Sweetest Taboo (16 page)

He bites my nipple, and I arch up as the sweet sting curls through me, all the way to my sex. I squirm beneath him, wanting him there. His mouth on my pussy, his tongue on my clit. But he is taking his time, and I can't deny that even though his slow attention is excruciating, his progress from breast to cleavage and then down to my navel is wreaking havoc with my senses.

I spread my legs, my hips gyrating. I'm craving his touch—any touch—and even the warmth of the sun against the crotch of my bathing suit is erotic.

But it's not until his mouth reaches my bikini bottoms that I really lose my mind. Because that's when he takes his tongue and traces it along the soft crease of my thigh between my suit and my leg. I shiver and shake, nearly coming undone just from the fact that his magical tongue is so damn close—and yet not nearly close enough.

Once again, he uses his mouth to move aside my suit, and his teeth scrape my swollen, sensitive skin. A shiver cuts through me, and when he thrusts his tongue inside me, I cry out, screaming his name and begging him to please, please fuck me.

He lifts his head long enough to meet my eyes, his full of heat and mischief, and then he dives back down between my legs, licking and sucking and teasing my clit with such wild abandon that I'm certain that I will lose my mind before I orgasm and, finally, get some sweet relief.

I gyrate my hips. I'm panting. I'm wanting. Hell, I'm lost in the sensation of his tongue and the sun and the incredible pleasure of being taken here under the bright blue sky. And just when I think it will never end—just when I think that I will go mad balancing on this knife edge of pleasure—my body shudders one final time before everything explodes inside me and I shatter.

Dallas doesn't stop. He's relentless, milking my orgasm until I am quivering as the last electric sparks flutter through me. And that's when he releases my bound wrists. When he uses his fingers to pull aside my bathing suit crotch.

When he finally enters me hard and fast, I'm so turned on that I lift my hips to meet him, thrusting to match his rhythms, and gasping as pleasure builds and builds, this time deeper, hotter.

When he explodes inside me, I'm not far behind, and we both collapse, breathing hard beneath a sexual haze that still clings to us, as warm as the sun above and as bright as the clear blue sky.

And in that moment, in Dallas's embrace, I can't help but think that, at least for this small moment in time, everything is perfect.

That's an illusion, I know. But I cling to it. Savoring these moments before, inevitably, we have to return to the world.

Dallas and I hold hands as we wander The Resort at Cortez, going in and out of shops, sipping coffee in the shade, gazing with awe at the stunning paintings of ocean scenes that fill the fine art gallery. This is my first time on the island, and I'm having a wonderful time, despite the circumstances that drove us here.

After exploring the stores, we kick off our flip-flops and play in the fountain that is the centerpiece of the retail area. Jets of water shoot straight up inside a concrete circle in the middle of the common area, and I am soaked by the time we stop running around like idiots, trying to dodge the vertical spray.

A few other shoppers are scattered about, and they watch our antics. I think vaguely that I should be a little embarrassed by our silliness, but I'm honestly having too much fun. Besides, I'm engaged now. And that makes today a day to celebrate.

There's an ice cream stand by the fountain, and we both grab a cone, feeling light and alive, like children out discovering the world.

“Beach,” he says, taking my free hand in his. “We're already soaked. Let's go make a sand castle.”

“Two castles,” I counter. “And mine is going to totally blow yours away.”

“You can try,” he says. “But you won't succeed.”

I laugh out loud, thrown back suddenly to our childhood days on Barclay Isle, an island in the Outer Banks that has been in the Sykes family since the beginning of time.

I lick my strawberry ice cream cone and glance sideways at him. He'd opted for chocolate, and I laugh at the little mustache on his upper lip. I tug him to a stop, lean over, and lick the ice cream off. When I pull back, my pulse has kicked up a notch. “Tasty,” I say.

“Very,” he agrees, though I don't think he's actually talking about the ice cream.

“Did you plan to make this the perfect day, or did it just work out that way?”

“How could it be anything but perfect if we're together?”

His words are as soft as his expression, and I feel as melty as my ice cream. “Dallas,” I begin, but I don't finish, because he's pulled me to him, and his lips brush mine, a sweet kiss made all the sweeter by the lingering taste of chocolate and strawberry.

