Sweetest Taboo (15 page)

Sure, he still enjoyed sex rough. Still got hard at the thought of knowing that she would bend to his will. That she would give herself over to his enjoyment and, more, that he was responsible for hers. That she was surrendering everything to him. That she was trusting him completely.

But it wasn't kink that he craved—it was Jane. The pleasure of feeling her against him. The heat of her skin. The allure of her touch. Wild, gentle, rough, easy. He wanted it all. Hell, with Jane he craved it. Needed her touch, the way she gave herself over to him, as much as he needed to breathe. Not as punishment, but as pleasure. As a gift for the both of them, every intimate act taking them higher and making them closer.

And yes, they both still fought their demons—hell, they probably always would—but for the most part, they'd weathered the storm.

Pretty fucking amazing.

And yet there was still a hole in his heart. Because no matter how much they'd conquered and how much they overcame, at the end of the day, they couldn't be together. He would never stand at an altar and watch her come toward him in a white dress. He'd never see their grandmother's face light up as they cut the cake at their reception. He'd never see Jane dance the first dance with their father.

And he'd damn sure never see Eli give her away to him.

Fuck.

He wanted those things—he did. But he knew well enough that they'd never be his.

His phone buzzed, and he stopped walking as he pulled it from his back pocket, expecting Jane. Instead, he realized that a call from Liam had gone to voicemail and he brought the phone up to his ear, listening to Liam's update as he walked.

In the message Liam ran through all the dead ends. The attempts to track who might have released Carol Lucas's dog from the kennel. The update on searching for the van in various security and traffic camera footage in an attempt to get a photograph of the driver and passenger. Quince's progress with Colin, which was pretty damn minimal. In other words, nada.

“That's pretty much it,” Liam's message continued. “We're still pulling at threads. Analyzing the paper those letters to you were written on. Comparing guest lists to all your parties over the years and checking the names against their social media accounts to see if any crazy shows up. But it's not going to be fast. We're dealing with an extremely intelligent psychopath. So watch your back. And take care of Jane.”

Dallas frowned, wishing the news were better. He started to type out a text response to Liam, then decided not to. Liam hardly needed Dallas's input, and for one more day Dallas craved escape.

When he looked up, the women on the beach had gotten close enough to recognize, and he waved. The tall brunette with the vibrant tattoo of a bird on her arm and shoulder was Cass, Sylvia's best friend. Sylvia was Stark's former assistant and now the project manager for The Resort at Cortez. But it wasn't Syl who walked beside Cass, but a lean redhead who he recognized as her girlfriend, Siobhan.

“I didn't realize you two were on the island.”

Cass shook her head. “We weren't supposed to be here at all. Syl and Jackson had intended to come last night with the kids for a few days of R & R, but then Jeffery got an ear infection, so they're staying home.” She reached for Siobhan's hand and grinned. “Worked out well, though. No better place to celebrate than here, right?”

“What are you celebrating?”

As if they'd both been waiting for him to ask the question, they each thrust out their left hands, revealing matching silver bands ringed with Celtic symbols. “You got married. That's wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Not yet. But we did get engaged.”

“She popped the question,” Siobhan added, grinning. “Got down on her knees and everything, it was totally corny and incredibly awesome.”

“I didn't have a ring, but I didn't want to wait. We were playing miniature golf of all things, and she just looked so perfect.”

“So she used one of the hoops from her ear,” Siobhan continued. “It didn't even really fit, but I wore it anyway on the tip of my pinkie until we could go buy matching rings.” She lifted Cass's hand to her lips and kissed it. “And so here we are.”

“When's the date?”

“Haven't set it yet. You'll come?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

They exchanged glances. “Is Jane here?”

He felt his gut tighten. Cass had never met Jane, but the fact that she knew of her made it all too clear that she'd seen the media reports. “She's back at the bungalow.”

“Oh, good. We'd love to meet her.” Once again, she took Siobhan's hand. “Listen, I hope this isn't out of line, but I just want to say I feel for you. I mean, you should be able to be with the person you love, you know?”

Wasn't that the god's honest truth?

And as he watched them walk away, he realized that maybe—just maybe—he'd finally figured out how. Even if his father continued to refuse to help.

Dallas has set up a small picnic on the private section of the beach that makes up our bungalow's backyard. Since I'm in full picnic mode, I'm wearing a little black bikini that was definitely designed to soak up a maximum amount of sun. I have a sarong tied at my waist, but it's for fashion more than coverage, as the slit at the side reveals more than a little hip and one entire thigh.

Dallas is dressed casually, too, in khaki shorts and a white short-sleeved Henley that accentuates both his tan and the toned muscles of his arms. Honestly, the picnic is nice, but I'd be content to just lay here and soak up the view.

