Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(8)

And oh, god, what would Grams or Poppy say? At eighty and one hundred, respectively, the revelation about me and Dallas would probably put our grandmother and great-grandfather in their graves.

I shake my head. “No. No, the idea terrifies me. I want it—I want so badly to be with you one hundred percent—but going public scares the crap out of me even more than I hate all the secrets.”

He nods, and I think it’s relief I see in his eyes. “I know,” he says. “Eventually we’ll figure out a way, but until then, going public stays tabled. Just as well. Better to deal with one obstacle to happily ever after at a time.”

I frown, wondering what other obstacles he’s worried about. “You mean the women on your arm?”

For a moment he looks confused, and he doesn’t quite look at me when he nods and says, “Of course.”

“Dallas?”

He looks straight at me, and I see no shadows on his face. No deception. Mentally, I roll my eyes at myself. I’m on edge—looking for secrets and obfuscation where none exists.

“Jane? Are we okay?”

I manage to conjure a smile. “I just don’t like sharing you.”

“You’re not. Whatever I do—whoever they are—those women don’t have a claim on me.”

I nod, then close my eyes for a moment to gather my strength. “I get that you need them for appearances. That you need to touch them and put on a show. But I don’t want—”

“To play our game anymore. I understand.” He shifts so that he is facing me more directly, then strokes my cheek as he slides his hand back to cup my head. He pulls me toward him, then captures my mouth in a kiss. It’s hot and deep and I feel my body start to melt.

“No more games,” he says when we come up for air. “I only want you.”

“Are you okay with that? You don’t need to touch them while you think about me? You don’t want to?” Just saying the words is making me wet, and I squirm a little as I wonder what kind of a hypocrite I am that I’m putting the brakes on something we both found so deliciously erotic.

I bite my lower lip thoughtfully before continuing. “It’s just that I know you like sex dirty. That you need it—”

“Fucked up?” he interrupts. “I do.” His eyes drop to my breasts, where my obviously hard nipples are apparent through the lace of my bra and the thin material of my simple pink T-shirt. “I think you like it, too.”

I don’t deny it. “So?”

His mouth curves up. “I told you before. That’s just playing. I don’t need it. Not with you.”

“Oh. Well, then that’s my—what do they call it?—my hard limit. No playing those kind of games unless—”

I cut myself off. I hadn’t intended to go there.

“Unless?” His eyes sparkle with amusement, and I’m absolutely certain he knows what I’m going to say.

I glance down at his hand on my thigh. “Unless I start it.” I don’t look up, but I bite my lip as the hand that has been resting gently on my thigh starts to slide up, pushing my skirt as he goes.

“So, you’re saying you like it? That watching me cup another woman’s ass turns you on? That seeing her suck my cock makes you wet?” His words are raw. Almost vulgar. And yet I can hear the humor beneath them.

“It’s not funny.” Damn the man, he knows me so well. Lover. Brother. Friend. And he gets me better than anyone. Maybe even better than I understand myself.

“I’m not laughing.” He’s not. In fact, the humor in his voice has been replaced by a low, burning heat. His hand is midway up my thigh now, so close to my core that I’m practically shaking with anticipation. “Someone doesn’t want to cut off her options,” he says as he gently tugs on my thigh, urging me to spread my legs. “Tell me why.”

Considering I’m losing the ability to form words, I find his demand entirely unreasonable. My skirt is up over my knees now, and I’m not wearing panties—those are probably still on the floor of the cabana. That means that with my legs spread, I’m completely open—and the cool night breeze against my hot, wet * feels beyond incredible.

“Jane.” His fingertip traces along the soft skin between my pubis and my thigh. “Tell me why you want to keep the option open. Why you might want to slide your hand between your legs and stroke yourself while you watch me bite some other woman’s nipple.” As if in illustration, he strokes his finger over me from clit to core and I whimper from the incredible pleasure of it.

“Tell me,” he demands again.

“Because I do like it.” My voice is a whisper at first. “Even tonight, it was hot. I hated that I liked it, but I did. I just …”

“You didn’t want to share.”

“Now that you’re mine—”

“I am yours,” he says, pushing his fingers deep into me.

“I know.” I move my hips, my body on a mission to draw him in further. Harder. “And I don’t want to share.” I tilt my head so that I can meet his eyes. “Not yet, anyway. But later. When I feel more certain, I—” I drop my eyes again. Another thing I hadn’t intended to admit.

“Are you not certain about how I feel?”