Hottest Mess (SIN 2)

I brush my teeth--twice. Do my makeup with more care than usual. Then get dressed in a sheer black blouse and Agent Provocateur bra paired with a stunning cotton jersey skirt that features a slit so high up my thigh it would have revealed the leg band of my underwear had I been wearing any.

I'm not sure if Dallas is planning a hands-off, old-fashioned date or if he intends to rip my clothes off and have his way with me. If it's the first, he'll never know I'm going commando. And if it's the second--

Well, I really hope it's the second.

He said he wanted hand-holding and kisses--and while that sounds lovely, I want more. With Dallas, I always want more. And the truth is, I know he does, too.

So while I'm excited for the date, I'm also a little afraid that this is part of a bigger slide backward. That he's going to keep dangling the carrot of kink without ever actually getting there. Which would be fine if we were a regular couple, but we're not. At some point he has to take me into the dark with him. He says he knows that; he even sounds like he really believes it.

I'm just not completely confident in his follow-through.

I draw a breath and tell myself it's okay. He needs time, and he needs to work things through for himself.

Hopefully, tonight is about doing the work.

I check my hair and makeup one last time, then slip on my shoes--strappy sandals with four inch heels that do wonders for my legs and ass. I'm ready. And I still have twenty minutes before he's scheduled to arrive.

I frown, my mind in a whirl, the seconds ticking away so slowly it's painful. With a shock, I realize I'm nervous, as much at loose ends as I'd been for my very first date with Danny McBride when I was thirteen. I hadn't really been interested in Danny--even then, I knew deep down which boy I really wanted--but I was genuinely flattered by his attraction to me. I'd been a wreck waiting for him to show up, not knowing what to expect or if I'd like it.

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."