The one woman who was kinky enough to indulge his fucked-up fantasies.
But now that he was here, the real truth was undeniable: He didn't really want this. He didn't really want her. Not now. Never again.
And the weight of her hand on his skin seemed overbearing.
"It's a simple question," she said.
He pushed her hand aside and stood. "No. I didn't sleep with her."
"Mmm." She turned on the sofa and stretched her arms out on either side of the couch. She was still covered, but the sash of the robe had loosened, and it seemed to Dallas that even her wardrobe was participating in her effort to taunt him. To remind him that he'd driven all the way out here because he was so screwed up he'd thought another woman could take his mind off Jane.
"You may not have slept with her," Adele said. "
But you wanted to."
It was a statement, not a question.
He answered anyway. "We're just friends. Or, at least, we're trying to be."
"You're not just friends, mon cheri. Any man who's slept with his sister isn't ever going to be just her friend again. You may not have sat on my couch, but you've seen enough therapists over the years to know that."
"Fine." He crossed the room and leaned against the wall. "We're trying to overcome our past. We miss each other. We're trying to find our way to some version of normal."
"Who do you think you're talking to? That's bullshit and we both know it."
"Adele--"
"No." She stood up and started walking toward him, the robe loosening with every step. "You want her. That's why you came." She was only steps away, the sash undone, the robe open and flowing around her. Her breasts were small but high, and her body was toned, sleek and slim like a dancer. "Let me give her to you."
He told himself he didn't want to go there. His cock, now uncomfortably tight in his pants, argued the point.
"Stop being contrary," she said softly. "You know I'm right. It's her who's got you hard, not me."
He couldn't deny the truth. And as she leaned back and let the silk slide off her shoulders to pool on the ground, he knew he should get the fuck out of there, but right then he couldn't seem to work up the impetus to move.
She tilted her head up and smiled at him, her eyes filled with mischief. Then she gently cupped her hand over his cock, so goddamn hard it was painful.
"Fuck me," she whispered. "Imagine I'm her, and fuck me."
He wanted to--he hated himself for how much he wanted to. He wanted Jane in his head. He wanted to imagine that he was buried inside her.
But no way was he going there. She deserved better. And, dammit, so did he.
Roughly, he pushed Adele away, right as she was tugging down his zipper. "Dammit, Adele, I told you no. I'm not doing this. We're not doing this."
For a moment, her eyes flashed with anger. Then her face calmed, and she smiled. "Good," she said, as if he was one of her goddamn patients. "You're making progress. But you still haven't fully dealt with the fact that she's never going to be more to you than your sister."
She ran her hand lightly over the curve of his jaw. "Until you let her go, Dallas, you're never going to heal."
"He told me to go."
I'm sitting at Brody and Stacey's kitchen table sipping coffee and reliving my moment of extreme mortification.
"Well, what did you expect?" Brody asks. "That he'd strip you naked and bend you over his desk?"
I try very hard not to whimper simply from the mental picture of that very thing.
"For goodness sakes, Gregory." Brody's given name is Gregory Allan Brody, but god forbid anyone but Stacey should ever try to use it. "You're the one who put this crazy plan in her head. Now you're saying you expected it to backfire?"