What If I Never

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Dash fills our glasses with his sister’s lemon drop creation. I reach for mine and lift it to my lips, sipping, but my nerves just won’t let go of me and I don’t know why. I want this. I want him. I deserve this. It’s about me for once, and I haven’t done anything for me in a very long time. I down the drink, vodka and sweetness burning and soothing my throat, while the rush to my head is instant.

  “Considering I barely drink that was probably not smart.” I set my glass down and glance over at him. “No more. Not a good idea at all. I’m not a big drinker so I hope you don’t think—”

  “I don’t,” he says, catching my leg just under my skirt and angling me toward him. “Why are you so nervous?”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “Yes, cupcake, it’s obvious.”

  “Cupcake,” I laugh. “It’s a silly nickname.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I—I guess I somehow do.”

  He strokes my hair behind my ear, tenderness in the touch I don’t expect, and the sensations that follow tingle through my entire body. That’s how affected I am by Dash, one touch and I’m alive, so very alive in a way I haven’t been in a long time.

  “I’m glad you do,” he says, “because I want you to like everything, Allie. I don’t want you to be nervous.”

  “It’s not you. It’s your fireplace. I think the window is going to crack.”

  He laughs. “Is that right?”

  “Yes. Okay, no. I’m sure your fancy architect knew what he was doing. It’s not the fireplace. It’s me.” I swallow hard and confess, “It’s been a while, Dash.”

  “How long?”

  I can’t bring myself to say just how long. A year. More. I might be frozen down there. “I just needed some me time,” I say. “I’m a little rusty, but I didn’t forget—”

  “No,” he smiles. “No, I’m sure you didn’t forget, but don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

  The emotions that statement stirs in me that reach beyond sex, open a Pandora’s box of baggage for me. I don’t need to be taken care of. I don’t want to be taken care of. And I don’t want to be in the headspace where he just took me. With the warm lethargy of vodka in my system and the courage that “no wanting” so many things just created, I lean into him. He doesn’t make me take it from there. His hand slides under my hair to my neck and his lips lower, lingering a hot breath from a touch.

  “God, woman,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing me, really kissing me, his tongue sliding against mine, seductive in every possible way, and I cannot contain a soft moan.

  The next thing I know he’s pulled me onto his lap and I’m straddling him, unhooking my belt. By the time I’ve tossed it away, he’s dragging my mouth to his mouth, and when his fingers tangle roughly, erotically, in my hair, he demands the attention my nerves had moments before. I’m no longer consumed by it, but rather him. I pant into his mouth, aroused beyond belief. Something about this man, this night, and the way he touches me grants me the freedom to be what I want to be and take what I want to take. I sink into his kisses, drink him in, and now my fingers are diving into the soft strands of his light brown hair, and not gently. Give what I get, I think. That is something I’ve never really lived, but I am now. His teeth scrape my lips and then he catches the zipper at the front of my dress and drags it down. With this dress that’s all it takes to get me all but naked, only two small pieces of lace and my thigh highs between us.

  He eases back and studies me, just looks at me, with dark, intense, unreadable eyes. He drags my dress down my arms, over my back, and then catches my hands with the material, holding my hands behind my back. His eyes meet mine, a challenge in their depths, a question in that challenge.

  And just like that, I know I was right about his message in the elevator. His version of taking care of me is taking control. Plain and simple, he wants me to give him what I have given no one, at least not in bed. He wants complete control.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I’m there, on top of him, in the power position, but I don’t have the power at all, not with my hands behind my back. If anyone knew my past, they’d expect me to push back, to demand my freedom, but the interesting thing about me and Dash is that while I don’t own the control right now, I don’t feel out of control.

  For the first time in my life, I realize the difference.

  Seconds tick by, and he studies me, almost as if he expects my objection. I even wonder if some part of him wants that from me—but that tug of attraction between us is all-consuming, the real source of power. He tangles his fingers in my hair and tilts my gaze to his. “I’m not a forever kind of guy, Allie. You need to know that.”

