Hottest Mess (SIN 2)

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.

I'm intrigued enough that I almost forgive him for withdrawing his touch, and I wonder for a moment if he's bought me a necklace. But when he hands me the box there is almost no weight to it at all, and no rattle when I gently shake it.

"What is this?"

"Happy birthday," he says, and I light with pleasure.

"Thank you, but that's not for four more days."