“Likewise,” Dean says politely.
The server returns and slips the bill onto the table, and there’s a split second of terrible awkwardness as I automatically reach for my purse and Dean flexes his knee between my legs in warning. I clamp my hands together and keep chatting with the partners, watching from the corner of my eye as he passes the server a credit card, regretting my two glasses of wine and the crab cakes, wondering if it was too expensive.
“You two leaving?” Morgan asks, a little too casually.
I look at him closely. “Did you pretend to talk to us so you could take our table?”
“What?” He looks extraordinarily guilty. “No. Don, would we do that?”
“Absolutely not,” Sterling exclaims. “Except...I am really hungry.”
I laugh politely. “Then your timing is excellent.”
The server returns with the card and a receipt, and the torture is over. Except...
“It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Morgan says as we stand. “Will we see you at the party next month?”
I freeze at the quasi-invitation. Every August the company has a party to welcome the new hires and celebrate promotions. It’s billed as a casual summer gathering, but it’s actually pretty formal. And I cannot imagine Dean in a bow tie any more than I can imagine him mingling with my coworkers.
“Absolutely,” Dean replies easily. “Looking forward to it.”
The men slip into our just-vacated seats and smile goodbye, waving as we leave. I feel them and Todd and everyone else watching as we weave our way through the crowd, two seriously mismatched people with nothing but raging hormones in common.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out as soon as we reach the sidewalk.
“For what?”
“For that!” I gesture behind us, hustling away from the restaurant and any prying eyes.
Dean snags my elbow to stop me. “Would you calm down?” he asks. “Nothing happened.”
I shuffle in place, uncomfortable. “I don’t expect you to come to that party. I don’t know why they... It just...”
He adjusts his gym bag on his shoulder. “I’m not planning to go either. It just seemed easier to accept than explain why I couldn’t.”
I freeze stupidly. “Oh.”
Dean studies me, a half smile transforming his handsome face into something a little less intimidating, and somehow even hotter. “You want to go back in there and tell them why I can’t come? What we’ve been doing?”
I blush so hard I can feel it in my toes. “No!”
He laughs. “Cause I’m fine with that. I have no secrets.”
“Stop. Shut up.”
He slides a hand down my back to squeeze my ass, making me jump and turning me on. “Dean! Not here.”
“Where then?”
I glance around, wondering if we’re supposed to take three buses back to Camden or if he’d be willing to come to my apartment. It’s closer, and my body is desperately craving all the things he has to offer. And it wants them now.
“My place?” I suggest tentatively.
A lot of things cross Dean’s face in that moment, surprise, hesitation, relief, pleasure. Then the cool mask returns. “Lead the way,” he says.
Chapter Thirteen
The twenty-minute walk to my building takes fourteen, and we’re silent the entire way. In fact, Dean doesn’t say a word until I push open the door to my apartment and he steps inside, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows and amazing city views. When I’d first bought the place the views were what had attracted me: I wasn’t as high as I would be when I made it to the thirty-second floor of the King Building, but it made me feel powerful. Successful. And somewhere between then and now, I’d stopped looking.
“Wow,” Dean says, dropping his bag and striding over to the windows, peering down. “This is something.”
I hesitate by the door, not sure what I should do. I glance around at the gleaming kitchen on the right, the granite countertops and high-end appliances hardly touched. I’d hired a designer who’d picked out the Italian leather sofa and colorful artwork in the living room, where I rarely spend time. It’s my home and it’s beautiful, if impersonal. Now I feel weird showing it to Dean. Showing him who I’ve become.
“You want a tour?” I ask finally, stepping out of my shoes.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Yeah, sure. Give me a tour.”
I gesture to my right. “This is the kitchen.”
He nods. “Nice.”
“You’re in the living room.”
He looks around dutifully. “Gotcha.”
I head down the hall to the left, pointing out the rooms as we pass. “Guest bathroom, guest bedroom, home office, my bedroom.” Dean’s bare feet are so quiet that I couldn’t say for sure how it is I know he’s behind me, just that I do. Even when he’s not touching me, I feel him.
“You’ve got a nice home¸ Rachel.”
I pause at the door to my bedroom, but he just glances at it over my shoulder before turning around and heading back to the living room. I take a deep breath, check my appearance in the mirror and follow him.
Dean’s back at the windows, taking in the view. “My office is on the thirty-second floor,” I say, because I can’t seem to think of anything less vain. “The views are even better.”
He turns to face me. “You spend a lot of time looking out the window?”
I shake my head, feeling foolish. “Do you want a drink or anything? I have water.”
He shrugs. “Sure. Water’s fine.”
I open the fridge, letting the cool air wash over my heated skin. I feel like a stranger in my own home, desperately hoping he’ll like it and wondering why I care what he thinks. I grab a bottle of water for Dean and contemplate the open bottle of wine for myself, ultimately taking another bottle of water before closing the door and turning.
My heart leaps out of my chest when I find him standing a few feet away, waiting quietly. “You still upset about Caitlin?” he asks.
I shake my head no, but what comes out is, “Yes.”
