I toy with her until my name is a curse on her lips. Until her moan is more whine than pleasure.
Then I drag my lips down her stomach.
My fingers curl into her thighs. I pry them apart. Pin her to the bed.
"Fuck." Her hand finds my hair. "Dean. Please."
Fuck yes. I plant between her legs.
Nip at her inner thigh until she's panting.
Move to her other leg and do it again.
She tugs at my hair. Rocks her hips. Begs for more with her groans.
I hold her in place as I lick her up and down. I do it softly. Slowly. So I can savor the taste of her.
Fuck, the way she writhes against me—
It's magic.
I drag my fingertips up her stomach. Over her breast. Around her nipple.
I toy with her tender bud as I lick her up and down.
Again and again.
Until her nails are digging into my skin hard enough to draw blood.
Enough teasing.
I need her coming on my face.
I plant a soft, slow lick on her clit.
Her toes curl.
I try faster. Harder. Up. Down. Right. Left. Every fucking combination until I get it.
There.
A gasp falls off her lips.
One hand tugs at my hair. The other claws at my shoulder. "Dean…"
"Louder."
She groans my name again. She groans my name like it's her favorite thing in the whole fucking universe.
I lick her just how she needs me.
Toy with her just how she needs me.
Her brow knits. Her eyelids press together. Her hand knots in my hair.
She's there. At the edge.
A few more flicks of my tongue, and she tumbles over it. She pulses against my lips, groaning my name as she comes.
I hold her in place. Suck on the soft skin of her inner thigh for just long enough for her to catch her breath.
Then I bring my mouth back to her.
No teasing this time.
I wind her up.
Pleasure spills over her expression.
She comes fast and hard, bucking against my lips, clawing at my skin, groaning my name again and again.
I plant a soft kiss on her thigh. Her stomach. Her chest.
Her lips.
She looks up at me with heavy lids. "That… You…"
I wrap my arms around her.
"Fuck." She melts into my touch. "You're…" Her voice gets soft. Sincere. "Fuck."
I pull her closer.
Slowly, she falls asleep in my arms.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chloe
Morning light falls over the blue sheets and the navy comforter. I roll away from the window, press my eyelids together, soak in the feeling of the sun on my back.
Slowly, I stretch my arms over my head. Shake my legs. Wiggle my toes. There's this bliss in my bones, this satisfaction I haven't felt in a long, long time.
Last night…
God.
Memories threaten to derail the day's plans. They promise to keep me in a happy world filled with pleasure and connection and love. They promise to lock out ugly realities.
I want to stay there.
I want to buy a fucking house there.
But I only have…
Shit, how much time do I have?
I throw the comforter off. Slip out of bed. There. My backpack is sitting on top of my jeans. Phone in the front pocket.
The screen displays a sassy text from Dad (I swear, he's more older sister than Gia sometimes).
Dad: Staying with a friend, huh? Wonder if his name rhymes with bean.
He could at least pretend he's bothered by the thought of me hooking up with an inked sex god.
I find my spare pair of panties (I keep it around for period mishaps, but this is a much more fun use) and slide them on. Then my jeans. Bra. Tank top. Socks. Boots.
My clothes are scattered around the room. Collecting them is like living last night in reverse.
It's a head trip.
It's too much for nine o'clock. I have two hours until that test. I have two hours to feel like a normal person. To be a girl gushing over great sex. Over the thrill of falling in… well, I think a part of me has loved Dean since high school. But now… I don’t know.
There are too many feelings whirling around my brain.
I move into the bathroom. Brush my teeth, wash my face, run a comb through my hair. This is where short hair excels. No fuss.
My reflection stares back at me with messy raccoon eyes and dark circles, but there's no denying the satisfaction in her expression.
A little makeup remover and a fresh coat of eyeliner and mascara fix the raccoon situation. The makeup looks good, but it feels unnecessary. I don't need a shield right now. I don't need my defenses up.
I can trust Dean.
The thought bounces around my head as I move into the main room.
Dean's standing at the stove in nothing but his black boxers. "You eat eggs?"
Fuck, he wears those boxers. The waistband is slung low around his hips. The fabric clings to his tight ass and his strong legs. His entire back is on display.
My eyes trace the tattoo running over his shoulder. An abstract, geometric design with a modern flair. Classic. Bold. Pure Dean.
"Do I what?" My gaze goes back to his ass. Perfect doesn't begin to describe it. He's on a whole other level of hotness.
He lets out a hearty chuckle as he flips whatever is in the pan. "Do you eat eggs?"
"Yeah." I move into the kitchen. Until I'm two feet from him. "Most vegetarians do."
"Still gonna ask."
"Thanks." My stomach grumbles as the smell of said eggs wafts into my nostrils. "Tea?"
He motions to two mugs sitting on the dining table. A container of honey and a spoon sit between them. "Earl Grey."
"I drink other things."
"No shame in knowing what you like." He flips the eggs. Turns to me. Gives me a long, slow once over. "Was hoping you'd come out here naked."
"I thought about it."
"Damn, where did I go wrong?"
"It was when you insisted you wouldn't fuck me until after the test."
He shakes his head with mock regret. "It's the little things, isn't it?"
"Yeah." I can't help but laugh. He's just so… Dean.
"Sit down. I'll bring you breakfast."
I do. I watch him cook as I stir honey into my tea. He's focused. Intent. Careful. That other Dean, the one that cares about things.
No. That is Dean. He's both guys—the one who has to crack a joke and the one who perfects his tattoo mock-ups.
He turns the stove off, scoops eggs onto ceramic plates, and brings them to the table.
He slides into the seat next to mine and hands over a fork.
"Thanks." I groan through my first bite. "These are amazing." Fresh, soft eggs with tender tomatoes, sharp green onions, and tangy cheddar.
"Sure thing." He wraps his hands around his mug and takes a long sip. "How's your head?"
"Okay. I drank a lot of water last night." My eyes go to the clock. Nine ten now. That still leaves a lot of time to feel normal. I don't want to leave that yet. "How about you?"
"That was nothing for me."
"You are—"
"If you're gonna guess my weight again—"
"I was going to say experienced."
He chuckles. "True."
"With drinking."
"Still true." He scoops eggs with his fork. "Fuck. I usually chow down on bacon when I have a hangover."
"That sounds like you."
"Do you ever get tempted to eat meat?"
"When I first started, yeah. But after a while, meat seemed gross to me. After fifteen years, the smell of it makes my stomach turn."
"Fuck. That's dedication. I don't think I've believed in anything for fifteen years."
"What about lust for pussy?"
He laughs so hard he drops his fork. His hand goes to his stomach. He holds onto it like he's about to bust a stitch. "Lust for pussy?"
"What would you call it?"
"Lust for pussy is perfect." He wipes a tear of joy from his eye. "Fuck, Chloe. You… you're perfect."
"It's the boots." I show off said boots. "You can admit it."
"You can admit sandals are more comfortable."
They are comfortable. But—"They aren't me."
"You gonna wear combat boots to your wedding?"
"I don't know. Are you proposing?"
His eyes light up as his smile spreads over his cheeks. "You shouldn't dare me like that, sunshine. I'll do it just because."
I have no doubt Dean would marry someone on a whim. But not just to win a game of chicken. Because there's this lonely part of him hiding behind the cocky front.
He craves connection as much as I do.
"Who says that isn't exactly what I want?" I tease back.
"It's only four hours to Vegas."