She grabbed her purse and keys and moved toward the door.
He knew he should just stay silent, but once she'd opened the door and the reality of her leaving was slapping him in the face, he couldn't keep quiet. "Jane," he said, then waited for her to turn. "Are we going to be okay?"
She hesitated, and in those few moments, he felt as though he were dying. "I don't know," she finally said. "But I didn't kick you out of the house. That must count for something."
Boy Toy
I bounce from shop to shop, spending the day at the Beverly Center and Rodeo Drive and then hitting up all my favorite boutiques around Melrose Place. That doesn't eat up nearly enough time, however, and so I add a massage and a facial into the mix, then follow that with dinner and a ten o'clock movie. Afterward, I sit in my car and consider calling my film agent to see if she wants to meet for drinks at the Chateau Marmont, but considering it's already past midnight, I nix that plan.
I consider going by myself, but the thought sobers me. I don't want to be alone anymore.
The truth is, I want Dallas. I've wanted him all day. But I've been avoiding him because it feels like that's what I should be doing.
I should be staying away.
I should be keeping some distance. Evaluating. Figuring things out.
The trouble is, I figured out me and Dallas years ago. And it's not a question of should, but of how.
I know we should be together--I've always known that. What is still tormenting us is the question of how. And that's a much trickier one.
But I'm pretty damn sure that the answer doesn't lie in a bar or a mall or a movie theater. And it sure as hell doesn't lie in running away.
And the truth is, as much as I hate the thought that he slept with Adele of all people, I do understand why he didn't tell me. I wish that he had, but I understand.
No, if I dig really deep I have to admit that my biggest problem isn't that he kept a secret, but that I'm jealous. All those other women are anonymous. Even Fiona and Christine are anonymous at the core. Fungible women that aren't really part of his life.
Adele is, though. Like it or not, she's right there in both our lives. Maybe not at the center, but she's sure as hell sitting comfortably on the periphery. Which means I'm going to continue to see her. To be around her. And each and eve
ry time I'm going to think about how Dallas touched her. About how she knows the truth about us. About how she played those mind games with him, and put the thought of me right there in bed with the two of them.
And honestly, I really don't want to be thinking any of that.
With a sigh, I grab hold of the steering wheel then close my eyes and rest my forehead on my hands. I want to erase Adele from my thoughts, but that's not possible. There's no turning back time. There's no changing the past. If there was, god knows I would have done it a long time ago.
So I just have to go forward--and it's Dallas that I want to go forward with.
Which means it's time to go home.
It's time to cry in the arms of the man that I love, then let him dry my tears as we move forward, leaving Adele and all the shit behind.
It's almost one in the morning when I get home. I expect Dallas will still be up, but I'm surprised to find him asleep on the sofa bed, an empty bottle of scotch on the table next to him, along with a mostly empty glass. The television is still tuned to ESPN, the volume low, and the flickering light illuminates his sleeping face.
His clothes are on the floor, and I see his briefs and realize that I'm wet simply from the knowledge that he's naked under the sheet. I stand for a moment, debating whether I should wake him up to talk, but then he rolls onto his back. I see the way the sheet tents over his erection, and my whole body tightens with desire. I want him, plain and simple. But more than that, I want him to know that I forgive him. That I'm sorry, too.
I also think about the last time that I took advantage of his erection while he was sleeping. My throat still hurts, and he'd been so incredibly freaked out that he'd bolted. If I try again, how will he react? Will he get lost in the nightmare? And if he does, will he wake in time, or will he hurt me? Because god knows he could have gone a lot further the last time.
But I also need him to understand that I still trust him, and what better way is there?
I strip off my clothes, tug down the sheet, and carefully straddle him. Slowly--so wonderfully slowly--I lower myself, relishing the way he fills me and hoping that this time we can take this all the way. I want to see the passion and power when he explodes inside me. And we've already gotten so close--so damn close.
My thoughts are as wild as my breath, and I ride him hard--harder than I have before when we've done this, and I realize it's because part of me wants him to wake up. I want to see his face and know that he's in the now. Right here. With me.
I want to make this work. Dammit, somehow we have to make this work. Sex and life and everything.
I have one hand on his chest and the other on my clit, and I'm stroking myself and his cock, rock hard now and deep inside me. He is filling me completely, and my eyes are so focused on his face that I don't realize that his hands have moved. They're no longer at his sides, but now cup my ass, his fingers squeezing me as he works with me, pushing me down onto him harder and harder so that this ride is growing wilder and wilder, and I don't know if he's dreaming or awake. I just know that I love the way he's filling me. Taking me.
And then he opens his eyes and I gasp--He's awake. Awake and aroused and with me. He's right there with me, his eyes on mine. His breath coming in time with mine. We're in perfect sync, his cock inside me, and that knowledge is even more of a turn on than the way his body feels locked with mine.