I am panting, needing oxygen in defense against the wild onslaught as his hand reaches my jeans and a finger slips under teasingly. I want this--oh, dear god, how I want this.
I arch up, instinctively seeking more. "Fuck me," I whisper, shocked at my boldness. At how quickly all my defenses have fallen away.
For years I have wanted him--this--and yet I've fought. He's fought. But tonight, with Ortega in custody, with all the memories rushing back, of the dark, of his hands, of his comfort...maybe I just need to get lost. Maybe this is the way to move on.
Maybe I just need the man.
"Please," I beg--and that's when everything shatters.
Instead of tugging down my jeans and taking me hard and fast, he lurches up, releasing my breast, his hands up in the air as if he's pleading innocent to the police. He's back against the wall and he's breathing hard and he's shaking his head.
And it's over.
It's just...over.
I hear myself whimper, wanting more. Everything. Dallas.
"Please," I repeat, and though I'm still lost in a sensual haze, I am aware enough to see the change in his expression. I don't understand what has happened, but I watch as the heat drains from his eyes.
Suddenly it's not desire I feel, but mortification, and I pull my knees up, then tug my shirt back over my breasts, trying not to see the regret all over his face.
God, I'm an idiot.
"I can't," he says, and I don't think I have ever heard more pain in a man's voice. "I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry. I should never have--I should never have started that. I should never have put it on you to say no. But I've wanted you for so long. Dreamed of touching you for so damn long."
I relax a bit. There's nothing false about his words or the depth of emotion that underscores them. "Then take me," I say before I can remind myself that it's wrong. That we'll both regret it.
He turns his face from me, and I see the way his jaw tightens as his shoulders stiffen. When he turns back, the desire is still there, but it's masked by a fierce determination.
"We can't. I shouldn't have pushed. I should know better than to taste forbidden fruit. And dammit, Jane, so should you. You shouldn't have pushed, either. You shouldn't even fucking want me."
"No," I acknowledge. "I shouldn't. But we both know that I do."
He exhales, as if I'm the one being frustrating. "Look around you, for Christ's sake. You know what I am."
"That isn't you." I taste salt, and realize I'm crying. "That can't be you."
"You knew a boy, Jane. And he grew into a fucked-up man. You more than anyone should know why. This is me, sweetheart," he says simply. "You're looking right at me."
But I don't want to believe what my own eyes show me. Maybe it's my own stubbornness. More likely my refusal to believe stems from guilt. Because Dallas spent four weeks in the dark after I was released. And I know that whatever happened to him after I left him all alone in there must have shaped and molded him, even if he can't consciously remember any of it.
So he's wrong--I don't know why he's the man he is. I can guess, though. In the days before my release the Woman had taken him from me more and more frequently.
And when he came back, he'd been tense. Closed off. As if he was pushing fear and anger inside himself.
I don't know what happened when she took him away, but the possibilities that go through my head both scare and sicken me. And I can only believe it got worse after I was gone.
Yet I know this man. I've known him since he was a boy. And I have to believe that there is more to the man. But whether that's because it's true or because I can't live with the guilt if it's not, I really don't know.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "We can't do this. You know it. I know it." He looks at me, and his eyes are as hard as stone. "You said in the house that you didn't want me. Dammit, Jane, you need to mean it. You need to believe it. I'm not the man for you. We both know I can't be the man for you."
He's harsh. And he's right. I think about what our parents would say if they found out. I know our father would disinherit us both, but that's not even the worst of it. It's the way they'd look at us, so full of disappointment and regret.
I glance down, every reason that we've stayed apart coming back to me as I struggle to adjust my clothes and look anywhere but at him. A single tear streaks down my cheek, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a tentative step toward me.
"Jane."
His voice is so low and gentle that I think I might be imagining it. But I know that I'm not, and mortification spreads over me, heating my skin, stinging my eyes. Sitting like a heavy, horrible weight in my stomach.