Chapter Text
The Heyward Hotel lobby was the kind of beautiful that felt personal.
Not cozy. Not cute little boutique place with tiny soaps and a lobby bar pretending to be intimate.
No.
This was old money beautiful. Marble floors polished so bright they probably had their own security detail. Gold fixtures. Chandeliers that looked like they’d survived three dead monarchies and a scandal. Flowers everywhere, massive arrangements that smelled fresh and expensive. Staff moved around in tailored uniforms, smiling like they had been trained from birth to make rich people feel expected.
It made me want to stand straighter.
Which pissed me off.
I was Allie Hayes.
I had spent years getting Hannah Wells through award shows, stadium tours, label meetings, media meltdowns, fake boyfriends, real heartbreak, one accidental Vegas marriage, and approximately seven thousand crises involving wardrobe tape.
I could handle a hotel lobby.
My phone buzzed.
Sean.
Again.
My heart did the stupid thing.
That awful, traitorous little jump before my brain could remind it that Sean had dumped me.
I looked down.
I miss you, Al.
Oh, screw him.
Seriously.
Screw him and his timing and his stupid nickname and the way my chest tightened like my body had missed the memo that we were done.
Another text appeared.
I know I hurt you. I just think we gave up too fast.
I almost laughed.
Gave up too fast?
He had given up.
He had looked at five years of us and decided I loved Hannah too loudly. Worked too much. Answered too many calls. Managed too many emergencies. He’d made me feel like loyalty was some ugly little flaw I needed to apologize for.
And now he missed me?
Now, when I was finally doing something for myself?
Of course he did.
Because that was love, right?
Two people messing everything up and circling back. Two people who knew each other’s coffee orders and families and bad habits. Two people who had been together long enough that leaving felt like stepping out of a house and realizing you had left your skin inside.
Sean loved me.
I loved him.
We loved each other so much that maybe this was the part where I was supposed to text back.
I miss you too.
Take me back.
I forgive you.
Let’s be normal again.
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I locked my phone with enough force that the screen probably felt judged.
Stop.
I was not going back to Sean because I was lonely in a hotel lobby two nights before the Super Bowl and my entire life felt like someone had picked it up and shaken it like a snow globe.
I needed something else.
Something new.
Something fun.
Something that did not involve five-year plans, emotional labor, or a man who thought missionary twice a week counted as passion.
God.
I hated admitting it, even to myself, but the sex with Sean had been boring.
Not terrible. Sean knew where everything was. He was not incompetent. But he never wanted to try anything. Never wanted to push. Never wanted me messy or loud or demanding or too much.
And I was too much.
I liked too much.
I liked being touched like someone meant it. I liked heat and pressure and dirty talk and hands in my hair. I liked the kind of sex that made thinking impossible and walking afterward a little questionable.
Sean kissed my forehead after sex like we had successfully filed our taxes.
So no.
No Sean.
I needed casual sex.
Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea how to have casual sex.
My sexual résumé was embarrassingly relationship-shaped. High school boyfriend, all four years. Then Sean, five years.
That was it.
Nine years of boyfriends. Nine years of monogamy and shared calendars and knowing exactly which side of the bed belonged to me.
Casual sex sounded amazing in theory.
In practice, I was about ninety percent sure I would accidentally ask a hookup what his mother usually made for Thanksgiving, then start mentally reorganizing his apartment by morning.
My phone buzzed again.
I refused to look.
Instead, I stepped up to the front desk.
“Hi,” I said, smiling like a functioning adult. “Allie Hayes. Checking in.”
The woman behind the desk typed quickly. “Of course, Ms. Hayes. Welcome to the Heyward.”
“Thank you.”
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it harder.
“Big weekend,” the clerk said pleasantly.
“You could say that.”
Hannah was performing at the Super Bowl. Garrett and his entire stupidly attractive hockey support system had descended on Los Angeles. I had flown in between rehearsals for The Fate of Ophelia, which still did not feel real, even though my body was currently held together by stage blocking, throat tea, and pure panic.
And Sean was texting me like heartbreak had a snooze button.
So yes.
Big weekend.
The clerk slid a key card packet toward me. “You’re all set. Suite 1842.”
“Perfect.”
“Elevators are to your right.”
I took the packet, turned, and nearly walked straight into Dean Di Laurentis.
Of course.
Because apparently my life had decided subtlety was for cowards.
