Chapter 34
Dallas adjusts my dress at least partially back into place and wraps my coat around me.
Then he carries me into his luxurious building.
I’m expecting opulence by now, but every new reveal blows my mind with it.
The man is Midas on steroids. We take the elevator all the way to the top floor and I’m speechless when we get to his apartment.
It’s unbelievably, positively, over the top crazy-ass amazing in a way that feels almost surreal.
Its vibe is old-money Tuscan villa meets New York City billionaire’s penthouse.
It’s sparsely decorated but what’s here is absurdly gorgeous.
Squashy, expensive-looking leather couches and ornately carved wooden furniture.
Tropical plants and crystal chandeliers.
There’s an outdoor area as big as the interior with stone statues and an infinite pool that looks out over all of Central Park.
“Wow, Wilder. Not too shabby.”
“We can change anything you don’t like.”
This almost makes me laugh. “I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
Dallas takes me to his enormous bed and wraps his big body around me, holding me in his bearhug. He murmurs husky words about taking care of me forever. He wipes my tears and tells me I’m going to be okay. That I’m already okay. That all the hard stuff is behind me now.
I don’t know if I am, or if it is. I’m still crying.
I wrap my leg around his, inviting his hardening cock with my slippery pussy.
Having him inside me is my happy place, I can’t help that.
He provides more comfort than I’ve ever known.
I need the hot, thick, skewering pleasure of him like a drug.
Orgasms are a kind of therapy. They’re a release and I can’t get enough of them.
I’m addicted to the spasming rapture he so easily draws from my body.
He makes me come three more times.
Until I’m limp and wrung dry of all emotion. I’ve cried my tears and I’ve come so hard, all the angst of life, for now, has been completely washed away.
“Dally?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?” I lost myself in him, totally immersed in the deluge of nearly-unendurable pleasure. I know he came again, several times, but my eyes were closed.
“Depends on what you mean by okay.”
I smooth an errant thick strand of his hair. “What are we doing?” I whisper, because it’s almost like we’re trying to do things we probably shouldn’t be trying to do, considering the warp speed of what’s happening here.
He considers the question, a light furrow appearing between the strong stripes of his eyebrows. “We’re falling in love, that’s what we’re doing.”
“We are?” My question comes out sounding breathless.
“Yes.”
“How can you tell?”
“You know how I can tell. You can feel it too.” I know I can. And it terrifies me. Because there’s not a damn thing I can do to slow it down. “Close your eyes, Boo.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I close them, but I’m wary. He holds his hand over them and I hold my hand over his.
“Now,” he says. “Picture all your wildest dreams coming true. What would that look like for you?”
I laugh sort of uneasily, trying to pull his hand off, but he keeps it there.
“Tell me one wildest dream.”
“One?”
“Yes. One.”
“You’d let me open my eyes.”
I can hear the light exasperation and the amusement in his voice. “You’re as stubborn as I am, Amelie Thibodeaux, which is one of the reasons we’re such a good match.” He removes his hand and holds mine in his. “One wildest dream. Go.”
I think about it for a second. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Try harder. You said you wanted to paint.”
“Sure. Yeah. I’d like to have some time to do that again.”
“What would you do with your paintings?”
I shrug. “Sell them, of course. It would be a cool way to make a living.”
“What if you didn’t have to think about making a living?”
“At all?” I realize I’m being kind of thick at this point but it’s hard to imagine.
“At all.”
“Then I’d keep them.” I smile because it’s so far-fetched.
Not for him, maybe, but it is for me. The truth is, I never wanted to part with any of my paintings.
Things didn’t pan out in my favor in that particular regard and now every single one of them is gone.
Losing them killed a tiny bit of the urge to do more of it because what’s the point if you just have to give them away?
“When you’re not busy painting, would you still want to run a hotel? If you could choose to do absolutely anything with your time with no restrictions, would running a hotel still be one of those things?”