He accepts the offered water but doesn’t open it. “What would you do if she were here right now?”
I blink, startled. But the answer is easy. “Club her over the head with a wine bottle.”
He laughs. “Then what?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t know. Do you feel better?”
“Not really.”
He holds out his hands, showing me his scraped knuckles. “You know how this happened?”
I stare at the scars on his hands, his face. “Fighting with Oscar Hall.”
Dean cocks his head, surprised and not surprised that I know. “Fucking Oreo.”
Now I laugh.
“Anyway,” he continues, “the point is, sometimes you gotta work out your aggression so you can focus on more important things.”
“Like what?”
His dark eyes heat, making me shiver. “Let’s find out.” He sets the unopened bottle of water on the counter then takes a step forward so there’s just a foot or so of space between us. “If I’m Caitlin, what are you going to do to me?”
I know what he’s getting at, but I’m not going to punch him. Even in my weakest moments, I’m not even sure I could punch Caitlin. I haven’t been in a fistfight since I was fourteen and Mitzy Lachlan stole my hair dye. “Dean,” I say awkwardly. “No. I—I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s weird.”
He reaches up and unpins my hair, letting it spool down my back. “You worried I’m going to hit you back?”
I laugh nervously. “No.”
“Then what?” He steps forward, backing me into the counter, knee wedging between my thighs. “This?” Before I know what’s happening, he yanks on the collar of my shirt, sending the small pearl buttons flying. I open my mouth to protest but he pops off the button on my pants and soon has both items discarded on the floor. It’s so impressive I almost forget to be mad.
“Stop ruining my clothes!” But the words lack any and all conviction because he’s stripping off his shirt so he’s bare-chested, golden and built and perfect. He pulls me to the floor, gathers my wrists in one hand and pins them over my head.
“Remember that first night?” he murmurs, trailing his tongue across my exposed throat.
“What about it?”
“You know what to say if you want me to stop.” He slides his free hand between us and covers my aching core with his palm, the thin fabric of my panties an irksome barrier.
Lawyer
, I remember. And in my head I echo the plea,
Lawyer
,
lawyer
,
lawyer.
But I don’t say it aloud because stopping is the last thing I want him to do.
“You remember, Rachel?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Lawyer.”
He squeezes my pussy. “Good. Don’t say it again until you mean it.”
“Dean...” I plead. “I don’t want to fight. I just want...”
“What?”
“I...” I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what comes next. It’s hard to inhale, with his chest bearing down on mine. “I can’t breathe,” I gasp eventually.
He lifts up slightly, letting me drag in air, then settles over me once again. “If you can’t ask for what you want,” he says, pinching my clit through my panties, “and you can’t fight for it, then maybe I’ll just do what I want.”
He slaps the side of my ass so hard and so suddenly that I yowl. There’s no other way to describe the sound that comes out of my mouth. Pain, indignation, surprise. Rage. I’m not into pain; I don’t have any spanking fantasies. I don’t feel the heat spread across my skin in a sexy way; I’m furious. He knows this. Or he did; he’d tried it when we were kids and I’d flipped out until he promised never to do it again.
I buck angrily, bite his shoulder, jerk one foot out from under him and kick down hard into the back of his calf with my heel. Dean’s surprise has more to do with the immediacy of my response than any pain, and his smug chuckle only makes me more irate.
“You fight for what you
don’t
want, huh?”
I struggle against the hold on my wrists and we both know I only break free because he chooses to let me. He slaps my ass again, the same spot, and tears spring to my eyes.
“Don’t,” I gasp, swinging an elbow at his face and missing. The effort makes me weak; it’s still hard to breathe, he’s so fucking heavy. “Don’t. I’ll say it.”
“Giving in that easy, Rach? Let me hear it.” He hits me again and I lose it, especially when one tear breaks free and trails down my temple to pool in my ear.
“Stop!” I hiss, clawing at his face. He eludes me, just the tips of my nails finding skin, and even then only for a split second. I slide my hand over his skull, feeling the sharp ends of his shorn hair on my palm, missing the feel of the dark, silky strands he’d been so proud of. But there’s no time for reminiscing; there’s only now. I feel him lift his hand away and know there’s another slap coming, so I raise my head and cover his mouth with mine, stealing
his
breath for once. I pull his lower lip between my teeth, feeling him tense, that threatening hand falling to the ground for support.
“Let me breathe,” I whisper softly, opening my eyes to meet his. Dean tugs his lip from between my teeth and pushes up with both hands, prying our sticky chests apart. I bring up my knee, hard, and jam it into his stomach. He sees it coming a nanosecond before the contact and tenses up; my knee doesn’t sink into soft flesh, bouncing instead off tightly corded muscles. But I still make my point.
“How was that?” I ask, lips twisting into something that couldn’t quite pass for a smile. Dean’s breathing is raspy as he rolls us so I’m on top again. This time I don’t ask for what I want, I just take it. I shove down his sweats far enough to bare his cock to my greedy fingers and fit him against me, leaving my panties in place as I roll my hips, feeling his searing heat against my needy flesh.
