"Then I need you to fuck me."
His lips twitched. He liked a woman who knew her own mind, that was for damn sure. And the redhead truly amused him. He'd plucked her from the crowd downstairs because he'd liked the way she'd filled out the flirty black dress that was now crumpled in a heap on his bedroom floor. That, and the fact he happened to know that she had a cousin who worked for a government official in Bogota, and that connection might prove handy one day.
As for the blonde, Dallas had no particular agenda with her. But he appreciated her limber little body and quiet obedience. Right now, she was sitting exactly as he'd told her, her legs wide apart and wonderfully vulnerable. She wasn't moving a muscle, but the beat of her pulse in her throat telegraphed her excitement at least as much as her tight nipples and hot, wet pussy.
He met the redhead's flashing green eyes, then nodded toward the blonde. "You want to get fucked. I want to watch. And I promise you, she wants to do whatever I say. Sounds like a perfect recipe, don't you think?"
The redhead dragged her polished white teeth over her lower lip. "I've never--"
"But you will. Tonight." He met her eyes. "For me."
She licked her lips as he slid off the bed and stood. She was still sitting, her knees pressed into the mattress as she sat back on her heels. He leaned forward, then took her in a long, slow kiss. She tasted of strawberries and innocence. He wanted to devour the first; he wanted to erase the second. "Hook your legs around her waist and kiss her deep. Suck her tits. Touch her however you want to. But she's going to fuck you with her fingers while you and I both imagine it's my cock. And, baby? You're going to come harder for me than you've ever come for anyone."
"And you?"
He could hear the tremor of excitement in her voice and knew that he had her. "I'll be right here," he said as he took her hand and urged her toward the blonde, who was flushed pink with anticipation. He moved behind the redhead, cupping her breasts as she put her legs around the blonde's waist, then he squeezed her nipples hard as the blonde's fingers slid into her core.
Pressed against her back, he could feel every tremor of pleasure, every quickening in her pulse. And as she started to shake with a series of little convulsions, he slid his hand between her legs from behind, dipping his fingers into her wet pussy. As he did, his hand brushed up against the blonde's, whose sensual moan shot straight to his cock.
Next, he slid his now-slick finger up to tease the redhead's ass as she bucked against him, her body clearly on fire from this dual assault. "Dallas," she moaned as her body shook with release. "Oh, god, Dallas, this is so fucked up."
"That's the way I like it, baby," he said. "That's the only way I play."
It was true. He liked his sex dirty. Wild. He wanted to be reminded of who he was. What he'd become.
The King of Fuck. He'd heard what they all called him, and he had to appreciate how apt--and ironic--the moniker was. Because god knew he was fucked up. His whole goddamn life was an act. A facade.
He was damaged goods. As broken as a man could be. But he'd turned that shit around. Claimed it. Made it his own.
Maybe he would never again have the woman he craved in his arms, but if that was his reality, he was going to damn sure make the most of it.
With his free hand he reached down to stroke his cock. The sensation of his sex-slicked palm moving rhythmically over the steel of his erection mingled with the wild, almost feral sounds of the two women. He closed his eyes, imagining another place. Another woman.
He thought of her. He thought of Jane.
But not like this. Not fucked up. Not like a goddamn evening's entertainment, as fungible as a night at the movies and at least as unimportant.
Except everything was fucked up. Him, most of all.
Goddammit. He needed to shut it down. These thoughts. These wishes.
All these damn regrets.
The sharp trill of his cellphone startled him from his thoughts, and he slid back away from the redhead who cried out in protest.
"Sorry, baby." His voice was tense, his chest tight. "That's the one ringtone I always answer." He grabbed his phone off the bedside table, lightly brushing both women's skin before turning his back to them and taking the call.
"Tell me," he demanded, expecting the worst. His best friend, Liam Foster, wasn't due to report in until the next morning. If he was calling now, it meant something had happened.
"It's all good, man," Liam said, his voice as close to excited as his military training would allow.
"The child?" Dallas had sent his team to Shanghai to recover the eight-year-old son of a Chinese diplomat who'd been kidnapped ten days prior.
"Fine," Liam assured him. "Dehydrated. Malnourished. Scared. But he's back with his family, and physically, he should make a full recovery."
Physically, Dallas thought, the word sounding vile in his head. Because that wasn't all of it, was it? Not even close.
He shoved the thoughts aside, forcing himself to focus. "Then why are you--"