Loving Dallas (7 page)
D
ALL
AS COLLAPSES ON MY BARE CHEST, OUR SWEAT-SLICK BODIES
melding together like liquefied metal. My previously erected steel façade obviously had some weak areas I forgot to address. Particularly in the area around my vagina, it would seem.
As much as I want to chastise myself for letting this happen, the residual euphoria from being so thoroughly fucked won’t allow it.
Life is short and for the most part made up of experiences that fall into two categories: mind-blowing and non-mind-blowing. This one definitely falls into the former, so I can’t even bring myself to feel guilty.
“You okay?” Dallas is still catching his breath and so am I, but his voice sounds a lot steadier than mine likely will so I just nod my response. “I’m going to take care of this real quick. Be right back.”
He places a chaste kiss on the side of my mouth before hopping out of bed to deal with the condom.
“ ’Kay,” I mumble in my half-conscious stupor to his bare-assed retreating figure.
We should probably talk, or I should at least reassure him that I know this wasn’t about more than sex. I’ve known Dallas long enough to know that the moment any talk of feelings enters the equation he’ll get all weird and distant on me. That boy spends more time in his own head than anyone I know. Always has.
He’s not a boy anymore,
my subconscious reminds me.
That’s for damn sure. The moment I felt his rough stubbled jaw rub against my inner thighs the way I’d been imagining since the first moment I saw him earlier tonight, I knew I was dealing with a much more lethal version of Dallas Lark.
He used to ask permission before doing anything to my body he was anxious to try out but wasn’t sure I’d be comfortable with. While that was sweet and considerate of him, this man he’s become, one who takes what he wants without asking, is pretty damn hot, too.
I feel the bed shift when he slips back in beside me
I’m shattered. Empty. Drained of all life-sustaining matter.
“Tired, babe?”
I think maybe I grunt something in response. Strong arms wrap around me and I’m cocooned in warmth.
Beam me up, God. Pretty sure I can die happy now.
“Sweet dreams, pretty girl,” Dallas whispers in my ear.
Maybe I’m already dreaming.
W
aking up in a strange hotel room without any clothes on isn’t a familiar experience or one I have any requisite protocol for.
My senses come back to me slowly and one at a time.
I’m cold. Naked. And I can hear music playing softly from across the room.
It’s still dark outside, but there’s a lamp on in the room. I don’t see it but I can tell by the golden glow it emits.
My first instinct is to reach for my phone. Not just because that’s what I do every morning when I first wake up, but because I’m slightly concerned I might have to call for help.
The décor in the room isn’t familiar and just as I contemplate turning to see who’s playing music in the barely lit corner, my night comes back to me like a freight train barreling at full speed.
Dallas.
The concert.
The diner.
The slap heard ’round the world.
Okay, maybe just ’round the parking lot at Rosa’s Diner, but still.
And holy blueberries on oatmeal pancakes, the sex.
My muscles are sore and relaxed all at once. My entire body feels like it barely survived a Thai massage. Every tension-filled muscle knot has been steamrolled from existence. Naked between expensive hotel sheets I feel sexy and aroused and . . . alone.
I twist to the side as much as my aching body will allow and see Dallas sitting at the table. He’s writing furiously while most of his magnificently nude body is blocked by his guitar.
Hello.
All of my synapses begin firing away at once, demanding I somehow lure him back to bed. Immediately.
Conflicted emotions swirl into a dangerous storm inside me.
This was a mistake.
This was the hottest night of my life.
I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life.
God, he looks good over there, all bare muscles and music notes.
I want to hear what he’s working on.
I shouldn’t interrupt him.
Tormented by tumultuously conflicting urges, I rake a hand through my wild hair—hoping it doesn’t look as messy as it feels—and sit up.
I don’t want to screw with his process, especially since he mentioned he hadn’t been writing. But
day-um
. Why does he have to look so scrumptious? It’s like having someone deliver a decadent slice of double chocolate cake drizzled in hot fudge right to your door and telling you all you can do is look at it.
I strain to hear him, but I can’t make out the tune or the words he’s muttering as he writes.
He’s writing.
He said he hasn’t written in a while.
Could our night together have inspired a song?
