“I haven’t forgotten, baby,” he murmurs against my hair. “I remember exactly how tight and hot and wet you are. I remember each and every place you like me to touch you. I am a dying man waiting to hear those sweet whimpers you make when I slide inside you.”
I whimper right then, because damn. He feels so good, smells so good, tastes so good. He’s familiar but at the same time, new, different from what I remember. Rougher around the edges, broader, and behaving more boldly than he ever has with me.
The boy version from my memories was sweet, polite, and somewhat distant. The grown-up version of Dallas Walker Lark is all hard edges, and intensity—sin wrapped in sugar sprinkled with lust. And I want to savor every single bite.
I am a throbbing, aching, needy mess and everything I should be thinking about—the past, the future, the insurmountable pain that this likely will cause—has fallen away. All I can concentrate on is the pleasure.
Because I know he can give it to me.
I’ve dated a little here and there when my job allowed. I’ve even fooled around pretty seriously with a few guys and had a one-night stand with a friend of a friend. But none of them ever managed to make me feel the way Dallas does.
Completely out of control.
I am at his mercy and while I should be terrified, all I feel is the thrill of adrenaline, as if a needle shot him into my veins.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stop this, because I know this is a sure thing when it comes to orgasms. I’m going to have them, lots of them, and Dallas is going to provide them in reckless abundance as he always has. He’s matured a great deal, but some things never change. Thank God.
When he sinks a thick finger into me, curling it forward at just the right spot, I arch my back and cry out. At least there’s a glass partition between us and the driver. Because I want to give in. I want to let go and shatter the way only he can make me.
“I hope you’re rested, sweet girl,” Dallas rasps with damp heat in my ear.
The town blurs by us, the city lights melting like I am in the rain.
“W-what? Why?”
“Because it’s going to be a long night.”
11 | Dallas
I’D BLAME THE PANCAKES, OR THE INTOXICATING COMBINATION OF blueberry and maple syrup that assaulted my senses when I put my mouth on hers, but it’s the sweet, sinful taste of Robyn that tosses me carelessly over the edge.
Seeing her tonight—those legs taunting me from beneath her dress, that mouth that spewed those angry declarations, gleaming eyes that told me what she was saying and what she was feeling were two very different things—has brought a man to life inside me that I forgot existed.
I’d invited her out for pancakes to try to make peace, to let her know that I wasn’t going to act like an asshole on this tour. She’d fucking slapped me. The sweetest girl I’ve ever known slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring and I’d never been more turned on in my life.
She said she hated me. Not that she was pissed or still holding a grudge—fucking hated me. I knew she didn’t mean it, but there was something about the challenge in the words, the defiance. I knew she didn’t mean it and I needed to hear that sexy mouth say sweeter words.
I couldn’t leave it like that, couldn’t leave her like that. Years ago I’d let Robyn go, walked away because she’d asked me to. Then I’d behaved like a complete ass afterward. And Robyn, my tough girl, had always just said it was okay. It was fine. She understood. She could handle it.
She could handle anything, always. Nothing rattled her or set her off. Robyn liked to be in control.
But tonight I’d caused her to lose that control, watched her let loose on me and everything I’d held in from the moment I saw her came roaring to the surface, possessing me and propelling my body to hers in a fusion of frustration and lust-filled fantasies come to life.
Tearing at her clothing as we make our way to my hotel room, I have no regrets.
“I want you so fucking bad, Robyn,” I tell her, because it’s the truth. “I barely made it through that fucking meal.”