A blanket serves as our dining area, and we're enjoying an incredible lunch of fresh fruit and stuffed fillets of salmon that Dallas actually made himself. I take a bite, then sigh with pleasure before taking another sip of my wine mixed with Diet Sprite, a drink Dallas thinks is the devil, but I think is totally refreshing and beach-worthy.

Dallas meets my eyes, and for some reason I laugh.

“All right,” he says. “Tell me.”

“I don't know what's funny. Maybe I'm just grateful I have a boyfriend who can cook.”

“Boyfriend,” he says, as if he's turning the word over and examining it from all sides. “I don't think you've called me that before.”

I lift a shoulder as cold fingers of discontent edge toward me. “Well, it's true.”

“Very true,” he says, and the heat in his voice is undeniable.

“I want more.” My confession is soft, and I toy with the stem of my wineglass as I say it. “I don't know, Dallas. I want to say I'm not pissed at Daddy for not agreeing with your idea about rescinding, but I am. He just doesn't see the big picture. And you and I—we've lost out on so much time already.”

For a moment he just looks at me, then he gets up and kneels in front of me, his hands on the arms of my beach chair so that I'm locked in and he's very, very close. “I love you,” he says.

“You better,” I counter.

His lips don't even twitch, and his eyes don't drift off mine. “I love you,” he says again, extending his hand. “Come with me.”

Since I really have no choice in the matter, I do, and he leads me all the way down to where the ocean greets the waves as they roll in and roll out in a timeless rhythm.

I'm about to ask him again what we're doing, but he pulls me close and kisses me, hard and deep and so passionately it seems as though that kiss has released a thousand strings of firelight that are now lighting me up from the inside.

I whimper when he pulls away, because although I want him to tell me what's on his mind, I also don't want that kiss to end.

“Tell me you can't live without this,” he says.

“You know I can't.”

“Tell me you want me.”

“I do,” I whisper. “You know I do.”

“I did some thinking on the beach today and I realized that I don't want to wait anymore. So I went to the gift shop, and I bought you something.”

I'm about to ask what he's talking about when he actually drops to one knee in front of me, then holds up a blue-green macramé ring. It's so absurd—and yet his face is so serious—that tears well in my eyes and I press my fingers to my mouth.

“Marry me, Jane.”

A tear escapes, and I taste its saltiness when I open my mouth to gasp. “Dallas, what—”

“I love you,” he interrupts. “I've loved you for as long as I can remember, and I will love you for the rest of my life and beyond. I don't want to spend a day without you. You inspire me. You humble me. You're my best friend and my deepest passion. The other half of me. The best part of my soul. Please, Jane Martin. Will you be my wife?”

I'm not sure when it happened, but somehow I'm on my knees, too, and he's slipping the silly ring on my finger, and I'm hugging it to my chest, the tears coming too hard and too fast for me to manage words.

I want to pull him close and kiss him hard; I want to shake him and demand to know what the hell he's been smoking.

I'm bursting with sunshine; I'm completely miserable.

I love him—and yet we both know I can't have him. And I don't understand why he's playing such a cruel game, teasing us both with something that is so far out of reach.

He cups my cheek. “Say something, baby. If it's the ring, I promise I'll take you to Tiffany when we get back home.”

Laughter escapes, conquering the building tears. “No way,” I say. “I love this ring. It's just that I—I don't know why you're doing this. We can't—you know we can't. There's no state—no country, even—where we can get married, and if Daddy won't agree…”

“All the more reason for us to go ahead and do it.”

“You're talking crazy, Dallas.”

“I'm talking about you and me.” He brushes the tears from my cheek with the side of his thumb. “Maybe we are a little crazy, but I want to do this.”

“Do what?” I know my voice sounds exasperated but I feel like a child who's been shown the most delectable chocolate cake and yet it's forever just out of reach.

“I saw Cass and Siobhan on the beach this morning, and their engagement got me thinking about my friend Jared from St. Anthony's. Do you remember him?”

“The guy you and Quince used to study with? The one with the
Dr. Who
obsession?”

“That's him. He's gay, and about thirteen years ago, he and his partner, William, got married.”

I frown. “Where were they living?”

“Chicago. He's an American like me. Just over there for the education.”

“But—wait. Gay marriage hasn't been legal for that long. Not even close.”

“They did it themselves. Had a ceremony with friends, and it was nice. Quince and I were both there. Had estate planning papers drawn up. Not a state-sanctioned marriage, a do-it-yourself one.”

“Oh,” I say, finally understanding where he's going with this.

“So we have a service. We revise our wills. We draft a partnership agreement. We hire a lawyer and make the estate part of this work. The rest of it is just you and me deciding to do it.” He squeezes my hand. “And somewhere in all of that, I really will buy you a better ring.”

I burst out laughing. “I love what you're suggesting. But, Dallas, it's not the same, and they still win, and—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “That's the point. They don't win.
We
do. Because we're changing the rules. We're taking control from the people who deign to say what we can be to each other. And we'll be together. Say, yes, baby. Say yes, and be my wife.”

