Hottest Mess

by J. Kenner

  With Dallas, I know I'll like it very much. But I still don't know what to expect. And the not knowing is making me just a little crazy.

  Still, it's better than him sending me away, and me crying on Brody's shoulder. So I tell myself it's all good, then change my earrings twice just to have something to do. When I glance at the clock again, I realize that only two minutes have passed.

  Great.

  Finally determined to shake off my ridiculous case of nerves and uncertainty, I head downstairs to the kitchen, pour a glass of wine, and take a long sip.

  By the time Dallas rings the bell fifteen minutes later, I've finished the glass and am on my second. I take a final swallow, then hurry to the door. I hesitate only a second, telling myself that it's stupid to be nervous. That this is Dallas, and that we will get through this. How can we not when we've conquered so much already?

  I say it--and then I tell myself that I have to believe it.

  Finally, I pull open the door, intending to casually invite him inside. Instead, I draw in a sharp breath and simply stand in the doorway staring at the man.

  He dominates my front stoop, so poised and perfect that I'm amazed that pedestrians aren't stopping to stare, drawn to him as if to some stunning natural phenomenon like the aurora borealis or a majestic mountain.

  He's wearing a tailored gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a pale blue tie. The tie, however, is loose and the top button of his shirt is undone, giving him a bad-boy-playing-good vibe that is wildly sexy. His caramel hair is slightly mussed, as if he tried to tame it, but either the wind or his habit of dragging his fingers through it has foiled his efforts, and the slight messiness only adds to the sensual allure of the man standing in front of me.

  The fact that he is holding a dozen roses makes me smile. But what makes me go weak at the knees is the look of pure desire I see on his face as he skims his gaze over me, his emerald eyes finally meeting mine.

  "You look gorgeous," he says, and his voice holds so much heat and passion that it takes every ounce of willpower for me not to press my body against his and beg him to hold me and talk to me and tell me that we are going to be just fine.

  Instead, I manage to choke out a sincere thank you, then step back to let him enter. He does, but he pauses just over the threshold to study me, as if he hasn't yet gotten his fill.

  "You're stunning."

  "I'm glad you think so." And then, because I've had a glass and a half of wine, I turn for him, modeling the outfit and the way the figure-skimming material clings to my rear and the slit exposes a long expanse of leg.

  "Stunning," he repeats as he reaches for the edge of the door that I've stupidly left open. He shuts it with a bang, his eyes never leaving my face. "And right now, all I want to do is tear that outfit off you."

  My entire body clenches as his words rip through me like fire, melting me. Burning me.

  Dallas.

  I try to say his name aloud, but can manage only a breathy gasp, and as I watch, the corner of his mouth curls up in satisfaction. He sees my need, and he knows that it matches his own.

  "I want it," he says, his voice softer now and heavy with longing. He reaches out and traces my lower lip with the pad of his thumb. "I want to lay you out naked on this floor. I want to kiss every inch of your body. I want to tease your nipples with my tongue, then slide down between your legs and suck your clit until you scream.

  "I want to," he continues with a wicked grin, "but I'm not going to. Not yet."

  I swallow. "Why not?"

  "Because I want what we've never had. I want you at my side out in the world, even if I can only go so far as to open the door for you or chastely press my hand against your back to guide you through a room. I want normal."

  I shake my head, just a little. "We can't have it. Not that kind of normal. Not now. Not ever." I want to kick myself for saying it, because I am relishing this moment. The power of his desire for me is intoxicating, and I want to lose myself in it.

  "I know," he says. "But right now, I want the fantasy."

  My heart twists, and I nod. "All right," I whisper.

  "Then come with me."

  I hesitate only long enough to put the flowers in water, and then let him lead me out of the house to where a chauffeur holds open the door to a limo. I turn to him and raise a brow. We both have access to limos, of course, but we rarely use them, opting to drive our own cars or use one of the company's Town Cars.

  "I like to impress my dates," he says with a small shrug.

  "Consider me impressed, Mr. Sykes."