Stop making this into more than it is.
Right. Got it. But just in case it was the sex that got his musical mojo flowing, don’t I owe it to him, to all people with the ability to hear, to do whatever it takes to make sure he doesn’t get blocked again?
That settles it.
If I’m going to regret tonight eventually anyway, I’m going to regret it as much as I possibly can.
R
IGHT AFTER
THE MOST AMAZING SE
X OF MY LIFE,
R
OBYN
FELL
asleep and rolled over onto her side facing away from me. I don’t know how long I stared at the smooth curves of her body, her spine, her hip, her shoulder, before growing impossibly hard again. She was resting so peacefully I’d decided not to wake her for round two, but there was too much going on in my head to fall asleep myself.
I’m three verses and a chorus into the most promising song I’ve written in nearly a year when I hear her stirring in the bed.
Something profoundly fucked-up is happening here and now, and I’ve decided to ignore it while I still can. But I suspect that after tonight, the inevitable truth will come out whether I want it to or not.
Robyn is more than an old friend, more than an old flame.
She’s the one who blows me away and brings me back down only to turn me inside out and send me into a free fall all over again.
She’s my muse.
I can’t give her what she deserves—the full-time boyfriend, the promise of a picture-perfect life—not without giving up my dreams. While I once contemplated this back when she ended things between us, I’ve seen what kind of man I become without music and it isn’t pretty.
When my sister went to college in Houston and the band took a breather, I worked in construction for a while—did some roofing with a local contractor. The work was mind-numbing and backbreaking. Night after night I was too tired or too sore to play my guitar. My hands ached and stung with the wrong kinds of callouses. I told myself I’d play a few gigs on my own, but I didn’t. I lost the music. I lost myself.
Basically it fucking sucked.
But now the fact that living my dream without Robyn in it would be just as pathetic is staring me in the face and I don’t know how to avoid it.
“You’re writing,” she says softly, barely even loud enough for me to hear.
I scrawl the last lyric, knowing I’ll add one more verse later, after I’ve been inside her again, before I look up.
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”
She’s standing at the edge of the bed with the white sheet wrapped around her and it’s like a goddess fell from the heavens and landed in my hotel room.
“Can I hear it?”
“It’s not ready yet. Soon, though. Are you traveling with us to Kansas City tomorrow?”
It’s my roundabout way of asking her when I’ll see her again. Call me a coward, but asking her outright feels like crossing a line I shouldn’t. Even after everything that happened tonight.
“Nope,” she says with a shrug. “I have to attend an event in Los Angeles. So you’re free of me for a few days. I’ll be working both shows weekend after next in the Carolinas, though. And New Orleans and Nashville.”
“Ah. Well, I guess I’ll try not to inhale too much grease while you’re away.”
She’s coming closer so I set my guitar aside.
“You do that.” The words fall from her lips as her eyes flicker to my recently exposed appendage. When she looks up our gazes slam into each other with the force of two Mack trucks behind them.
I need more of her tonight. I don’t know how she’s going to feel about this. Hell, I don’t know how
I’m
going to feel about this. But right now I know that I need more. Neither of us is leaving this room until we are physically unable to seek out any more pleasure from the other.
“Drop the sheet, baby,” I command gently. “I need to see you. All of you.”
She does so, offering her body up like a sacrifice.
I stare openly, memorizing every inch, every angle and curve in case this is the last time she’s laid bare to me this way.
“Dallas, I want—” Her chest rises with an intake of breath I feel like she pulled straight from my lungs.
“Take it.” I reach for her, resting my forehead on her stomach and closing my eyes when I make contact with her bare skin. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
I’m completely still when she lifts my chin and straddles my lap.
There’s nothing between us, no layer of protection. It’s reckless. Risky and pretty damn stupid. But the need to feel her without a barrier is greater than my need for safety or common sense.
She watches me, her eyes seeking permission and telling me that she trusts me. Begging me to be careful with her.
I close mine and let my head fall back so that they don’t make any promises I can’t keep.
Robyn eases onto me and it’s like having my heart ripped from my chest and shoved back in. Her bare breasts brush against my chest, her nipples tightening against my skin. Her pace is torturously slow and my dick begs me to pound into her. But this isn’t for me. I let her take what she needs without interfering.