I consider this. And it’s an easy choice. “Yes. But only if it was my hotel. I mean, I wouldn’t want to run some random hotel in a place I didn’t know. And I wouldn’t want to run it if it was owned by a billionaire from Houston.” I realize this is very specific but it’s the truth.
He’s watching my face intently. “So, if you could own and run the Hotel Thibodeaux again, you would want to do that.”
I thought I was all cried out but I feel another sting behind my eyes. “Of course I would.” That place is my heart and soul. Or was. And I’m tired of this game, and sort of bone tired in general. I let my eyes close for a minute.
Dallas can read my emotion. But apparently he’s not finished with the Spanish Inquisition yet. “What about a family? Do you want kids? One day?”
My eyes open. We both ignore the one day comment that hangs in the air. And also the obvious follow-up. Like, one day that happens to be nine months from right now?
“Yes.” I’m surly now. We’re getting back into Real Life territory and I’m suddenly wide awake again.
“How many kids? Hypothetically. In your wildest dreams.”
I’m glaring at him now but he’s waiting for my answer, so I give it to him. “I used to fantasize about having six.”
“Six?” I can tell he loves this. That he’s impressed by my ambition. “Six is a good number.”
“I always thought it would be so much fun to be part of a big family. I used to pretend when I got lonely that I had all these imaginary brothers and sisters. There weren’t really a lot of kids at our hotel by then. Mostly business travelers and the kind of people who come to New Orleans to party.”
“What would you name a girl?”
What kind of question is that? Is this some kind of tactic? To make me feel like I already know her? But the answer comes surprisingly easily. “Sabine. It was my mother’s name. And it’s one of my middle names. I’ve always liked it.”
“Sabine Amelie Thibodeaux Wilder.”
I bite my lip. He’s already naming our children?
I shouldn’t feel so stunned, of course, considering the elephant in the room we continue to repeatedly ignore.
But a big part of me still is stunned. By our runaway freight train of a love affair and also that I’m allowing myself to get so thoroughly swept away by the force of this wildfire attraction.
Even so, I can admit the name is kind of perfect.
And I find myself asking, “What about a boy?”
“Jack. My father’s name.”
“Jack Dallas Wilder.”
“Jack Dallas Theodore Thibodeaux Wilder,” he says, like he’s already thought about it and has made the executive decision.
“I don’t want to name it after him.”
“Yes you do. You’ll forgive him eventually.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Jack Dallas Theodore Thibodeaux Wilder,” I repeat. I guess it has a certain ring to it.
“Done,” he says. Like everything’s settled.
Done? The cynic residing in my head is outraged and alarmed.
What the hell are you doing right now, Amelie Esmé Sabine Ana?s Thibodeaux?
Get real! You need to be more careful! What if he’s lying?
Or what if he changes his mind? There’s a very real probability that you could find yourself wandering the streets of New York and sleeping on Sadie’s sister’s couch with an innocent little newborn.
Either that or you’ll be forced to run back to the hotel with your tail between your legs to beg for your job back.
And what about little Sabine? Are you going to carry her around from room to room while you clean?
Are you going to sneak her into your tiny storage room to live there with you?
What if she cries? What are you going to feed her?
Two-day old fucking grits? Are you really willing to take all these risks for someone you’ve known for—let me remind you—four days?
?? Wake up, girl! “Um. Yeah, so … about that Plan B …”
“I have a better idea.”
“You do?”
“If you like it.”
“What idea?”
He reaches for something. In the pockets of his jacket that’s on the floor next to the bed.
As he reaches, his big body displaces the sheet.
Of course I notice the hard, inked, rippling muscles as he moves.
The quilted six pack and the arrow line of dark hair.
The somewhat-more-innocent-looking manhood, still wet, that never fails to fascinate me.
The messed-up thick hair. The masculine face that I absolutely love, now dark with his five o’clock shadow.
The aqua eyes that are now watching me with a lazy, charmed expectation, as he presents to me three small boxes.
Please don’t break my heart, Dallas Wilder.