  I have to laugh when we pull up at the Film Forum on West Houston. "Bringing Up Baby," I say, reading the marquee. I turn back to him and realize that he's just a little blurry because I'm looking at him through sentimental tears.

  "Good?" he asks.

  I manage a nod and a watery smile. "Oh, yeah," I say, my voice a little hoarse. "It's great."

  Bringing Up Baby is not only one of my favorite classic films, but it's the last movie that Dallas and I saw together. We were fourteen, and it was the week before Dallas was sent off to London for boarding school. We'd snuck out of the house, just wanting to be together, and had ended up at a Katharine Hepburn film festival.

  Nothing had happened, but there'd been so much tension buzzing between us that if I hadn't already seen the movie a half dozen times with my mom, I never would have figured out what was going on. And to this day, I remember the way my entire body hummed when our fingers brushed in the popcorn tub. And how very, very aware I was of the way his knee bumped into mine and our elbows touched on the shared armrest.

  That afternoon counts as one of the most sensual times in my life, and yet we didn't do a single thing. Nothing, that is, except want each other.

  Now, almost two decades later, I still want him.

  Inside, we stop at the concession stand for a bucket of popcorn and two sodas, then head into the dimly lit theater where classic cartoons are playing on the pre-show screen in lieu of modern commercials and trailers.

  I expect Dallas to sit dead-center in the theater as he always did when we were kids. But instead he takes my arm as we head to the very back row.

  I lift a brow in question and he shrugs. "I want to take you out in public," he says. "But that doesn't mean I don't still value our privacy."

  "Oh." I think about that, my body tingling from all the delicious implications as I step into the row and walk carefully to the center seats.

  Dallas sits beside me, his hand holding mine, and I realize I'm actually feeling a little bit shy. Like this is a real first date and not a game that we're playing. At least, I think it's a game.

  I hope it's a game.

  I'd like to say that my mind is more on the movie this time than it was so many years ago, but that would be a lie. I keep my eyes on the screen, true. But nothing seems to stick in my head. I'm too aware of the man beside me. The way his hand feels against mine. The sensual caress of his thumb against my skin.

  And then, just when I start to fear that he really did bring me here only to hold hands and watch the movie, he releases my hand and moves his to my thigh. The thigh exposed by the very high slit of my skirt.

  He is touching me only above the knee, and the contact is entirely innocent. Doesn't matter. It still burns through me, as fiery as cheap whiskey and at least as intoxicating.

  "I love this part," Dallas says, leaning over to whisper in my ear. And I don't know if he means the part of the film where the dog steals the dinosaur bone or the part of the evening where he skims his fingers up my thigh.

  I can't ask him, though, because I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around words. We've done so much more, and yet I am so wildly aroused by the simple progression of his fingers up my leg that I'm thanking the fashion gods that my skirt is black, because I'm quite certain it's soaked.

  When his fingertip is almost to the juncture of my thigh and pelvis, I place my hand over his. "What exactly are you doing, Mr. Sykes?" I whisper.
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  He leans closer so that his breath teases my ear when he replies. "That's up to you. I can be a man who's bold and takes what he wants, or I can be a gentleman. Your call."

  I lick some of the popcorn butter off my lips, trying to decide. "I guess that depends on your definition of a gentleman," I finally say. "Isn't a gentleman the kind of man who takes care of his woman?"

  The corner of his mouth curves up. "Oh, yes," he says, as his finger continues the slow, inexorable path to my core.

  I tilt my head back as I draw in a shuddering breath. "Be a gentleman," I demand as his fingers slide over my slick, wet clit and I spread my legs, wanting more, trying to stay silent, and desperately thankful that he brought us to the back row. "Please," I beg. "Fuck me like a gentleman."

  "Whatever the lady wants," he says as he enters me and I pivot my hips, rocking against his hand, getting fucked in a movie theater in front of Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant as my orgasm crashes over me, fast and hard and wonderful.