“Oh, my gosh!”

I hear the words at the same time as I hear the clicking of cameras, and I pull back sharply.

Off to the side two twenty-something girls wearing island day passes are taking picture after picture.

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks—this isn't good.

I start to turn and walk away, but Dallas tugs me back so hard I drop my cone. It lands with a splat on the concrete at the same moment his lips crush mine. This time, there's nothing sweet about the kiss. It's hot and hard and demanding, and I feel the fire of his touch coursing through me. I want to lose myself in his arms, his kiss, his touch.

But then I remember where we are, and I jerk back with a start. “Dallas, no.”

“Yes,” he counters. “Goddammit, yes.”

I search his face, so hard and determined. So full of need. And not just for me, but for something I don't recognize. Respect? Acceptance?

I'm not sure, but it doesn't matter, because I want him, too. I want to kiss him here by the fountain with the sun shining down on us and my heart full of him. So I do. I start to lean in again, but he anticipates me, grins wolfishly, and dives in to devour me.

And oh, dear lord, it's wonderful. The knowledge that he loves me. The freedom to show it in public, to say screw you to the world. This is how I want to live. Openly. Honestly.

Right in this moment, I feel as though I could soar.

And then those bitches go and ruin it all. “Too fucking hot, right?” one of them says in the kind of whisper that's meant to be heard. “Dallas, for sure, but together? I mean, I've never fucked a brother and a sister, but I'd give them a whirl.”

“I've already had him once,” the other says. “I met him at a wrap party for that movie I did two years ago. His tongue is magical, and his cock is huge. I sucked him off twice, you know. Wonder if she realizes she's getting my sloppy seconds. Not to mention half the female population's.”

They both start to laugh—no, to
cackle
—and the sound rips through me like a goddamn chainsaw. I don't plan it—I really don't—but somehow I am out of Dallas's arms and across the short distance, and my palm is stinging because—holy shit—I just slapped the taller one hard across the cheek.

“You obnoxious little bitch,” I snarl, even as the other one raises her camera and starts snapping away, capturing my fury, my stinging hand, and the shocked face of the bitch who'd supposedly been in Dallas's bed, with her hand against her cheek and her eyes wide with shock.

I really don't know how Dallas got us out of there. I was roiling too deep in shock and mortification, but somehow he managed, and when I stop seething, I realize that we're back in the bungalow and I'm breathing hard, still so furious that all I can think of is how much my hand still stings and how much I desperately want to smack her again.

I look at Dallas, expecting him to be the one to step in and calm me. I assume he's in a rational headspace because he so deftly led me home. But one look at his face and I realize that he's just as messed up as I am. Just as angry. Just as horrified.

Just as afraid we are never, ever going to be able to make this work.

I feel my body sag, defeat washing through me. It's hot and horrible, and I hate that two random women on the beach can erase all the pleasure I've gotten out of this day. Can make me second-guess my resolve to make what Dallas and I have together work despite all the odds stacked against us.

“Don't,” he says as soon as we arrive. His voice is hard. Demanding.

“Don't what?”

“Don't doubt us.”

“I'm not doubting,” I lie. “They just pissed me off. They just made me—”

He grabs my wrists and tugs me toward him, so violently I lose my balance and end up at his feet on the hard tile floor. “Do you think I don't understand?” he rages. “That I don't see it on your face? Do you think I don't feel exactly the same way? That we're never going to get past this, and for the rest of our lives we're going to be objects of ridicule? Some goddamn joke on the Internet? A couple that teenagers make tasteless memes about? Do you think I want that?”

He grips my wrists tighter and pulls me up. “You don't, and I don't, but it's what we have and there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it.”

I'm crying now, angry that I'm so upset. Frustrated that he feels as lost and violated as I do. And that's so goddamned unfair, because all that means is that I'm expecting him to take care of me. And, fuck it, I need to take care of myself.

Hell, I need to take care of Dallas.

I don't realize that I've made a decision until I fall back onto my knees and my fingers go to the button of his jeans, and then to the zipper.

“Jane…” His voice trails off, and I hear the warning. And the question.