When I open my eyes as much as I can manage, I see the contentment etched into her beautiful face. She begins to move faster, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, and I hold on to my restraint with a white-knuckle grip. The veins in my neck are probably straining hard enough to burst.
“I’m on the pill,” Robyn whispers in my ear. “You can let go.”
“You first.”
An incoherent word, maybe a curse or maybe my name, slips past my ear and she slams down harder and harder, pushing me nearly past my breaking point.
I almost don’t make it, but thank fuck she falls apart around my cock, stiffening then trembling on top of me.
I stand, lifting her limp body and carrying her to the bed.
Once I’ve lowered her gently on the mattress, she gapes at my still fully hard length. “Oh God, Dallas. You didn’t . . . I don’t know if I can take any more.”
“Oh I think you can, sweetheart. Besides . . . only one way to find out.”
I remain standing and run my fingertips down the length of her left foot. Once I reach her ankle, I massage my way to her inner thigh before starting over on the right side, this time placing openmouthed kisses in the trail left by my hands.
Robyn moans when I reach the apex of her thighs with my tongue.
“You taste so damn sweet. Always have, always will.” The kisses I place on her swollen center are gentle at first. Almost innocent aside from the location. But the more she writhes beneath me, the less I’m able to control myself.
She’s throbbing against my mouth, causing me to ache to be back inside her. I need to be inside her again, need to feel that cresting wave hit hard and break over my cock. But I want to prolong the sensations for as long as I possibly can.
Placing one last hard lick up the length of her pulsating flesh, I inhale her scent as deeply as my body will allow and then stand upright. Taking each of Robyn’s ankles, I place them on either of my shoulders and stroke her center with my dick.
“D-Dallas,” she moans on a shaky breath.
“I got you, sweetheart.” My view is fucking incredible as I watch my cock disappear into her tight, wet heat. Her entire body bucks from the intrusion but I’m done going slow, done taking it easy on her. I want to soak up every second with her that I can in case this is all I ever get. “I got you.”
I need every last ounce of pleasure she can give me right now. So I take it.
M
y alarm is ducks quacking today. I have to change it up from time to time so I don’t become immune to it. The irritating sound propels me upright in an attempt to find the offensive device.
Once I locate it and hit snooze, I realize I’m alone. The bed is empty beside me. Robyn’s purse is gone and so is she. Glancing back at my phone I realize it’s 7:45 in the morning. So either she had to catch an earlier flight than mine, or she hightailed it out of here as soon as I passed out.
I replay last night’s events to determine if I might’ve done something to make her upset. After multiple orgasms, she was fairly malleable in my arms.
Our last conversation comes back to me—the whispered one we had in the darkness just before we fell asleep.
I yawned, a huge, wide-mouthed, groaning, back-stretching yawn, and Robyn giggled in my arms.
“Did I wear you out, Grandpa?”
“Cute. No, but you slept for several hours, thank you very much. I stayed up and wrote.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m probably going to walk with a limp tomorrow.”
I grinned into her hair. “Fuck yeah, that makes me feel better.”
“I told you it had been a while. I didn’t know you had a sex marathon in mind.”
I tightened my grip around her body. “Me, either. Two in one night’s not something I normally do.”
“No? No all-night orgies with groupies then?”
For some reason, her tone pissed me off. Or maybe it was the accusation itself. “I don’t sleep with groupies.”
Robyn twisted in my arms so that she could face me. “Seriously? Never?”
“Never. Is that really what you think of me? That I’m just in this to hook up with my fans?”
She stared into my eyes for a full minute before answering. “No,” she said slowly. “But I think you’re a human being and most guys wouldn’t be able to resist a ton of girls throwing themselves at them night after night.”
“I’m not most guys, sweetheart. You know this.”
She settled back into my arms, nestling her pert little ass against me in a way that nearly necessitated a third round. “I’m glad.”
“I’m still me, Robyn. No matter what’s changed between us, I’m still me.”
That was it, the last conversation we’d had before I passed out. I couldn’t figure which part had sent her running.
But I damn sure intend to find out.
