I scratch and claw but Dean’s arms are like metal bands, an unyielding vise that holds me against his chest, legs stretched over the armrest, feet kicking futilely against my locked door. “Stop it!” I screech. “I hate you. I hate you as much as you hate me.” The tears are coming in earnest, more than should be humanly possible. Every agonizing breath hurts my ribs, makes my stomach twist, my throat burn.
“Let me go!” I slap at Dean’s face and hear him inhale when my palm makes solid contact with his cheek. His grip tightens slightly and one of his hands lifts up to grasp my hair and tug back so I’m almost lying against the door.
“Don’t do this!” I gasp, writhing against his unrelenting hold. “I trusted you and you set me up. Let me go. Get out. I hate you. Get out.” Even as I say them, the words are losing steam, growing tired and heavy. The tears are running out, thank God. Lethargy is stealing in even as the tears cool on my face and neck, salty and sticky.
“I’m tired of being the bad guy,” I moan pitifully. “You don’t have to keep telling me.” I feel Dean’s lips move, very, very gently, over my skin, tracing the tear tracks that cover my neck.
“Stop,” I whisper.
His hands move too, featherlight, stroking up and down my back, my arm, from my hip to my neck, coddling me, a stark contrast to the hot, hard body that won’t let me escape the unwanted attention.
“Don’t,” I say again. My voice breaks on the word; it feels like something inside me is cracking in two. The last time I lost Dean I was the one who did the leaving. It was the dead of night, I didn’t have to see him, I didn’t have to face the hurt. I’d buried myself in my job search and then in school, deftly eluding the feelings that would have broken me. But now he’s here, and I feel him everywhere, even as those big hands do nothing more than stroke me in a soothing, methodical rhythm.
“Come here,” he murmurs, cradling my head in a hand that brooks no argument, holding me in place as his mouth covers mine.
I whimper against him, my mind racing even as my body goes limp in his arms. I don’t know what he’s doing. I didn’t think Dean liked kissing; at least he doesn’t seem to like kissing
me
, avoiding it whenever possible. But now his lips and tongue are everywhere, exploring every corner of my mouth, swallowing every sob.
I’m exhausted. My limbs feel like they’re weighed down with stones, and it’s hard to move, even when Dean’s free hand glides over my hip and gathers my skirt above my waist. One of my legs is stretched across the seat in front of me, the other is on the floor, leaving me open and exposed.
I make a confused sound of protest and acquiescence when Dean’s hand covers me through my panties, stroking lightly.
“Shh,” he soothes.
“I don’t want to have sex with you.” It’s true; I can’t stomach the thought of Dean’s cock inside me, seeing his face harden as he comes, knowing what he really thinks of me. What he’d rather be doing.
“I know.” He kisses me again, his lips impossibly soft even as they take what I’m not sure I want to give.
I feel the scratch of his fingertips on my inner thigh as he pushes my panties to the side and covers my bare flesh with his hand, my folds damp and swollen, as conflicted as my emotions. Dean circles my opening with one finger before pushing in slowly. He burrows in deep but gentle, giving me the only thing he thinks he has to offer.
I break the kiss and turn my face away, feeling his hot breath on my cheek, his tongue tracing the shell of my ear, then my jaw. My heart is hammering in my chest and my breathing is uneven, turning into a startled gasp when he inserts a second finger, fucking me soft and slow.
“Let go, Rachel,” he urges quietly, turning my face back to his. “Let it out.” His fingers curl forward as though coaxing me, calling forth an orgasm I can’t imagine I have the strength for. I feel my slippery wetness coat his fingers, recognize the ease of his penetration, the clenching spasms low in my belly.
All the frustration, the fury, the hurt feelings, everything gathers between my legs. Dean’s fingers torment me mercilessly, manipulating the sensitive flesh until my hips are writhing against his hand, begging silently for release. He kisses me thoroughly, his mouth as skilled as his fingers, tongue dueling with mine with predictable results.
The orgasm is soft and long, rolling over me in drowning waves that steal my breath. Dean’s tongue and fingers never cease, though their ministrations lighten as the contractions ebb, claiming every last ounce of my resentful pleasure.
