Hottest Mess (SIN 2)

I lick some of the popcorn butter off my lips, trying to decide. "I guess that depends on your definition of a gentleman," I finally say. "Isn't a gentleman the kind of man who takes care of his woman?"

The corner of his mouth curves up. "Oh, yes," he says, as his finger continues the slow, inexorable path to my core.

I tilt my head back as I draw in a shuddering breath. "Be a gentleman," I demand as his fingers slide over my slick, wet clit and I spread my legs, wanting more, trying to stay silent, and desperately thankful that he brought us to the back row. "Please," I beg. "Fuck me like a gentleman."

"Whatever the lady wants," he says as he enters me and I pivot my hips, rocking against his hand, getting fucked in a movie theater in front of Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant as my orgasm crashes over me, fast and hard and wonderful.

After making me explode during the Golden Age of Hollywood, Dallas sweeps me away to another era. We're at the Balcony for dinner and cocktails while we listen to the Glenn Miller-esque sounds of a big band and watch at least half a dozen dancers on the floor in front of us.

It's wonderful and lovely and sweet and classy.

It's also frustrating as hell because he hasn't touched me once since we left the theater. On the contrary, we wasted a forty-five minute drive in the limo sitting politely next to each other while he talked about Hepburn and Cary Grant and Howard Hawks, the director.

I can't tell if he's pulling some sort of mind fuck on me or if he regrets the way he'd stroked and filled me during the movie, and almost made me scream louder than the damn soundtrack.

Something's up, though, and it's driving me batshit crazy.

"Do you want to dance?" he asks as I take a sip of my martini.

"No," I say, more sharply than I intended. "I really don't."

"You don't like it here."

"No--I mean yes." I exhale loudly. "Oh, fuck, Dallas. This place is amazing and you know it. It's like we stepped into a different age. The band. The cocktails. The lighting. The whole ambiance." I push my chair back and rise. "It's like we're not even ourselves anymore."

"Jane?" He's out of his seat, too, but I gesture him back down.

"No, no, stay. I just--I just need to go to the ladies' room."

I turn without waiting for his reply, and follow the signs to a restroom that is just as elegant as the rest of the Balcony. The door opens onto a lounge area, beyond which are individual stalls each complete with a toilet, sink, vanity, lighted mirror, and an upholstered stool to make reapplying makeup that much more comfortable.

Since I don't actually need the restroom, I loiter in front of the mirrored wall in the lounge, ostensibly checking my outfit, but really trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing. Or, more accurately, what the fuck Dallas is doing. It had been so incredibly hot in the theater, but now he's reined it in so far that I can't help but think he regrets it. That he's trying to prove some point to himself or to me, and that he believes that making me come during the movie was a huge mistake, contrary to some idiotic plan that he's outlined in his head to turn us into a normal couple.

Well, dammit, I don't want to be normal.

Or, rather, I want our normal. Mine and Dallas's. Just like I told him at the house. Just like he'd understand if he'd just listen to me and actually let my words penetrate his goddamn thick skull.

Resolved, I turn away from the mirror, planning to head for the door. I'm going to go back out there, plunk myself down at the table beside him, and demand that Dallas tell me every single thing that is going through his head. That he explain what he's doing, why he's doing it, and why the hell he didn't lay me out and fuck me hard in the limo.

At least, that's my plan. I don't get very far because the second I turn around, the door opens, and Dallas strides in.

I open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head and the words die in my throat. Before I even have time to think, he's across the lounge, his hands on my shoulders pushing me back against the mirror, his mouth crushing against mine, his hand sliding up my thigh to cup my bare sex.

I moan against his mouth, and he takes full advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue exploring, his teeth clashing with mine. He takes my lower lip and sucks on it even as his fingers stroke me, then he bites my lip as he thrusts two fingers hard inside of me, and I try to cry out, but I can't because he is claiming all of me, so much that I can't even make a sound.

I'm melting in his arms, and I don't even care that we're in the ladies lounge of a popular nightclub. All I need is what he's giving me. All I want is to revel in the sensation of Dallas--his touch, his scent, him. The man I've been craving all night. Because he's back. Oh, thank god, he's back, and I just want to get lost in him.

At least until I hear the toilet flush in the back part of the restroom, and my body grows stiff and cold as I realize we're not alone.

I try to push away, but he only holds me closer, his mouth hard and hot against mine, his fingers stroking inside me as his thumb teases my clit. I hear footsteps, and I squirm, needing to get away. He raises his hand to the side of my face, blocking me from view of whoever is coming. But that's not enough. We're still here, and someone is going to see, and it's so fucking out of control and I'm so damn wet--and so damn scared that we'll be found out. That whoever it is won't just avert their eyes and walk away, but will confront Dallas. Will see me. And then the world will know and--

And--

Oh, Christ, what then?

My mind is whirling and it feels like a million hours have gone by, but then I hear the stall door open and the click of high heels on the marble floor and I realize that hardly any time has passed, and I can still push away. I can still end this. I could thrust my leg up--I could knee him, break his hold. God knows I've done it enough in self-defense classes. But damn me, I don't want to.

I don't want to.