but know that I can't have. Not now. Maybe not ever. I feel my cheeks heat, because that's not something I wanted to reveal, but he is unperturbed. "Touch yourself," he whispers as he closes his free hand over my breast, pinching my nipple so that threads of pleasure zing from my breast to my core. "Stroke your clit and ride me."
I don't hesitate. How can I when I belong so fully to him? When I will do whatever he demands because it is Dallas asking, and because I don't want this feeling to end.
My clit is hard and swollen and incredibly sensitive. But I'm so wet and slippery I can barely get enough friction. Even so the sensation is incredible, and as he thrusts his fingers deep inside me, I feel my body shudder. My muscles tighten to draw him in further, and my fingers play wildly over my clit, bringing me closer and closer.
He tweaks my nipple hard, then releases my breast and slides his hand down to press over mine. Now he is both guiding and following my actions, teasing my clit with me as his other hand fucks me so very, very thoroughly. He's hard, pressed close so that I can feel his erection against my hip.
I draw in a breath and pull my hand off my clit so that I can twine my fingers with his. Then I move his hand to his cock. "With me," I say, the words little more than a groan.
He understands, then strokes his cock with one hand while he fucks me with the other, and I take care of my clit myself.
It's wild and wicked and crazy and it feels so right and perfect to be in his arms. Even like this. Even hidden. Even watching other people fuck from this place in the shadows and--
"Come for me, baby," he says, thrusting hard and deep inside me. "Christ, sweetheart, come with me now." He is pressed up against me, and I feel his body tremble as he explodes, and that sensation pushes me over the cliff as well.
"Oh, god." The cry is ripped from me as I shatter, riding his fingers hard as my body buckles and breaks.
"Is someone there?" The girl lifts her head from where she'd been sucking her partner's cock, our roommates having shifted into a sixty-nine.
"Just a noise," the guy says, his back to us. "Forget about it."
But she's staring right at us. I know she can't possibly recognize us from the shadows, but I duck my head anyway and start to smooth my skirt, tugging it down from where it's hiked up in my waistband. I'm not about to say anything of course. On the contrary. I'm going to get my clothes straight and follow Dallas through the door before either of them decides to investigate.
"Who is that?" she asks. "Who's there?"
I motion to Dallas that we should go.
Dallas, however, has a different idea. "It's just me," he says, and I immediately want to sink into the floor. First in embarrassment, then in horror. What if this girl asks who he's with? What if she gets a good look at me?
I glare at him, but he just shakes it off, as if I'm the one being insane and unreasonable.
"Dallas?"
"Sorry to intrude, Christine. My friend's a little shy, but she likes to watch."
"Oh, really?" I can hear the lilt of excitement rising in her voice. "Billy likes to watch, too. Don't you, sugar?"
"Absolutely." Billy lifts his head long enough to bite Christine's hip, then dives back down to her pussy.
I just stand there, not sure if I'm turned on or scared or confused or what.
"Well, since they bo
th like to watch," Christine purrs, "why don't you come join me?" She pats the daybed mattress.
"Tempting," Dallas says, and my gut twists a little because I honestly can't tell if he means it. "But maybe some other time."
"Suit yourself. Stay and watch some more if you want." She strokes Billy's hip as she aims a smile toward us. "I promise it'll be quite the show."
"We'll catch the rest of the act some other time. But stay in here as long as you like. I'll have someone bring you champagne."
"Thanks, man," Billy says, his voice muffled.
Dallas starts to turn, and I feel his hand at my back, ready to guide me out.
I'm breathing hard, shaking a little. And I don't wait for him to take the lead. Instead, I walk past him, slide open the door, and escape into the night.
The Man with the Golden Cock
The party is still going strong as I scurry from the cabana, my mind in a jumble. I know I should stop and talk to Dallas--but the truth is that I don't know what to say. What just happened in there was, well, absolutely fucking incredible. I can't deny that I liked it. Hell, I loved it.