“Not bad,” he grunts, eyes glued to my inner thighs. “Get the panties off.”
I ignore the command and lean forward to balance my palms on his hard chest. I rock against him and Dean reaches down to fist his cock, letting me use him, stroking me with his thumb now and then. His face is pulled tight, his dark eyes just slits as he watches the show. I use the rare opportunity to study unguarded Dean, the fresh bruises on his face, the faded scars on his torso. Even in the dim light his shoulders glow like gold against the pale floor tiles.
I hiss when he rubs my clit, hard. “Dean.”
“What?”
“You’re so hot.”
He rasps out a laugh. “Yeah?”
“You know you are.” I lean down to kiss him, pushing my tongue into his mouth, feeling satisfied and strong when his meets mine, hungry and frantic. I do it because I have to; because I want to. Because I want him.
One of his hands cups the back of my neck, holding me in place as his other hand delves between my legs. He pushes the wet gusset of my panties aside and curls two fingers into me, stroking deep. I sigh into his mouth but don’t stop kissing him until I have to break away, dizzy. He’s fucking me hard with his fingers and I can hear them plunge into me again and again, wet and filthy.
“Oh God,” I groan into the side of his neck. “Please.”
“What do you want?”
“Make me come.”
“Take this off...” Dean instructs, unfastening my bra and pushing it down my arms before flinging it away. “And lose the panties.”
I sit up, awkwardly shuffling out of my panties as he watches. He flips us so I’m the one lying on the cold tiles as he looms between my legs, then lowers himself, forearms pinning my thighs to the floor, splaying me wide open for his hungry mouth. He lowers his head and sucks me in, hard, and goes to town.
I groan, a long, low sound I feel vibrate through my chest, clawing its way out of my throat. Dean answers by wedging two fingers inside me, holding them still as my clenching inner muscles strain to accommodate him, then sliding them in and out, a methodical kind of torture. This isn’t the same Dean who first did this ten years ago, an enthusiastic, exploratory teenager whose only goal was my pleasure and the accompanying ego boost. I don’t know or care how or with whom Dean practiced this exquisite torment, I just know that I need it to end. Or begin. Whichever.
He blows cool air on my swollen clit, flicks it with his tongue, laps around my entrance. His elbows hurt where they dig into the soft flesh of my inner thighs, but for once the pain is a positive, a distraction from the desperate pulse low in my belly, the primitive need for release.
“Please, please, please,” I chant. One hand fumbles blindly between my legs, searching for something, anything. I find the top of Dean’s head but there’s nothing to hold on to, no way to control him. When he pulls away, I think it’s because I touched him, and it takes me ten full seconds to realize he said something.
“What?” I gasp, lifting my heavy head to look at him. Between my legs he cuts a huge, intimidating figure that looks like the most necessary kind of absolution.
“You seeing anybody else?” he repeats.
A hazy discomfort spreads through me and I try to close my legs, a futile gesture when he’s got a grip on each knee, holding me open.
“You’re asking this now?”
Dean uses one hand to stroke me, hooking his middle finger into my pussy and pushing it deep. “Yeah.”
“Jesus.” I writhe against that probing finger, not sure if I want to dislodge it or get it deeper. “Your timing could use a little improving.”
“Answer me,” he orders, adding a second finger.
“No!” I snap. “Why? Are you seeing someone?” The question makes me seethe.
Dean doesn’t speak, just shakes his head no and presses his face back between my legs, fastening his lips around my clit and sucking hard, holding me down when my hips buck upward, fast and violent. He works a third rough finger into my clenching core, his fingers so big that the penetration rides the edge of pain, making me whimper and clutch at his hand.
He turns his face to press a kiss to the inside of my thigh, a halfheartedly reassuring gesture.
“Please,” I moan, when he leaves me on the brink again. “Please, Dean. What do you want?”
He shakes his head, tongue working feverishly between my legs, and a low, possessive sound rumbles from his chest. He’s fucking me hard with his fingers, nudging that sensitive spot high inside, and I feel like I’m being tossed around a furious ocean, jerking this way and that, desperate to be pulled under. I lose my breath and feel the room fade away, too much sensation building between my legs, so much I can’t stand it. Then he pulls my clit into his mouth and sucks impossibly, painfully hard. And I come.
My body follows his brutal mouth, lifting into the assault, begging for more. Waves and waves of terrifying pleasure beat down on me and I hear Dean groan, mumbling my name, cursing, encouraging. One of my hands fumbles helplessly on the floor, searching for an anchor, the other reaches for Dean’s head as he consumes me. I cry out and give him what he wants.
Eventually my eyes flutter open and the world comes back. I feel cool air on my sticky inner thighs, hear the erotic lap of his tongue against my swollen folds as he helps me come back down.
“Oh God,” I mumble, running a hand over my mouth, feeling it come away damp with perspiration. “Dean.”
The oral ministrations cease and he works his hand out of my pussy, breathing hard. I lift my head in time to see him study his glistening fingers. I flush, both embarrassed and too spent to care, as he grabs a dish towel hanging from the stove and wipes his hand.