Chapter Twenty-One
Solange
I wake up momentarily disoriented, the first rays of sunlight casting a golden glow over my surroundings. Oh hey, this is nice. I’m still in Dean’s arms. I could very much get used to being here. But a persistent knocking pulls me out of my pleasantly languid state.
“Dean,” I say, trying to tap him awake. “Someone’s knocking on your door.”
“No one’s knocking on the door,” he says behind me, not a trace of grogginess in his voice.
“Then what’s that . . . oh. How long have they been at it?”
“Not sure. They’re getting louder, though, so maybe it’ll be over soon?”
Louder doesn’t quite capture what’s going on here. They’re shouting. As if they’re two gladiators going head to head in a sex match. Penis loaded. Tits drawn. A fight to the (little) death. Awkwardness lodges in my chest and prepares to rest there permanently. “Um, your walls are super thin.”
“I suspected as much, but this confirms it.”
“Should we put on music or something? Maybe get up and move around so they know we’re stirring?”
“Good idea.”
He rolls away from me and stumbles out of bed. It’s my first true opportunity to see the way Dean looks before he transforms into Clark Kent—bedhead and all—and I can’t help sneaking a peek.
Well, the view is glorious. A veritable feast for my greedy eyes. Now I know Dean’s hair goes haywire overnight, and his already plump lips become even puffier in his sleep. As if that weren’t enough, his pajama shorts have the nerve to sit low on his hips, and he appears to be sporting morning, afternoon, and evening wood. This isn’t information I can just tuck away for safekeeping. No, this is mind-bending stuff here.
When I look up to examine his face, he’s staring at me. I’m so fucking busted, and I can’t even pretend otherwise. “Sorry.”
He scrapes his bottom lip with his teeth. “Don’t be. Honestly, I like the way you look at me.”
Before I can turn that statement inside out and upside down, our guests amp up the volume yet again, as if they’re providing the soundtrack for Anitta’s next hit, and it’s a banger:
Não para, amor.
Isso! Isso! Isso!
Assim mesmo, isso.
“Can you understand them?” Dean asks, his sleepy eyes alight with mischief. “They must know we can hear what’s going on.”
“Bits and pieces,” I say, making a so-so gesture. “They’re enjoying it, if that helps.”
He smiles as he stretches, the hem of his T-shirt lifting so I can see a dusting of hair on his toned belly. “You don’t need to understand Portuguese to figure that out.”
When he drops his arms, we grin at each other like goofballs.
“I’m going to use the bathroom, then get some coffee going. Any specific instructions for making your super-special brew?”
I jump up and bend at the waist—not because I’m actually interested in stretching but because it’s an effective way to hide my morning nipples. “You don’t have to do that. You’re doing me a favor. I can take care of my cousins while they’re here. Just do what you need to do to get yourself off to work.”
“There’s no rush,” he says nonchalantly as he rummages through his dresser. “I’ll get there when I get there.”
That’s a phrase I never expected to hear from him. Naturally, I resist the temptation to presume his lack of urgency has anything to do with me. “You must be a clone. What have you done with the real Dean?”
He puts up a finger. “Hold that thought.” Then he disappears inside the bathroom. When he returns—in jeans and with only morning and afternoon wood this time—his hair is freshly combed.
“It’s all yours,” he says, gesturing behind him. “Going to make the coffee and check in with the office.” He taps me on the nose. “And if you must know, I’m not in a rush to leave because I want to spend more time with you.”
The flutter in my belly is hunger. I’m sure of it. But then we brush against each other as we stride in different directions, and another flutter zips through me. I can’t even lie to myself anymore. The extent of my attraction to Dean is threatening to break me. Good thing my cousins are visiting. No telling what would happen without them here as a buffer.
After freshening up and throwing on one of my favorite T-shirt dresses, I join Dean out in the kitchen.
He silently hands me a steaming cup of coffee and rests his elbows on the kitchen island, waiting for my reaction to his efforts.
I take a sip and moan. “That’s good. Really good. Would you consider a position as my personal barista?”
He winks at me as he straightens to his full height. “I’ll submit my application by close of business today.”
Is he flirting with me? Am I reading too much into that wink? Why would it matter? The safest course is to ignore it. Because good sex is always welcome, but I want an emotional connection too, and Dean isn’t prepared to give that to anyone. And yet, to reiterate, good sex is always welcome, and I haven’t had any in a really long time.
Unfortunately, I can’t parse my feelings further because Ana and Carlos, fully dressed and apparently ready to go, stroll into the kitchen and plop onto the counter stools next to mine.
“Mãe just called,” Ana says. “Your mother’s cooking us breakfast before the tias open the store, and then we’re going sightseeing. Want to join us?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I need to prepare for work this afternoon.” Plus, the idea of hitting all the DC tourist spots on a Thursday in August holds as much appeal as walking on hot coals—feels similar too.