Or at least I did until the fantasy ended and Dallas talked to Christine. Christine. He knew her name. Why? Because he'd slept with her, of course.
Well, fuck.
This is hardly a revelation, and yet I can't deny that it bothered me the same way that watching him touch the blond bitch or the tattooed brunette bothered me. Even though there's something so incredibly hot about that game of ours--even though I know he was thinking about me and only me--the whole thing just felt wrong tonight. And now that wrongness is sitting in my gut. Raw and sour and festering.
And I can't talk to Dallas about it, because the most wrong thing of all is that it didn't bother him. To Dallas, it was playtime as usual.
To Dallas, nothing has changed over these last four days. But to me, the entire world is different.
Ergo, the running.
I keep my head down as I slide through the crowd, skirting the cabana and heading to the lush, manicured lawn. This section of the property isn't well-lit in order to keep most of the guests on the pool deck, in the house, or on the temporary dance floor that's been set up on the lawn closer to the residence.
Despite the dim lighting--or perhaps because of it--there are still a few people mingling about, but I soon leave them behind. By the time I reach the hedge maze that blocks this area from the more private family garden, I'm the only one around.
When Dallas and Liam and I were children, this maze was exceptionally easy to navigate, primarily because the hedge was only a foot high. Now, more than twenty years later, it's eight feet tall, but I still remember my way through, and I'm clear in under five minutes and heading toward the garden shed.
As soon as I reach it, I collapse onto the small wooden bench that sits flush against the stone wall. I breathe deeply, grateful to be hidden from view. Away from the party. From Dallas. From everything.
Except I'm not. He's followed me, of course.
I hear him first--the sound of his footsteps. Firm. Determined. Steady.
He's not running, but walking quickly. Then he is standing in front of me. My head is down, so I see only the soft leather of his Brioni loafers and the cuff of his Dior Homme jeans. Casual clothes for a casual party. But there's nothing casual about his manner. His stance alone radiates power, and though he says nothing, I know that he is worried about me.
Hell, I'm a little worried about me.
Slowly, I tilt my head up to look at him. I've stared at him for hours tonight, but despite my roiling emotions, I can't help but be riveted by him now. Or maybe it's because of those emotions. Because Dallas Sykes is beautiful. A living sculpture. A model of male perfection.
His legs are clad in the faded denim, tight enough to accent his muscular thighs, not to mention his semi-erect cock. He wears a plain white T-shirt under the thin gray cashmere sweater that I bought him for his birthday almost four months ago. He looks sexy as hell--like he just walked off the runway of a men's fashion show. And it's all I can do to still my fingers that want nothing more than to grab a fistful of cashmere and pull him violently toward me.
I don't. Instead I continue my inspection, tilting my head back further to see his face. I expect the hard line of his jaw to be tight with frustration and his emerald green eyes to burn with irritation. I expect those lips to scold me--to ask what the fuck is wrong with me.
Instead, he says, "I'm sorry."
I blink, the words as unexpected as a slap.
"I thought you'd like it," he says. "Something hot. Something for us."
"Something hidden. Something secret." As soon as I say the words I regret them. "I'm sorry," I say. "It was hot--incredibly hot. And I did like it. You know I did. It's just ..."
"We can't be open," he says, then sighs. "I know."
He drags his fingers through his caramel-colored hair, and I watch as his expression hardens.
"It's not just us, you know," he says, moving to sit beside me. "Everything about these parties is secret. I'm playing a role. I know we haven't talked much yet about Deliverance, but you understand that, right? I'm--"
"The man with the golden cock," I say. "Yeah, I get that."
He winces. "We both know that's not true."
"Dallas." Shit. Fuck. "I didn't mean--"
"I know you didn't, and it's fine." He looks at me gently, his voice turning softer as he says, "I told you that I'm glad I've never actually fucked any of them. I only want you."
His words warm me, but they don't fully soothe. "I believe you," I say, matching his soft tone. "But being glad that you haven't fucked them is completely different from being glad that you can't."
