I peek up at him through my lashes just long enough to see him looking back down at me, his expression stern, but his eyes filled with the same desire I’ve seen all my life. Then he tugs on my hair and says, “Now, dammit. Your mouth, my cock,” and I feel a shiver of pure pleasure cut through me with such intensity that it rivals an orgasm.
I unbutton his pants and ease out his cock. He’s hard—so damn hard—and absolutely perfect. I cup his balls with one hand and fist his cock with the other, then tease the tip with my tongue, gratified when a tremor cuts through him and he moans, low and deep. I want more, though. He thinks he’s the one in control, keeping me silent and on my knees, but right now, I want to break him. I want to take him all the way.
And even though I know he says he can’t, I want to feel him explode in my mouth.
I take him in, slowly at first, teasing and sucking. Letting the sensation build and gauging his reaction by the way he holds my head. The almost pained noises he makes. I take him deeper, reveling in feminine power as he holds me tight with one hand and reaches back to balance himself against the sideboard with the other.
He’s close—his body trembling, his cock tightening. And oh, god, if I can just take him there. If I can just get him off that would be one step closer—one bit of proof that we can make this work. That we can work past all the loss and horror—all the crap—that’s followed us around for seventeen long years.
As if he realizes it too, he releases the sideboard and grabs my head with both hands, holding me motionless. So that now it’s not me going down on him—it’s not me in control—but Dallas. Dallas fucking my mouth. Using me. Taking himself to the edge, and me with him. Because I’m on fire. Every inch of my body tingling. My yoga pants soaked. And all I want is release. All I want is for him to break, to come.
He’s thrusting hard into me, his cock pounding into the back of my throat so that I have to concentrate to breathe through my nose, to not gag, but I want this. I crave it. I fucking love it, because it’s wild and it’s him and he’s not holding back.
But even as the thought cuts through me, he gasps, the sound choked. He roughly pulls out of me, releasing my hair and pushing me back at the same time, so that I fall backward, my arms out to keep me from landing flat on my back.
I’m breathing hard from my position on the floor, and he’s doing the same from above me. Our eyes lock, and I can see both frustration and need on his face. At first I think that he’s frustrated because he couldn’t reach release, but then he lowers himself to me and tugs off my pants. My chest tightens as I realize what he wants—what he’s willing to try.
“You’re mine, Jane,” he growls as he straddles me. “Mine,” he says as he kisses me. As he reaches between us and strokes me, his fingers slick as he thrusts inside, readying me.
“Say you want me.”
“You know I do,” I whisper, then feel the head of his cock at my core. I bite my lower lip as he pushes against me, as his eyes meet mine, and I see the flair of victory as he enters me—and then the gray shadow of defeat as he goes soft.
I press my lips together, my heart breaking for him. “Dallas, it’s—”
“Okay?” His eyes flash. “Is it? Is it really?”
I start to answer but he shakes his head, and I stay silent, uncertain if we’re playing the game again or if he just needs the silence. I expect him to get up. To pace and fume and work out his frustration. But as his hands start to stroke along my body, hard and possessive, I realize that it is not the world that will bear the brunt of his frustration, but me.
Slowly, sensually, he traces his fingers over my body. Grazing my shoulders. Circling my breasts. Teasing my nipples so relentlessly that I arch up in a silent, demanding claim for more.
He moves lower, his hand rubbing my belly as his mouth sucks each of my fingers, the sensation rocking through me, making me squeeze my thighs together in defense against he growing pressure building at my core.
He’s pushing it aside—the failure to fuck me. He’s turning it around and turning me on. Owning me. Claiming me. Proving that he deserves his reputation, and that whether he can penetrate me or not, he can still take me all the way to heaven and back.
I don’t know know what’s going on in his head—I don’t understand what triggered this or why he tried to fuck me now. And at the moment, I don’t care. I’m content to lose myself in sensation. In the feel of him. Sucking. Stroking. And then his hands are working lower and lower until he thrusts two fingers inside me and orders me to ride him.
“Tell me,” he says, teasing just around my clit, but not quite touching where I so desperately want pressure. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I am.”
“Mine,” he repeats, and this time the demand is coupled with the deep, rhythmic thrust of his fingers and the relentless tease of his thumb against my clit. “Not Bill’s. Not any other man’s.”