Sweet Tooth

“Are you tired?” Dallas asks as we step inside my Upper West Side townhouse. I pause in the foyer, turning a bit to gape at him. It’s almost five in the morning, and he knows damn well that I have not only been pretty much up all night, but that it’s been an exhausting twenty-four hours, both physically and emotionally.

“No,” I say innocently. “Should I be?”

He chuckles, his green eyes dancing. “Liar.” He gives my ass a slight smack. Since my skirt is short enough to make a streetwalker blush—and since I’m not wearing any underwear—his palm makes contact with more skin than material. He hasn’t spanked me hard, but it doesn’t matter. My senses are still glowing like embers, and he has just stoked the fire. Heat courses through me, and my body clenches. I want him to do it again. I want him to kiss me. Hell, I want him to slam me back against a wall, press his body to mine, and fuck me into oblivion.

Except I can’t get the words out, and by the time I open my mouth, he’s already speaking. “Go on upstairs and get into bed.”

That’s it? Really?

“Dallas…” The protest is clear in my voice, but he seems not to notice.

“I’ll be right behind you. There’s something I need from the kitchen.” His eyes meet mine, and I see the humor—and the heat—in them. “I’ve still got a bit of a sweet tooth,” he adds, the tone of his voice making clear he wants more than just candy. My body clenches in response, and my nipples harden beneath my sheer tank top as I draw a deep breath in both relief and anticipation.

“Okay, then,” I say, trying for nonchalant but probably missing by a mile. “I’ll just wait for you upstairs, then.”

His eyes drift over me, from the fuck-me heels to the too-short skirt to the sheer tank top, and with every millimeter that his gaze travels, a burning heat follows. He’d told me to dress this way tonight, and god knows he showed his appreciation already. My shoulders are still raw from the way he slammed me up against the alley wall. My mouth is still bruised from the power of his kisses. My clit feels tender and swollen. But none of that is pain that I would shy away from. On the contrary, I want more. I want it all. I want Dallas to take this further. To completely unravel me. Because right now, I feel as if I am a fireworks show, only part of which has exploded.

I need the grand finale. I need to feel complete.

I turn to head upstairs, walking slowly just for the fun of letting him watch. “On the bed,” he calls. “But don’t get undressed. Not yet.”

I smile, though I know he can’t see it. But my smile fades as I cross to my bed, because while I am finally in Dallas’s arms—a place that I have longed to be for years—I also know that this can’t be real.

For so long we’ve fought what we feel for each other. And though wonderful, this new reality is also bittersweet, because we can’t be together. It is simply not possible. And yet here we are, living a fantasy. A dream.

But dreams eventually fade, and when the harsh light of day destroys the shadows, Dallas and I will have no place in which to hide.

I squeeze my eyes tight, breathe deep, and force myself not to think about that. He is here with me, after all. And, dammit, for right now at least, that is enough.

I do as he says and stretch out on the bed. And, yes, I spread my legs. I know the view he’ll have when he comes into the room, and I prop myself up on my elbows because I want to see his expression.

I’m not disappointed.

He is holding a bag as he enters, looking down at the contents. But he lifts his head, and I watch as his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. His neck moves as he swallows, and then he tilts his head just a little, and the tiniest smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“Just the way I like it.” He takes a step toward me, then another and another. When he is at the foot of the bed, he grabs my ankles and pulls me toward him with such force I not only gasp, but the short skirt rides up, leaving everything below my waist completely exposed. He looks at me again, and his smile is mischievous. “Even better.”

“Dallas…” I start to close my legs; even with him, I’m feeling overly exposed, but he holds me firm at the ankles.

“No.”

I draw in a breath, and as I do, my breasts rub against the thin tank, and the sensation—coupled with the fact that I know he is watching me so intimately–is so damn erotic I almost explode right then.

Dallas must sense it too, because he shakes his head, just a little. “Not yet,” he says. “Not until dessert. We had vanilla earlier, but I know how much you like chocolate. So do I. Especially when it’s paired correctly.”

I recently bought some gourmet chocolate sauce from Serenity on Seventh, my favorite confection store, and he pulls out the jar and a long spoon. It’s almost funny—I mean, come on, chocolate sauce and sex? It’s a little cliché. Except that there’s nothing humorous about his expression, and when he holds the spoon over my inner thigh and lets the warm sauce dribble down onto my skin, I really don’t give a fuck about clichés. The sensation is incredible, and all the more so when he moves the spoon higher and higher, leaving at heated trail of chocolate that leads all the way to my clit.

With a hungry growl, he goes down on his knees, pulling me even closer so that my thighs are close to his cheeks and I can feel his breath on my pussy. With expert skill, he teases the sensitive skin on my inner thigh, then licks and kisses his way up. With each inch—hell, with each millimeter—he stokes the fire inside me until it is raging. So that by the time he reaches my clit, I am already half out of my mind with desire.

His mouth closes over me, sucking and teasing as if I am the most decadent of treats. At the moment, maybe I am. And his mouth on me is magic. But it’s when he slides one chocolate-slick hand up my body to tease my breast and uses the other to thrust deep inside me, that the world truly starts to turn inside out. How can it not when the delicious tightness of his fingers twisting my nipple runs like a hot cord down my body to my clit? When his fingers thrusting inside me are filling me in just the way I want his cock? When every touch of his tongue drives me harder and faster toward a nirvana that only Dallas’s incredible torment can deliver me to?

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “You’re so wet. You’re so delicious. Come for me, baby. I want to watch you come.”

The combination of his words and his breath and his touch form a sensual elixir, and even as the sound of his voice lingers, the world explodes in a firestorm of sensation that I can neither control nor endure. “Dallas,” I cry, not even sure that I have managed to make sounds, much less form words. But he is there, holding me as the last tremors of the orgasm fade into a sweet, almost drugged sensation.

“Not just yet,” he whispers, then carries me to the bathroom. He strips me and puts me under the warm jet, cleaning me thoroughly before joining me. Then he picks me up again and carries me to the guest bedroom at the far end of the hall. “Less sticky,” he says as he puts me down, then climbs onto the bed beside me.

I still feel wonderfully sapped, but I roll over and meet his eyes. And when I do, I see him looking at me with such tenderness that I want to cry because it is sad and wonderful all at the same time. “This is more than just fucking, isn’t it?” I speak in a whisper, as if talking any louder could whisk the moment away, like dandelion fluff on the wind.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s a whole lot more.”

His words fill me, but they don’t satisfy me. Because we both know that it’s a lie. Or at the very least a wish. It’s not a promise. It’s not reality.

Because how can it be when the world outside these walls is conspiring to keep us apart?

But I don’t think of that now. Finally, I truly am tired. And I let him draw me close, and I cling to him as slumber falls over me. And the last thing I think before sleep claims me is that even if we can never be together in the light, at least we will always belong to each other in the dark.

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