  Okay, there it is.

  Suddenly, I know why I’m on top of him with my hands bound by his. This isn’t just about control. It’s about his ability to read me, his fear that while he might say vulnerable is not weak, he isn’t sure he believes it. It’s in that moment that I become aware of the song on the radio. Carly Pearce and Lee Brice’s, “I Hope You’re Happy Now.” The words fill me up and expand and tell a story that speaks to me.

  I’m a wreck, I’m a mess

  And I ain’t got nothing left

  And I was, I really was a mess, but I’m not anymore. I’m finding my way to a new me, and tonight is all about just that. Finding me through him, but not because of him. I’m actually a little angry that he can’t even see that in me and with that anger my nerves evaporate. “I’m not looking for a husband, Dash. Forever isn’t real, but this, what we’re doing now, is. So kiss me and get naked already or let me get up and leave.”

  A look of surprise flickers over his face and he drags me to him, our bodies snug, our lips close. His fingers are still in my hair, a pull to his grip that should hurt, but it only hurts so good.

  “I don’t know what to think about you, Allison Wright,” he declares.

  “Thinking is not what I want right now.”

  His lips curve slightly and then his mouth is slanting over my mouth, his tongue stroking deep and slow. I moan with the taste of him, sweet with the lemon drop and wild with need. He moans with me, telling me he, too, is in the moment, affected by me, and the very idea that I can do this to Dash Black is empowering. He wants control, and he’s claimed that control, but I have my own as well. Our tongues battle and it’s a wicked battle at that. I don’t hold back. I always hold back, but not tonight. Tonight, I give myself permission to just be here, really here, really in the moment. And I am. I’m right here with him, demanding as much as I give.

  Almost as if he’s responded to what’s in my head, he tears his mouth from mine, our lips lingering there for several hard beats. He unhooks the front clasp of my bra, and then he drags it down my shoulders, he tears away the dress binding my arms. My nipples pucker with the contrast of the cold air and his hot inspection that follows, raking over my naked breasts. Tension builds between us and I do what anyone would do right in this moment.

  I reach for him, but he catches my wrists. “Not yet.”

  “I want to touch you,” I whisper.

  His answer is that he rotates me, moving with me, laying me down on the couch, yanking his shirt over his head and tossing it away. Before I can fully appreciate just how perfect his muscles truly are, he’s dragging my panties down my hips and tossing them. Then his big body is settling on top of me, his hips spreading my legs. And when I would touch him, he catches my hands, pinning them over my head, his earthy scent and the feel of him on top of me, in control, demanding my submission without words, is both heady and addictive.

  I’m more turned on than I have ever been in my life.

  He leans in, his lips on my neck, the breath a warm caress on the delicate skin, and I swear he draws in a breath, breathing me in as I am him. I arch into his body, murmuring his name, “Dash.” And it’s a plea to touch him, God, how I need to touch him.

  His answer once again is to deny me my wish.

  He lifts
off of me, my sex clenching with how much I need him to come back. He catches my hips and turns me over, pulling me to my knees. Now he really does have control. I’m exposed and vulnerable, with my backside in the air, with him behind me. He smacks my ass, just enough to get my attention, and I arch my back, gasping with the surprise contact. His hands stroke up my body, over my breasts, and then back to my backside, where he smacks me again.

  No one has ever done anything like this to me, and I can’t think of anything but what comes next. I mean I’ve had demands, but they were the wrong kind of demands, ones that stirred dread, not arousal. Anger, not desire.

  Dash caresses my backside and spreads me wider, his fingers sliding into the wet heat of my body, teasing me, arousing me. My God, I’m going to come. The bloom of orgasm is there and as if he knows, as if he’s tormenting me, he’s suddenly gone again. I want to cry out with my body’s protest. The only relief I find is the sound of a condom wrapper tearing, and the promise that he will soon return, that he will finally be inside me. And then he’s there, his hands on my hips, the thick ridge of his erection pressed against the wet heat of my body.

