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.”
I swallow. “Why not?”
“Because I want what we’ve never had. I want you at my side out in the world, even if I can only go so far as to open the door for you or chastely press my hand against your back to guide you through a room. I want normal.”
I shake my head, just a little. “We can’t have it. Not that kind of normal. Not now. Not ever.” I want to kick myself for saying it, because I am relishing this moment. The power of his desire for me is intoxicating, and I want to lose myself in it.
“I know,” he says. “But right now, I want the fantasy.”
My heart twists, and I nod. “All right,” I whisper.
“Then come with me.”
I hesitate only long enough to put the flowers in water, and then let him lead me out of the house to where a chauffeur holds open the door to a limo. I turn to him and raise a brow. We both have access to limos, of course, but we rarely use them, opting to drive our own cars or use one of the company’s Town Cars.
“I like to impress my dates,” he says with a small shrug.
“Consider me impressed, Mr. Sykes.”
I have to laugh when we pull up at the Film Forum on West Houston. “Bringing Up Baby,” I say, reading the marquee. I turn back to him and realize that he’s just a little blurry because I’m looking at him through sentimental tears.
“Good?” he asks.
I manage a nod and a watery smile. “Oh, yeah,” I say, my voice a little hoarse. “It’s great.”