Dean places two coffee cups and a tray of sugar and cream in front of them. “Did you sleep okay?”
Ana and Carlos grin at each other as they prepare their coffee.
“We did, thank you,” Ana says. “Hey, can I ask how long you two have been living here?”
I’m too tired to perform math, so I throw out an answer that’s vague enough not to get us in trouble. “Sure. As roommates, about two years. As a couple, not long.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Ana says.
“She thinks it looks like a place for a single person,” Carlos adds.
I gulp. It does match Dean’s sleek and functional aesthetic perfectly. “Like a bachelor pad, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Ana says. “Even little things, like the single-cup coffeemaker.”
“Well, he lived alone before me, so he bought some of this stuff on his own,” I tell them. “Besides, we don’t like to put too much on our counters. For space-saving reasons.”
Dean clears his throat. Is that a poke at my and Brandon’s counters? He’s going to pay for that one.
“Anyway, it’s a wonderful place,” Ana says as she rises from her counter stool. “It’s just a thing I noticed.” She looks at her phone, then turns to Carlos. “Eles vão nos encontrar lá embaixo. Ready?”
He stands and takes a last sip of coffee. “Ready.”
They’re almost out the door before Ana turns back. “Oh, do you want to give us your keys? That way, you won’t have to worry about letting us in? Maybe yours, Solange?”
I gulp. “Mine?”
“If it’s a problem, we can just call you when we’re close.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem.” I pat down my pockets as if a set of keys to Dean’s place might materialize if I wish for it hard enough. “I just don’t know where I put them. I’m always misplacing things.”
Dean digs inside a drawer near the fridge and pulls out a set of keys. “They’re right here, silly. You put them there last night.”
“Right,” I say, clearing my throat, then smacking my forehead. “How could I forget? Anyway, have fun, you two!”
“Take lots of pictures,” Dean says, waving like a pageant queen.
When the door shuts after them, I collapse against the counter. “Faking a relationship is exhausting.”
“I don’t know,” Dean says with a shrug. “I think it’s been kind of fun.”
I stare up at him, my mouth agape. “Yeah, you’re definitely a clone. How are you not stressed about this?” I’m seconds from full-on whining, and I want to slap myself.
He arches an eyebrow and tilts his head. “Oh, I’m stressed about this, all right. But probably not for the same reason you are.”
“What’s your reason, then?”
“It’s hard to pretend to be your boyfriend and not want to hold you. For real.”
God, I know the feeling. But we’re supposed to be burying it deep inside our psyches, where it can’t do us any harm. He’s not sticking with the program. Damn him. “I think the stress is finally getting to me.”
He rounds the island and opens his arms, silently coaxing me to fall into his embrace. In that moment, it’s what I want most in this world, so I rise from the stool and erase the space between us, my arms sliding around his waist and my hands settling on his back. Grounded. That’s what being in Dean’s arms does to me. It’s as though he’s steadying my body and my mind. Whatever happens next, tomorrow, and beyond, I will always remember the perfection of being hugged in this way. Never mind that the person doing the hugging is Dean. Never mind that I’m definitely not supposed to be enjoying this to the extent that I am.
Too soon, he loosens his hold on me. I don’t let go, however. No, I want to hang on as long as I can.
Dean pushes a few curly strands away from my face, and I look up at him.
“You okay now?” he asks, his voice soft and comforting.
“Yeah, thanks.” I shake my head. “You must think I’m a mess. Would you be willing to erase the last few minutes from your memory?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, can’t. I’d have to forget what you feel like in my arms.”
“Then why’d you pull away?” I ask.
His eyes narrow, as though he’s assessing whether I’m being serious.
I totally am, Dean. I totally am.
After a beat of heavy silence, he says, “The other night . . . at the hospital . . . you ran out of that stairwell like your life depended on it. I figured you’d decided to pump the brakes.”
“You’re taking your cues from me, then?”
He steps away and rakes a hand through his hair. “Always. I don’t want any misunderstandings between us.”
There won’t be any—so long as I keep my expectations in check. Yes, I’m terrified that Dean could one day be my worst mistake, but that would only happen if I asked for more than he’s willing to give. Whether I leave DC or not, it would be foolish to want anything more from Dean than to explore this physical attraction between us—and I’m no fool. I only need one promise from him: that he’ll continue to be honest with me, no matter what. “If we take this step, for however long it lasts, I need to know that you’re not going to blow smoke up my ass about your feelings.”
He stares at me, then falls over in laughter. “That was not what I thought you were going to say.”
I stamp my foot, though I’m grinning so hard right now. “I’m serious, Dean.”
His expression sobers. “Okay, seriously: I won’t play games with your heart. Ever. And we’re going into this with open eyes. Enjoying it for what it is. Agreed?”