  After making me explode during the Golden Age of Hollywood, Dallas sweeps me away to another era. We're at the Balcony for dinner and cocktails while we listen to the Glenn Miller-esque sounds of a big band and watch at least half a dozen dancers on the floor in front of us.

  It's wonderful and lovely and sweet and classy.

  It's also frustrating as hell because he hasn't touched me once since we left the theater. On the contrary, we wasted a forty-five minute drive in the limo sitting politely next to each other while he talked about Hepburn and Cary Grant and Howard Hawks, the director.

  I can't tell if he's pulling some sort of mind fuck on me or if he regrets the way he'd stroked and filled me during the movie, and almost made me scream louder than the damn soundtrack.

  Something's up, though, and it's driving me batshit crazy.

  "Do you want to dance?" he asks as I take a sip of my martini.

  "No," I say, more sharply than I intended. "I really don't."

  "You don't like it here."

  "No--I mean yes." I exhale loudly. "Oh, fuck, Dallas. This place is amazing and you know it. It's like we stepped into a different age. The band. The cocktails. The lighting. The whole ambiance." I push my chair back and rise. "It's like we're not even ourselves anymore."

  "Jane?" He's out of his seat, too, but I gesture him back down.

  "No, no, stay. I just--I just need to go to the ladies' room."

  I turn without waiting for his reply, and follow the signs to a restroom that is just as elegant as the rest of the Balcony. The door opens onto a lounge area, beyond which are individual stalls each complete with a toilet, sink, vanity, lighted mirror, and an upholstered stool to make reapplying makeup that much more comfortable.

  Since I don't actually need the restroom, I loiter in front of the mirrored wall in the lounge, ostensibly checking my outfit, but really trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing. Or, more accurately, what the fuck Dallas is doing. It had been so incredibly hot in the theater, but now he's reined it in so far that I can't help but think he regrets it. That he's trying to prove some point to himself or to me, and that he believes that making me come during the movie was a huge mistake, contrary to some idiotic plan that he's outlined in his head to turn us into a normal couple.

  Well, dammit, I don't want to be normal.

  Or, rather, I want our normal. Mine and Dallas's. Just like I told him at the house. Just like he'd understand if he'd just listen to me and actually let my words penetrate his goddamn thick skull.

  Resolved, I turn away from the mirror, planning to head for the door. I'm going to go back out there, plunk myself down at the table beside him, and demand that Dallas tell me every single thing that is going through his head. That he explain what he's doing, why he's doing it, and why the hell he didn't lay me out and fuck me hard in the limo.

  At least, that's my plan. I don't get very far because the second I turn around, the door opens, and Dallas strides in.

  I open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head and the words die in my throat. Before I even have time to think, he's across the lounge, his hands on my shoulders pushing me back against the mirror, his mouth crushing against mine, his hand sliding up my thigh to cup my bare sex.

  I moan against his mouth, and he takes full advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue exploring, his teeth clashing with mine. He takes my lower lip and sucks on it even as his fingers stroke me, then he bites my lip as he thrusts two fingers hard inside of me, and I try to cry out, but I can't because he is claiming all of me, so much that I can't even make a sound.

  I'm melting in his arms, and I don't even care that we're in the ladies lounge of a popular nightclub. All I need is what he's giving me. All I want is to revel in the sensation of Dallas--his touch, his scent, him. The man I've been craving all night. Because he's back. Oh, thank god, he's back, and I just want to get lost in him.

  At least until I hear the toilet flush in the back part of the restroom, and my body grows stiff and cold as I realize we're not alone.

  I try to push away, but he only holds me closer, his mouth hard and hot against mine, his fingers stroking inside me as his thumb teases my clit. I hear footsteps, and I squirm, needing to get away. He raises his hand to the side of my face, blocking me from view of whoever is coming. But that's not enough. We're still here, and someone is going to see, and it's so fucking out of control and I'm so damn wet--and so damn scared that we'll be found out. That whoever it is won't just avert their eyes and walk away, but will confront Dallas. Will see me. And then the world will know and--

  And--

  Oh, Christ, what then?

