Sweetest Taboo (SIN 3)

My mouth is another playground as he crushes his lips over mine, so hard they bruise me, so wild our teeth clash and I taste the coppery tinge of blood. It's a full-on assault of the senses, and I relish it. Hell, I need it.

But then as quickly as he claimed me, he pushes himself away, breathing hard. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

"Why?" The word is sharp. Serious.

I gape at him. "Did you not just see what happened? I fucking lost it. I mean, I snapped, Dallas, and what those girls said is hardly the worst of what we're going to hear. So I need you. Because this is going to get bad. I need to know there's a place where I can let go. Where you will catch me. Bring me back even if I'm pushed to the edge."

I draw in a breath and rush on. "So I want it as hot and hard as you can make it. I want it rough. I want to be vulnerable. Because under it all, with you I know that I'm safe. I need--oh, god, Dallas, I need to feel. I need you to make me feel."

For a moment, he only looks at me, and this is one of the few times that I truly can't read his expression. I feel a sudden sharp pang of fear that somehow we've gotten off the same page, and that he doesn't get it. Doesn't get me.

But then he looks around the room, his gaze skimming the living and dining area. When he turns back to face me, his face is hard. Determined. And there is a very definite gleam in his eye.

"I think you need to go to the table, Jane. And I think you need to bend over."

The heat in his voice warms me, melting away the last of my trepidation. I do as he says, moving beside the dining table that is approximately one meter squared.

I glance back at him, uncertain where and how he wants me, but he makes a circular gesture with his finger, and I know to turn around and face the tabletop.

He comes up behind me, and presses his hand to the small of my back.

I shiver from his touch--and then cry out when he grabs the waist of the sundress and yanks hard, literally ripping it from my body. He does the same with my underwear, only they don't rip as easily, and there's a hard, hot pressure against my pussy before the material gives way.

The violent power of such a claiming act spins through my body. And, honestly, it's a wonder I don't come right then.

"Close your eyes," he says, and I comply, then spread my legs when he orders me to do that, too. "Wider," he says. "Even with the table legs."

That leaves me wide open and exposed. And when he wraps something around my ankles--"twine," he tells me--and ties me to the table legs, I feel the pounding of my pulse in my throat--and between my legs.

Because my legs are spread so far, I can bend forward and lay atop the table, my ass pretty much level with the tabletop. I know this, because that's exactly what Dallas has me do, and then he tells me to stretch my arms out in a V so that my fingertips hang over the opposite corners.

Dallas moves around the table to stand in front of me, and I lift my head and chest to look at him, my shoulders back as if I were in a kinky yoga class, tied down and doing the cobra pose.

"Like what you see?" he asks, smirking as he wraps one end of a length of twine around my wrist, then ties the other end to a table leg.

He's still wearing his jeans and T-shirt, and so I lift a brow and say, "Not bad. I can think of at least one way to improve my view."

"Can you?" He repeats the process with my other wrist so that I am now spread-eagled. Not to mention completely vulnerable.

He moves slowly around the table, trailing his fingertip over my skin as he moves. "Oh, sweetheart," he says. "I do like this. You're laid out like a feast for me."

"In that case, I hope you enjoy eating me."

I hear a muffled sound that may be him holding back a chuckle. "Oh, I'm very sure I will. Right now, though, this is about your enjoyment. Hold on."

His fingers leave my skin, and I feel bereft while he's not touching me. I try to twist around enough to find him, but it's just not possible, and I'm left to rely on my ears to tell me what he's doing. Honestly, I don't know. He's stepped into

the bedroom and I hear him opening drawers, but I don't have a clue what he could be looking for.

Finally, he returns, and this time when his hands stroke my back, they are slick with oil. It heats up as he moves his palms over my shoulders and down my spine, and when I breathe in, I can actually taste the mint. "Massage oil," I say, and those simple words make me wonder what other sexual toys he might have here in the bungalow. Dallas invested in Cortez long before we got together, and I imagine he's brought a few of the women he fucked before me to the island.

"I have quite a few little treats stashed in the bungalow," he says, confirming my words and making my gut twist with jealousy. "But this is the first time I've used any of them with someone I love. With the only woman I've ever loved."

Immediately, my jealousy fades to warmth. I know with unerring certainty that what he says is true.

"I'd forgotten what was in this box, actually," he says. "Honestly, I have a pretty interesting collection."