My head falls back, sweat beading at my hairline, and I drag in air in greedy gulps, trying to make sense of what just happened. How could I let Dean touch me after what he said? And why would he bother?
I fumble to shove my skirt back into place, freezing when I bump Dean’s wrist, his hand still buried between my thighs. My eyes fly to his and I instantly wish I’d looked anywhere but. He watches me for a moment then turns his dark gaze to my pussy and uses one hand to gather up my skirt.
His fingers feel huge, rasping sensitive tissues as they slide out, slick and shiny. His heated eyes flicker between his hand and my face, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. I wait for him to say something crude, to do something awful, but he just grabs the tissue I’d left on the console and cleans his hand. The act somehow manages to feel even more intimate than the one just completed.
Finally his arms relax and he helps me sit up and slide back over the armrest into the passenger seat. The car smells like sex and sweat, and if it wasn’t already so damn hot outside, I’m sure the windows would be fogged, advertising our filthy secrets.
“All right?” he asks eventually.
I know he’s looking at me but I pretend to be busy adjusting my clothing and buckling my seat belt. “Let’s go,” I say, glancing around. We’re still alone, but who knows for how long.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out, but starts the car without saying another word.
* * *
I wake up slowly, hot and dizzy and very confused. I glance out the car window to see a brick wall and a quiet street lined with squat industrial-looking buildings. Then it hits me: we’re in Camden. I turn my head to stare at Dean as he shuts off the car and takes the keys from the ignition.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. The clock on the dash tells me it’s just after five o’clock in the afternoon; I’d slept through the two-hour return trip.
“Get out.” He follows his own edict and climbs out, closing the door behind him. I watch, unimpressed, as he drops the car keys into his pocket and tugs out another set, presumably for his apartment. He rounds the car and pauses at the entrance to his building.
I get out of the car, instinctively smoothing my rumpled clothing, and hold out a hand. “Give me the keys.”
“You going somewhere?”
I feel like it should be obvious. “I’m going home.”
Dean shrugs and turns to unlock the door to the building. “Your call.”
“Give me the keys!”
He steps inside and walks to the elevators as the door drifts closed behind him. I snag the handle and glare in. “Dean. Give me the car keys.”
“Come and get them.”
The elevator arrives and he gets on, one big hand holding the door for me. I’m fuming. “I don’t want to go to your apartment.”
“I know.”
“So give me the keys.”
He releases the door and tucks his hands in his pockets. For a split second I naively believe that he’ll actually give me the keys, but that hope is quickly squashed when he leaves his hands where they are.
I curse and lunge forward to catch the doors as they slide closed. “Hand them over.”
Now he does remove a hand, fisting the front of my shirt and tugging me inside. “Later.”
“No. I want—” I glance over my shoulder as the doors shut quietly and the elevator starts to move. I twist out of Dean’s grip, backing into the wall. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I didn’t feel like taking three buses home.”
“You’re here now. Give me the keys.”
We reach the fourth floor and Dean shoves past me, down the hall to his apartment, unlocking the door and heading inside. I blow out a frustrated breath before stalking after him, coming to a halt when I spot him tugging his shirt over his head as he disappears down the hall to his room. Does he seriously think we’re going to have sex? Forget what just happened—I’d rather walk home than give him the impression that his twisted revenge fantasies are going to come true.
I’m still contemplating my next move when Dean returns, wearing only a pair of loose blue boxers. I hate myself for wanting to freeze time just so I can stare at that perfect, muscled body. The one hiding the heart of a man who knows how to hold a grudge but not how to let go. He stands at the kitchen sink and washes his hands, and while he doesn’t look at me or say anything, we both know what he’s doing. What he’s reminding me of.
“Where are the keys?”
“Probably still in my pocket.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m going to lie down. I worked the night shift and I’m fucking tired, Rachel. You’re done too. Get some sleep and then you can go.”
“I’m not debating this with you, it’s creepy.”
“No one’s forcing you to stay.”
“Give me the keys!”
“I told you—come get them.”
I glower for a second, then storm down the hall to the bedroom, snatching up Dean’s discarded jeans from the floor and feeling in both pockets for the keys. But they’re not there. I turn as he comes in. He polishes off a bottle of water and climbs onto the bed from the bottom, stretching out on top of the covers on his stomach.
