She whirled on him, her expression ferocious. "Are you trying to push me away? Because it won't work. You think you're the only one trying to deal with all this? That's bullshit."
She marched right up to him and poked him in the chest so hard he winced. "You're the one who kept me here, remember? I was trying to get the hell away from this place so that maybe--maybe--I could get my head around the fact that we have to live in this gray plastic bubble where we can't touch or even look at each other in the real world because you're my brother and we're fucking--"
"No." Her words had been pounding on him like a hammer, but that one finally broke him.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "No, that is not what's between us." He pulled her close and captured her mouth, then shifted his hands to her back and pulled her tight against him. He wanted to absorb her. Consume her. And when he broke away from her, he felt the loss like a physical blow. "That is not all there is," he said breathlessly, "and you know it as well as I do."
She was breathing as hard as he was, her chest rising and falling, her skin flushed, her eyes wild. "I do. Of course I do. It's so much more."
She fisted her hand in his collar and used that hold to lever herself to him. "And I want even more, Dallas. I told you. I'm greedy. Where you're concerned I'm the greediest woman on earth." She reached out and brushed his cheek with the side her hand. "I want every bit of you. Even the scary parts. Even the part she touched."
"Jane." He couldn't find words. He wanted to argue. He wanted run.
He wanted to pull her close and kiss her again just to shut her up.
And because he wanted it so damn much, that's exactly what he did.
Glass Houses
His mouth closes over mine, hot and demanding, and every thought in my head disappears like dandelion fluff in the wind. Somewhere in my mind, I know that I should press him--that we have things to talk about--but I don't have the willpower.
Where Dallas is concerned, I have no strength at all.
"I need you," he says, breaking the kiss and cupping my face with his hands. "I need you to understand. To know."
I start to ask what that means--what he thinks I don't understand--but the words stall in my throat when he unzips my skirt, takes the two halves of the waistband, and rips it completely off my body.
I gasp, and some small part of my brain tells me that I should be angry. I love this skirt, and it cost a small fortune. But I'm not upset. On the contrary, I'm so desperately turned on that I feel the muscles of my core clenching with need. And I'm incredibly wet. That one violent, wild act of possession has completely stripped me of my defenses and I'm open and desperate and wanting.
"The shirt." His voice is as hard as his expression. "Take it off or I'll take it off for you."
I lick my lips, and part of me wants to challenge him. There's something unfamiliar and dangerous in his eyes. Something possessive and primal. I want to push--I want to taunt him into going as far as he wants and needs--but some instinct tells me to hold back, and so I quell the urge and very slowly peel my shirt off and toss it on top of my tattered skirt.
I never put on fresh underwear, so now I am standing in nothing but my bra and three inch strappy sandals. I reach back to unfasten the bra, but he shakes his head.
"Don't even think about it," he says. "You look too damn delicious."
"Do I?" I step closer, then slide into his arm
s, my essentially naked body pressed against his still fully-clothed one. "Then maybe you should eat me?"
"Believe me, it's on the agenda." He takes a step back, and I frown as the distance between us grows. "To the window," he says, nodding at the floor to ceiling window that looks out over one of the side lawns and across the dunes to the ocean.
I walk slowly, not sure what he's up to.
"Hands on the glass," he says, coming up behind me. "Spread your legs."
I stay perfectly still, not making a single move to comply as he tugs the cups of my lacy bra down to expose my breasts.
"Breasts, too," he says. "Think how nice the cool glass will feel against your warm nipples."
"Dallas." My voice is hoarse. "Someone might see."
"They won't. The guests are mostly on the pool deck and by the band and the bar." He pushes me forward, then lifts my hands and places my palms against the glass. Then he spreads my legs and eases me forward. I whimper as my nipples touch the cool window, and then I suck in a sharp breath as he traces a fingertip down my spine, over my ass, and then slides his warm hand between my legs.
He is standing right behind me, and I can see the reflection of his face in the glass, and beyond that the foam on the cresting waves glowing in the moonlight. "No one will see us," he murmurs in my ear. "But even if they did," he adds as he slides his fingers deep inside me, "all that would mean is that they know you are mine. That you're the woman I want. Not Fiona or Christine or any of them. Only you."
I want to argue. I want to remind him that there's a whole hell of a lot that people would know. Like what Dallas and I are to each other, and how we are breaking the rules.