I look up at him, trying to keep my expression innocent. “What? You don't want me to suck you off? To take you deep the way she did? You don't want to fuck my mouth, and then lay me out and fuck me hard?”

I reach into his briefs and close my hand around his shaft. He's hard and smooth against my palm, and I shift my hips as I kneel on my heels, realizing that I'm already wet. That I want this. I want wild. I want fucked up.

I want Dallas to fuck me hard, because I know that he wants it, too. More than that, I know that we both need it. Maybe that's pathetic. Maybe that's wrong. But I don't care. It's us. And he knows it as well as I do.

“Fucking you isn't going to make those bitches go away,” he says. “It's not going to make it better.”

“The hell it won't,” I say. “You're angry because you feel like you can't protect me. Like this whole world is whipping around us like a cyclone, and you can't control it. You can't make it go away any more than you can keep it from hurting me. You saw me get pissed off. You saw me stumble. And you wanted to make it better. But you can't—not out in the world anyway. But in here, in this room, you can.”

I draw a deep breath. “How many times have I told you I'd go into the dark with you? I meant it, Dallas. And maybe right now we need it.”

“Oh, baby,” he says, and there's something like resignation in his voice. “Do you have any idea how hard it makes me thinking about you tied up and helpless beneath me? About taking you hard, relentlessly? About fucking that pretty mouth while your hands are tied to your ankles, then bending you forward and grabbing your tits while I fuck you in the ass?”

I swallow, his words making me wet with anticipation. “Then do it,” I demand.

“It's one hell of a fantasy, baby, but I don't need it anymore. I don't need the dark to get centered, not even after a run-in with the likes of those two bitches. It's you I need, not the kink.”

His words crash through me, filling all my hollow places. But it's not enough. Not now. “If you need me, then take me,” I demand. “Because maybe I
do
need it. But from you—only from you. I need it rough, Dallas. I need to push the envelope. I need—”

But I don't have to finish telling him because he pulls me to him with one hand, then grabs my breast with the other. The sundress I'm wearing is a halter style, and I'm wearing no bra, just the two triangular pieces of cotton that tie at my neck. He grabs the material and yanks, ripping the tie and making the top slide down, baring me from the waist up.

I gasp with surprise, then suck in air hard as he pinches my nipple between his fingers, spreading pain out like red hot threads that snap and spark and shift from tantalizing pain to the most potent of pleasure.

My mouth is another playground as he crushes his lips over mine, so hard they bruise me, so wild our teeth clash and I taste the coppery tinge of blood. It's a full-on assault of the senses, and I relish it. Hell, I need it.

But then as quickly as he claimed me, he pushes himself away, breathing hard. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” The word is sharp. Serious.

I gape at him. “Did you not just see what happened? I fucking lost it. I mean, I snapped, Dallas, and what those girls said is hardly the worst of what we're going to hear. So I need you. Because this is going to get bad. I need to know there's a place where I can let go. Where you will catch me. Bring me back even if I'm pushed to the edge.”

I draw in a breath and rush on. “So I want it as hot and hard as you can make it. I want it rough. I want to be vulnerable. Because under it all, with you I know that I'm safe. I need—oh, god, Dallas, I need to feel. I need you to make me
feel.”

For a moment, he only looks at me, and this is one of the few times that I truly can't read his expression. I feel a sudden sharp pang of fear that somehow we've gotten off the same page, and that he doesn't get it. Doesn't get
me
.

But then he looks around the room, his gaze skimming the living and dining area. When he turns back to face me, his face is hard. Determined. And there is a very definite gleam in his eye.

“I think you need to go to the table, Jane. And I think you need to bend over.”

The heat in his voice warms me, melting away the last of my trepidation. I do as he says, moving beside the dining table that is approximately one meter squared.

I glance back at him, uncertain where and how he wants me, but he makes a circular gesture with his finger, and I know to turn around and face the tabletop.

He comes up behind me, and presses his hand to the small of my back.

I shiver from his touch—and then cry out when he grabs the waist of the sundress and yanks hard, literally ripping it from my body. He does the same with my underwear, only they don't rip as easily, and there's a hard, hot pressure against my pussy before the material gives way.