The Man with the Golden Cock
The party is still going strong as I scurry from the cabana, my mind in a jumble. I know I should stop and talk to Dallas—but the truth is that I don’t know what to say. What just happened in there was, well, absolutely fucking incredible. I can’t deny that I liked it. Hell, I loved it.
Or at least I did until the fantasy ended and Dallas talked to Christine. Christine. He knew her name. Why? Because he’d slept with her, of course.
Well, fuck.
This is hardly a revelation, and yet I can’t deny that it bothered me the same way that watching him touch the blond bitch or the tattooed brunette bothered me. Even though there’s something so incredibly hot about that game of ours—even though I know he was thinking about me and only me—the whole thing just felt wrong tonight. And now that wrongness is sitting in my gut. Raw and sour and festering.
And I can’t talk to Dallas about it, because the most wrong thing of all is that it didn’t bother him. To Dallas, it was playtime as usual.
To Dallas, nothing has changed over these last four days. But to me, the entire world is different.
Ergo, the running.
I keep my head down as I slide through the crowd, skirting the cabana and heading to the lush, manicured lawn. This section of the property isn’t well-lit in order to keep most of the guests on the pool deck, in the house, or on the temporary dance floor that’s been set up on the lawn closer to the residence.
Despite the dim lighting—or perhaps because of it—there are still a few people mingling about, but I soon leave them behind. By the time I reach the hedge maze that blocks this area from the more private family garden, I’m the only one around.
When Dallas and Liam and I were children, this maze was exceptionally easy to navigate, primarily because the hedge was only a foot high. Now, more than twenty years later, it’s eight feet tall, but I still remember my way through, and I’m clear in under five minutes and heading toward the garden shed.
As soon as I reach it, I collapse onto the small wooden bench that sits flush against the stone wall. I breathe deeply, grateful to be hidden from view. Away from the party. From Dallas. From everything.
Except I’m not. He’s followed me, of course.
I hear him first—the sound of his footsteps. Firm. Determined. Steady.
He’s not running, but walking quickly. Then he is standing in front of me. My head is down, so I see only the soft leather of his Brioni loafers and the cuff of his Dior Homme jeans. Casual clothes for a casual party. But there’s nothing casual about his manner. His stance alone radiates power, and though he says nothing, I know that he is worried about me.
Hell, I’m a little worried about me.
Slowly, I tilt my head up to look at him. I’ve stared at him for hours tonight, but despite my roiling emotions, I can’t help but be riveted by him now. Or maybe it’s because of those emotions. Because Dallas Sykes is beautiful. A living sculpture. A model of male perfection.
His legs are clad in the faded denim, tight enough to accent his muscular thighs, not to mention his semi-erect cock. He wears a plain white T-shirt under the thin gray cashmere sweater that I bought him for his birthday almost four months ago. He looks sexy as hell—like he just walked off the runway of a men’s fashion show. And it’s all I can do to still my fingers that want nothing more than to grab a fistful of cashmere and pull him violently toward me.
I don’t. Instead I continue my inspection, tilting my head back further to see his face. I expect the hard line of his jaw to be tight with frustration and his emerald green eyes to burn with irritation. I expect those lips to scold me—to ask what the fuck is wrong with me.
Instead, he says, “I’m sorry.”
I blink, the words as unexpected as a slap.
“I thought you’d like it,” he says. “Something hot. Something for us.”
“Something hidden. Something secret.” As soon as I say the words I regret them. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It was hot—incredibly hot. And I did like it. You know I did. It’s just …”
“We can’t be open,” he says, then sighs. “I know.”
He drags his fingers through his caramel-colored hair, and I watch as his expression hardens.
“It’s not just us, you know,” he says, moving to sit beside me. “Everything about these parties is secret. I’m playing a role. I know we haven’t talked much yet about Deliverance, but you understand that, right? I’m—”
“The man with the golden cock,” I say. “Yeah, I get that.”
He winces. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Dallas.” Shit. Fuck. “I didn’t mean—”