“Yes,” I say, then throw my arms around him as a joyous laughter bubbles out of me. “Yes, yes, a million times, yes.”

And then he's kissing me, and we fall backward on the sand, and the surf splashes up over us so that I squeal and try to squirm away, but he holds me down tight, his hands pinning me at the wrists as he straddles my waist.

“And you know the best part?” he says with a playful grin.

“The sex?”

He grins, but otherwise ignores me. “If we ever sell our story, you can write it.”

“That's not the best part,” I counter. “The best part is that we have a happy ending.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at me with such tenderness I almost melt. “We do.”

I'm still trapped beneath him, but as another wave comes in, I gasp from the cold and then wiggle my hips. “And meanwhile, we still have the sex.”

His mouth twitches. “Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “We definitely do.”

He stands, then scoops me up, surprising me by hoisting me over his shoulder and giving my ass a light slap. “Dallas!” I squeal, but the protest is only for show. Wherever he's taking me, I'm going willingly. I just don't want to go far.

Neither does he, and he puts me down carefully on the blanket after just a few steps. “Here?” I ask, a little breathless.

“Here. Now. Because I don't want to go another step without being inside you. I want the blue sky above us and the heat of the sun rivaling the way the touch of your skin burns through me.”

He's still standing, and I enjoy the view of his damp T-shirt and shorts clinging to his perfect body. He's hard, and I can see the outline of his cock against his shorts. He gets down beside me, and I prop myself up on one elbow as he leans in close to my ear and whispers softly so that his breath tickles my senses and sends shivers down my spine. “We've wasted time. But we're not going to waste any more.”

“We're not?”

“Definitely not.” His mouth brushes slowly over my cheek as he murmurs the words, and, dammit, I just can't take it any longer. I twist my head, forcing my mouth against his, and then sigh with pleasure when he opens to me.

He tastes like the Cabernet he's been sipping, and I'm so light-headed from the way his tongue is teasing me that I think perhaps I'm drunk on him, and I moan a little, letting him in deeper and losing myself in the taste and touch of him.

I'm aching for him, desperate to feel his hands on me. I crave the warmth of his skin against mine and the weight of his hips on my pelvis. I crave that sweetness of a building climax as he teases me softly, stroking tender areas, playing me like an instrument that he is building to a bold crescendo.

I crave it, and yet so far, I don't have it, though I can't complain about the wonders he's performing with his mouth. First teasing my lips, then peppering kisses up my cheek.

Now, his teeth nip at the lobe of my ear, and I feel the tug all the way down to my sex. I press my legs together, desperate to quell this building craving. And yet that's not the kind of satisfaction I want. So instead I change tactics, and as his tongue sweeps the curve of my ear, sending shivers coursing through me, I ease my own hand down under the band of my bikini bottom and slide my finger over my very wet pussy. I close my eyes, losing myself in the feel of Dallas's tongue on my ear—and my fantasy that it's his fingers stroking me. Teasing me. Dipping just barely inside my folds, and then—

His firm grip closes around my wrist and I open my eyes to the realization that he is no longer nibbling on my ear. On the contrary, he's glaring down at me, his expression stern, and at the same time amused.

“Oh, no,” he says. “No unauthorized touching.”

“Is that the game?” I ask innocently. I spread my legs as wide as possible and look up at him with wide eyes. “Well, in that case, why don't you take over for me?”

“No.”

I blink. That really wasn't the answer I was expecting. “No?”

“I want you to beg,” he says, and since I have no shame where Dallas is concerned I take his hand and press it to my crotch, then suck in a sharp breath. “Please. Oh, god, Dallas, please.”

“Well, since you asked so sweetly…”

He rubs his thumb over my very soaked bikini until I am right on the edge. And only when he has me completely worked up does he slide his finger under the crotch and tease me mercilessly, setting off a storm of wild sensation inside me.

“Please,” I say, squirming to take off the sarong.

“No.” His hand on mine stops me.

My brow furrows. “What do you—”

But I don't get the question out because he covers my mouth with his finger, then unties the sarong with one hand while the other draws down the fly of his shorts. He urges me to lift my hips, then pulls the sarong free. Then slowly, without a word, he slides his hands up my body, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

When he gets to my arms, he urges them above my head, then wraps the sarong around my wrists, tying them together. He meets my eyes, and there's no denying the heat, but it's tinged with a bit of humor, too.

“Mine,” he says softly.

“Forever,” I agree, as he keeps one hand on my bound wrists, then starts to kiss his way down my body. He uses his teeth to grab one of the small triangles of material that make up my bikini top, then yanks it aside so that my breast can pop free. I draw in a stuttering breath, then gasp with pleasure as his mouth grazes my breast.