  “I’m going to fuck you now, Allie.”

  Yes, please, I think, only to pant with the feel of his cock stroking the seam of my body, up and down, back and forth, teasing my swollen, aching flesh. “Dash,” I groan, impatient now, done with the teasing.

  He laughs low and sexy, and then he thrusts inside me. Now, my groan has morphed into a moan and he moans with me, shifting inside me, settling deeper. Already he thrusts again, hard and fast, and yes, thank you, he’s done teasing me. He pumps over and over, and when neither of us can get enough, he folds himself around me, covering my breasts with his hands. And while I welcome his touch, I still cannot touch him and I just can’t take it.

  That need to touch him drives an illogical action. I reach for his hand on my breast as if I can actually hold my weight and his with one hand. I fail miserably, forced to catch myself on my elbows. Dash responds, rolling with me, pulling us to our sides, him behind me, his powerful leg catching my leg. His hand reaching around me, cups my face, his mouth stretches to my mouth. My mouth stretches to his mouth. A new intimacy stretches between us.

  In the midst of that kiss, in the way his body cradles mine, in the sway of our bodies, there’s a slow, sultry passion erupting between us. The room fills with the music, our soft pants, the burn of desire. Too soon, I’m on the edge, not ready for this to end but I’m so there, in that sweet spot, there’s no turning back. His hand is on my breast, and my hand is on his when he thrusts into me, and my sex spasms around the thick pump of his cock. I jerk with the impact and tremble all over. Dash’s entire body seems to hug mine as he pumps one more time and quakes, his body jerking right along with mine.

  The world is nothing but pleasure, and time stands still. I lose the ability to be anywhere but in the moment. And when I come back to the present, it’s with the heavy stated feeling of complete satisfaction and the wonderful weight of Dash draped over me. Dash strokes my hair from my face and kisses my neck. “You okay?”

  I laugh. “Okay? Ah, yeah. I’m pretty okay right now. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fucking wonderful,” he says. “Let’s eat and do that again.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Let’s eat and do that again.

  Just that easily Dash wipes away any chance of the dreaded after-sex awkwardness.

  That is until he kisses my neck and then he’s standing, pulling on the pants I never saw him take off, and I’m sitting on the edge of the couch, naked. I stand up and reach for my dress where it lies on the floor, all balled up. He reaches for it as well and then we’re both standing there with me naked and him not. His lips curve. “I object to you getting dressed. I like you better naked.”

  It’s my turn to object. “I’m not hanging out naked, Dash.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dash,” I plead, tugging on my dress.

  He folds me close, scrunching it between us. “I’ll get you a shirt. It’s more comfortable than the dress and easier to take off. Don’t move,” he orders, his lips curving at his obvious play on all the times he just ordered me around. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Still bossing me around?”

  “You’re still naked so I still get to boss you around.”

  “When do I get to boss you around?”

  “Probably never, but we’ll negotiate.” He winks. “Naked.”

  I’m smiling when he kisses me, and says, “I don’t trust you not to get dressed.” He catches my hand and starts walking toward a doorway I assume leads to both the bathroom and the closet, and I’m no longer thinking of me being naked. Not when he’s half-naked, his jeans slung low over a muscular backside, and he doesn’t have on underwear. I decide right then that I am not leaving until I’ve properly touched him all over.

  For now, we enter what turns out to be a hallway leading to the bathroom, with not one, but two closets, one on either side of the walkway. Dash pulls me into the one to our right which appears to be his shirt room. Dash grabs a T-shirt from a hanger and tugs the dress I’ve forgotten I’m holding from my arms.

  Now I’m naked again, not that I wasn’t before when I only had my dress in my hands. Dash catches my hip, his eyes warm as they slide over my body and back to my face. “You’re beautiful, Allie, and what’s crazy is that I don’t think you know it.” His voice is low, raspy, affected.