  My mind is whirling and it feels like a million hours have gone by, but then I hear the stall door open and the click of high heels on the marble floor and I realize that hardly any time has passed, and I can still push away. I can still end this. I could thrust my leg up--I could knee him, break his hold. God knows I've done it enough in self-defense classes. But damn me, I don't want to.

  I don't want to.

  The realization sweeps over me, and I relax, surrendering to his touch, growing wetter and hotter and wilder as the steps continue, then soften on the carpeting.

  His fingers are inside me, thrusting hard, and I hear the startled gasp from across the room, and then the woman's quick steps followed by the sound of the door opening and closing. And then, as if the knowledge that we were seen but not caught is a trigger, I explode in Dallas's arms as he continues to stroke me, milking every drop of pleasure from my wild, relentless, fucked up, awesome orgasm.

  When my body finally stops trembling, he eases his hand away, then downshifts the pressure of his mouth against mine to gentle--not to mention deliciously sexy. Finally, he pulls away, his expression a mixture of heat and tenderness so potent I have to clench my hands against the temptation to grab his collar and pull him close again.

  He steps back, then smooths my skirt before brushing his finger over my lower lip. "I'll see you back at the table," he says. And before I can even process his words, he turns and leaves the lounge as swiftly as he'd entered.

  I watch as the door closes behind him, then lean back against the mirror, ripped up, sated, and utterly content.

  I am, I realize, smiling.

  I revel in the lingering pleasure for a moment before heading back to our table. He rises as I approach just like a proper gentleman. I meet his eyes, certain he can see the smile in mine.

  "I'm sorry," he says, once we're seated.

  I tense, thinking for a moment that he's apologizing for what happened in the lounge. Then I realize that's not right at all. Instead, he's apologizing for what came before. For the way he pulled back in the limo after such sweet wildness in the theater.

  He's apologizing for pretending to be something we're not.

  "Apology accepted."

  The booth is semi-circular and designed for two, which puts us close together, the idea being that both people can see the dance floor. There's a drape on the table, an
d when he rests his hand lightly on my thigh, I moan just a little.

  "Be careful," I whisper. "You have me so on edge that if you push me over I don't know if I could be quiet."

  "Tempting," he says, with such heat that I fear I've just challenged him to do exactly that. He doesn't, though. Instead, he softly says, "Hey," and I turn to face him more directly. He tilts his head, his eyes taking in the whole ballroom. "I know this isn't your thing."

  "You're my thing," I say, then match his answering smile with my own.

  "And big band music?"

  I love music, and he knows it. All music, actually. But I lean toward either sixties rock, heavy metal, or opera. I'm nothing if not eclectic. "I confess it wouldn't have occurred to me to come here tonight, but I really do love it. It wasn't the place that was bugging me. It was--"

  "I know. I blew it." He rubs his thumb over my thigh. "Do you have any idea how much I wanted to lay you out and fuck you hard in that limo?"

  "Dallas ..." My voice is breathy. Needy. "Do you know how much I wanted you to?"

  "In that case, I apologize for disappointing the lady."

  "Well, you made it up to me in the ladies lounge."

  His fingers ease higher up my thigh. "I'm very glad to hear it. And baby, I understand what you've been saying. We have our own standard for normal. But that still doesn't mean that I can--"

  I press my finger to his lips to silence him. "What I suggested--you pretending that I'm the Woman--that was extreme, Dallas. That's not our normal, and never could be. If you need it, I'm here. I'm always here for you. But it's up to you, and I won't mention it again." I smile as I reach under the table and slide his hand up higher even as I spread my legs. "Believe me," I say, "there are plenty of things I'd rather do with you."

  He strokes his finger over my clit and I tremble with anticipation, trying hard not to be obvious about the fact that I'm in the middle of a nightclub on the verge of a stunning orgasm.

  "I can think of things I'd rather do, too," he says as he gently pulls his hand away. "Lots of different things, actually. Including this." As he speaks, he reaches into his interior jacket pocket and pulls out a narrow box about five inches long.