This is it. I’m jumping in. “Agreed.”
His nostrils flare, and he pins me to the spot with a blistering gaze. “May I touch you?”
“Yes.”
We stare at each other, a breathless moment of indecision on his part the only delay, then he tugs me close, his fingertips ghosting over my jaw before he tilts my chin up so our mouths can meet. “Thank fucking Christ.”
My entire body shudders when his lips touch mine. Our hands tangle as they cross paths, each of us seeking to explore the other, to fit our bodies together in a way that evokes the most pleasure. Dean slides his hands to my ass while mine meander underneath the hem of his T-shirt. He flinches, as if I’ve singed him, and that small reaction sparks my curiosity.
What will happen if I lick the seam of his lips? I have my answer within seconds: He moans, filling the room with a low, melodic tone that makes his hunger palpable. And what if I rub my breasts against his chest and create enough friction to make my nipples tighten? Oh yes, that elicits a hiss, and the heightened evidence of his need ratchets up my own. I’m hot everywhere, achy with want, dizzy from all the unspent desire building inside me.
He dips his head and burrows his face against my neck, trailing kisses there until he nips at me in frustration. Then, in just a few steps, he walks us back to the wall that separates his foyer from the living area, and the change in location flips a switch in my brain. This isn’t maybe we will; it’s we absolutely are—right now.
“Give me a sec,” he says. “I need to grab protection.”
“Hurry,” I whisper, my voice tight and urgent.
He’s gone in a flash and returns just as quickly, a look of intense concentration on his handsome face as he crowds me. “Where were we?”
“I was going to touch you,” I say.
“Christ, touch me as much as you want.”
I don’t hesitate to take him up on his offer, and I’m not subtle about my intentions either. I unsnap the top button of his jeans and pull his zipper down. “May I?”
“Hell yes, you may.”
I reach into his boxer briefs and run my hand along his rigid cock, my gaze never leaving his. Dean’s stance falters, and he squeezes his eyes shut as though he’s experiencing the very definition of exquisite torture and wants to block everything else out so he can focus on nothing else.
Eyes still closed, he bends his knees and kisses me, and I use that opportunity to switch places and guide him so that his back is pressed against the wall.
When we come up for air, he stares at me, his eyes drowsy with lust.
“You’re so hot,” I whisper, stroking his thick erection with a firm grip. “And so hard. I can feel you pulsing against the palm of my hand. I can’t wait to get you inside me.”
“Holy shit, Solange,” he growls. “You’re going to make me combust even before that happens.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
“No, we can’t.” His big hands travel up the outsides of my thighs, taking the soft fabric of my dress with them, until he stops at my hips and massages me tenderly. The faster I stroke, though, the more frantic his touch gets. Seconds pass before his legs collapse under him, and he slides to the ground, using the wall to break his fall. I’m right there with him, clumsily sinking to my knees, then straddling him, a flimsy swatch of lace and his jeans the only material between us.
I put out my palm, the anticipation of being fully seated on his cock almost too much to bear. “Condom.”
He pulls one from his back pocket and gives it to me, then he helps me shove his pants down, twisting and turning every which way as we struggle to free him. Oh God, we’re almost there. A quick tug of his briefs and I’ll finally be able to fuck him. When his underwear is gone and the condom’s on, I pull the crotch of my panties to the side with one hand and take his dick in the other, guiding him inside me with much less finesse than I’d prefer. His erection presses against my channel as though it’s designed precisely and specifically for me. “Dean, this is . . . I can’t believe . . . I need it all.”
He easily obliges, thrusting all the way in, then he freezes me in place with two words. “Don’t. Move.”
It’s the hottest command ever even though I have no intention of complying with it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice breathy and unsure and barely audible to my own ears.
“I need a distraction,” he says. “Or else . . .”
I reach for the hem of my T-shirt dress and pull it over my head. The bra comes off next.
Dean cups my breasts, his fingers grazing the nipples in maddeningly slow circles. “This works.”
“Can I move now?”
“No,” he says sternly.
His response registers far and wide and sets my nerve endings ablaze as if he’s struck a match to them. “You’re not being—”
He leans forward, closing his mouth over a nipple and sucking gently. And just like that, I can’t even remember what I was going to say. But if Dean believes that’s going to stop me from riding his cock, he’s got another think coming. And an orgasm too.
“Dean, I need to move.”
He leans back, his mouth still affixed to my breast, then he slowly pulls away, lengthening my nipple to twice its usual size before he lets it go with a soft pop of his lips. “Now you can move,” he whispers. “I appreciate your patience.”
His smile is smug as he says this, as if he’s a customer service representative at the local DMV and knows I’m at his mercy. Dean’s in for a surprise, however. I don’t want anything about this morning to be polite. Because my mission is simple—to get him out of my system—and failure is not an option.