  And I’m affected. Because it’s him giving me the compliment. And because he’s hit a sore spot for me.

  I don’t see myself as beautiful. I’ve tried, I really have, but confidence runs much like a choppy winding river. A trait I inherited from my mother, compliments of my father. “Thank you,” I say softly, and it’s interesting to me that I’m touching him now, my hand on his chest, fingers curling in the springy hair there, and he’s letting me. Obviously, his need for control has been sated, whatever his trigger for such things, flipped the other direction. At least for now.

  “Just telling the truth, baby,” he says. “And holy hell, you need to put this shirt on or we are not going to get around to eating.” He slides it over my head and I shove my arms into the sleeves as it falls to my knees.

  He gives me a once over again and grins. “You look adorable, cupcake.”

  “Adorable again?”

  He drags me to him and squeezes my now T-shirt-covered backside, and says, “Your ass is definitely adorable. And so is the way you’re blushing. Little miss ‘thinking is not what I want from you right now.’”

  “You were testing me,” I accuse.

  He plays coy. “Was I?”

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “You were.”

  “And you weren’t testing me?”

  I consider that. Was I? My answer is pretty immediate. I was. He’s right. “Not intentionally.”

  “It’s called being human, baby. We all do it.” He strokes my hair. “Do you like lasagna? The place here in the building makes a hell of a lasagna.”

  “Are there people who don’t like lasagna?” I ask, relieved to escape the prior topic.

  “You just keep giving me reasons to like you, Allie.” He catches my hand. “Come on. Let’s order.”

  I tug against his hand. “Wait. I actually need to go to the bathroom.”

  “All right. I’ll order, you go pee, as my sister would say. She always has to pee. Just turn right and you’re there.” He kisses me and leaves me in the closet, and somehow, as crazy as it might sound, it feels like trust. And yet, it’s just a closet and a bathroom. And I have the distinct feeling Dash Black trusts no one.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I’m warm and riding the high of this night with Dash when I travel the short walkway to the bathroom and my jaw drops. It’s an architectural masterpiece. The sink is floating brown wood with a gray granite top. In front of a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city, the tub is this half-moon shape in the same gray, with a brown wood
en table next to it. In front of a brown glass-enclosed shower sits a brown abstract statue.

  Despite all the glamour, I hyper-focus on that gorgeous tub.

  I don’t even own a tub but rather a tiny shower in a tiny bathroom. I can’t remember the last time I took a bath. Yes, I do. I have a tub in my current place, but that won’t last. And as for the last bath, it was in Brandon’s fancy apartment.

  I decide right then that I need my own tub.

  With that decision is the realization that I’m successful but I’m not sure I’m happy. Why in the world would I not be happy? I scowl at myself. This is not the night to do this. I shove aside that thought and go pee, laughing as I think of Dash and his sister, feeling a bit of envy at his relationship with her. It must be wonderful to have a close sibling. By the time I’m washing my hands I’m back in the wrong headspace. Why am I not happy? I have all I ever wanted in a career. I’m back to the difference between successful and happy. My mother’s illness really drives home the need to live life to the fullest. Every day counts.

  That’s when it hits me that I have no idea where my phone is right now. What if my mother has some sort of health crisis? Hurrying out of the bathroom, I head down the hallway to enter the bedroom. I find Dash standing at the window, still shirtless, his shoulders bunched. Another time, I’d wonder why he’s this tense right after enjoying the view, but right now, I have my mother on my mind.

  Rushing forward, I scan the general sitting area for my purse, finding it half under the couch. I grab it and sit down as Dash turns to watch me retrieve my phone from inside. “My mom. She’s traveling and I had my phone on vibrate at the party. I just need to make sure I didn’t miss any of her calls.” I check my call log to find two calls from Tyler and one from my father.