I take a deep breath and try to sound reasonable. “Dean.”
“Lie down,” he says, patting the bed beside him. His voice is muffled by the pillow. “I’m too tired to bother you.”
“You’re bothering me right now.”
He covers his mouth as he yawns. “What are you going to do when you get home?”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I try to think of something but my mind is blank. All I can see is the wide, muscled expanse of his back. And then my eyes foolishly drift to the empty half of the king-size bed, the pillow I know to be soft and welcoming, the sheets that smell like fabric softener.
“I have stuff to do,” I finally hedge, unconvincing.
“Do it later. Lie down. You’re wiped.”
“Because of you!”
“So let me fix it.” The words are starting to slur; he’s actually falling asleep. He’s holding me hostage and taking a nap.
“Dean.”
“Rachel.” There’s a note of finality to his tone; he’s done arguing. “If you wanted to go, you’d be gone. But you’re here. Now get in the fucking bed.”
I stifle a cry of rage and sit primly on the far side of the mattress, facing away from Dean. It dips slightly, as though in invitation. I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away a headache, trying to wake myself up so I can come to a sensible conclusion. I’m still groggy from the car ride, still drained from the events of the day. Damn Dean and his...everything.
If I call a cab I’ll still be responsible for getting the car back in the morning, or paying for the rental until Dean bothers to return it. I could turn the place upside down searching for the keys, but he probably stuck them under his side of the mattress and there’s no way I can move five hundred pounds of unwilling man. Hell, I can barely budge him when he
is
willing.
Plus I’m really tired.
I lie back stiffly, putting a good foot of space between us. “Don’t touch me.”
Dean doesn’t respond. I look at him, lips parted slightly in sleep, breath wheezing softly in and out. For a second he doesn’t look like the ex-convict who’s holding me pseudoprisoner in his unlocked apartment; he looks like a tired man, who, if he’s to be believed, worked all night then showed up to take an ex-girlfriend to visit her mother’s grave. Then confessed to wanting to ass-rape her and, lacking the nerve to go through with it, settled for forcing her to confront a ghost from the past.
He’s a conflicted barrel of monkeys, that one. A loner who insists I keep him company; a fighter who sleeps through the fight. A man who runs hot and cold, alternates between hard and soft, cruel and considerate.
For the second time today I fall asleep next to Dean Barclay, knowing it’s the wrong thing to do, and, as always where he’s concerned, doing it anyway.
* * *
The room is warm and dark when I wake up. I’m curled on my side, hands folded under my cheek, facing away from Dean. I hear his steady breathing behind me and do my best not to wake him as I stand up and squint at my watch. Almost ten thirty. I slept for five hours? Jesus.
I glance down at Dean, who, true to his word, was too tired to bother me. It doesn’t look as though he’s moved at all: he’s still on his stomach, arms folded over his head, fast asleep, looking deceptively harmless. I pick up my sandals and tiptoe out of the room, ducking into the bathroom and closing the door before flipping on the lights.
I twist the cold tap so icy water drizzles out, filling my cupped palms to splash my face. My eyes are puffy and ringed with smudged mascara; my hair is bunched and straggly. I tidy up as best I can, frowning at myself in the mirror, then freeze as I spot the car keys hanging on the hook behind the door. That ass. If I’d had to pee sooner, I could have been home by now.
I clutch the keys tightly so they don’t jingle, turn off the light and creep down the hall to the front door. A faint glow filters in from the streetlights two stories below, but Dean’s apartment is so sparsely furnished that there’s little risk of bumping into anything.
I make it all the way to the elevator before my conscience catches up to me. Am I really going to leave Dean in the middle of the night—again? Even today’s confession alluded to him being pissed when I’d taken off with hardly a word after our first—and what was supposed to be
only
—time together.
I roll my eyes and scurry back inside, careful not to make a sound as I return to the bedroom. Dean hasn’t moved. I see the muscles of his back bunch and relax as he exhales softly. He must have worked all night, stopped at home to change, then caught three buses into the city in order to be at my apartment on time. Who makes an effort to do something so kind, then promptly undoes it with such a cruel confession?