He closes his eyes for a moment and nods, acknowledging the truth of my words.
I'd been shocked to learn that I was the only woman Dallas has ever penetrated--and that was seventeen years ago when we'd been captive and terrified. Before he'd been tortured.
Before he'd been broken.
Now he plays a game of smoke and mirrors, satisfying hordes of women, but never literally fucking any of them. And since no woman who's romped in his bed wants to admit that he didn't actually lay her out and fuck her hard, his reputation just keeps growing. And frankly, considering his skill in bed, I bet most women didn't even realize he was never inside them; they were too busy wallowing in the aftershocks of multiple orgasms.
Honestly, it's one hell of a marketing scam. All of it is, really. The playboy persona. The King of Fuck reputation. He flirts with, touches, and beds a procession of women because that feeds an illusion and serves his purpose--Deliverance. An elite vigilante organization dedicated to rescuing kidnap victims and punishing their tormentors.
Until I learned that Deliverance was essentially Dallas's brainchild, I'd been firmly of the opinion that it was a dangerous group that needed to be stopped. I'd done enough research and written enough articles and books on kidnappings and vigilante justice to know that mercenaries often do more harm than good. But I know Dallas; I understand his motives. And, honestly, I'm not sure what to think now, at least not about Deliverance. And so I'm officially withholding judgment until I learn more.
That in-depth educational experience hasn't happened yet. But I know enough to understand what he's doing. Creating camouflage. Hiding in plain sight behind the facade of a man who is too much of a player to be a threat.
"I've been living a life built on secrets for years, Jane." His voice is soft, pulling me back from my thoughts. "Secrets are familiar territory."
"We said we weren't going to have any more secrets."
"Between you and me. Not between us and the world." He draws a breath, looking away from me as if to gather himself before turning back to meet my eyes. "I'll tell you whatever you want about how Deliverance works. You know that."
"I do."
"So, do you want me to tell you now?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know." I sigh, then run my fingers through my hair.
"That's not what's bothering me."
He nods. "Yeah. I know." He stands again and starts to pace, obviously frustrated. "Tonight--this party--maybe I should have sent you back to New York. Maybe you should be at your own house tonight."
I shudder, feeling suddenly cold. "You don't want me here?"
"Oh, baby, no." He stops in front of me and reaches down, taking my hands to pull me to my feet. "I want you with me more than anything. But I planned this party for one purpose only--I need to talk with Henry Darcy. I need to find out if he has any idea who's behind Deliverance. And I need a woman on my arm when I talk to him."
"Why?"
"Because I have to make sure he sees the playboy, not the man who might have set him up with Deliverance. I need him to talk to me, but I want his attention split. And a beautiful woman is an excellent distraction. This has been my camouflage for years, baby, and if I step out of character, I risk everything."
"Which means the woman on your arm can't be me." The statement is rhetorical; obviously I can't be the woman at his side. Even so, he opens his mouth to answer. I lift my hand to cut him off. "No. I get it. I do."
About a year ago, Henry Darcy hired Deliverance to rescue his kidnapped daughters. He'd jumped through all of the hoops to contact the group, and as far as Dallas and his team knew, Darcy was ignorant of the identity of the individual players in the vigilante group. For that matter, he didn't even know the name "Deliverance." Or, at least, the team had assumed he didn't. It was, Dallas explained to me, an internal code name only.
That's the way all Deliverance operations work. Contact is made through a very complex system that Dallas hasn't yet described to me. But the bottom line is total anonymity.
So when Henry Darcy revealed publicly that the vigilante group that had rescued his girls was called Deliverance, Dallas and the team were more than a little concerned. What else did he know? Was he a threat?
Apparently, Dallas decided that the best way to find out was to host a party, invite Darcy, and chat the man up. He wanted a sexy woman beside him as a visual diversion, so that whatever questions he asked or conversations he started would come off as simple chatter, not the interrogation of a man who masterminds an elite international vigilante group.