Dean stood a few feet from the desk, already checked in, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored pants, the other holding his phone. He wore a dark suit with no tie, his white shirt open at the throat, his hair annoyingly perfect in that rich-boy way where it looked careless but probably cost more than my flight.
He looked like sex with a trust fund.
Which was inconvenient.
Because I was trying very hard not to think about sex.
His eyes lifted from his phone and found me.
Slowly.
Not rude.
Worse.
Interested.
“Allie Hayes,” he said.
“Dean Di Laurentis.”
His mouth curved. “Checking in?”
“No, I come to hotel lobbies for the emotional ambiance.”
“Good choice. This one has excellent marble.”
“Do you rate all hotel marble, or just the hotels your family owns?”
His smile widened.
Damn it.
I had forgotten Dean enjoyed being insulted.
“I don’t own it,” he said.
“Right. You’re just heir-adjacent.”
“Grandson-adjacent.”
“Tragic. Must be hard.”
“Every day is a battle.”
I should not have smiled.
I smiled.
Dean noticed.
Of course he did.
His gaze moved over me, not in a gross way. In the Dean way, which somehow made a person feel assessed and undressed while he was still technically being polite.
I hated that it worked.
I hated even more that my body responded before my brain could approve it.
“Here for Hannah?” he asked.
“Yes. You?”
“Same.”
“Lawyer duties or friend duties?”
“Both. I’m versatile.”
I gave him a look.
His expression turned innocent.
Fake innocent.
Dangerous innocent.
My phone buzzed again in my hand.
Dean glanced down. “Popular?”
“Annoyingly.”
“Work?”
“Ex.”
Why did I say that?
Why?
Dean’s eyes sharpened. “Ah.”
“Don’t ah me.”
“I didn’t know there was an ex.”
“There’s always an ex.”
“Mine usually leave reviews.”
I snorted before I could stop myself.
Dean looked pleased.
I hated him a little.
Sean’s name lit up my screen when it buzzed again.
Dean saw it.
He didn’t say anything.
Somehow, that was worse.
I shoved the phone into my purse.
“Anyway,” I said. “I need to go upstairs and pretend I’m not exhausted.”
“Rehearsals?”
I blinked.
He knew about those?
Of course he did. Hannah probably told Garrett, Garrett probably told Dean, or Dean had simply absorbed the information because lawyers were creepy like that.
“Yeah,” I said. “Rehearsals.”
“The play.”
I lifted a brow. “Look at you knowing culture.”
“I contain depths.”
“You contain private school and audacity.”
“Both very useful.”
The elevators chimed.
We both looked over.
A family stepped out with three suitcases and a child wearing Mickey ears.
I should leave.
Obviously.
I should walk to the elevator, go upstairs, take off my shoes, ignore Sean, text Hannah, run lines, and sleep. Responsible choices. Adult choices.
But Dean was still looking at me.
And I was still thinking about casual sex.
Which was very bad.
Because Dean Di Laurentis looked like casual sex had been invented specifically so women could make questionable choices with him.
He tilted his head. “You okay?”
The question was too simple.
Too direct.
It caught me off guard.
I almost answered honestly.
No, Dean. I am not okay. My ex wants me back, and part of me wants to crawl straight into the familiar because I am terrified I don’t know how to be alone. Also, I have recently discovered that I may be sexually bored and emotionally codependent, which feels like a lot to unpack in a lobby.
Instead, I said, “I’m great.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“You said that very aggressively.”
“I’m an aggressive great person.”
“Noted.”
The elevator chimed again.
This time, I moved.
Dean fell into step beside me.
“What floor?” he asked.
“Eighteen.”
His mouth twitched.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Of course you’re on eighteen.”
“So are you?”
“Apparently.”
I pressed the elevator button harder than necessary. “Fantastic.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside the elevator, far too relaxed, far too handsome, far too aware that I was aware he was handsome.
“You know,” he said, “if your ex is bothering you, I’m an attorney.”
“I am surrounded by attorneys.”
“Sure, but I’m the prettiest.”
I laughed.
Damn it.
The elevator doors opened.
We stepped inside.
Alone.
The doors slid shut, sealing us into a small mirrored box that immediately felt smaller than it had any right to.
Dean stood beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne.
Clean.
Expensive.
Warm.
I stared at the floor numbers like they might offer guidance.
My phone buzzed again.
I closed my eyes.
Dean’s voice was lower when he spoke.
“You going to answer him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I turned my head.
He was looking at me now without the joke.
Something in my stomach pulled tight.
“You don’t know what he said,” I told him.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Because whatever he said made you look like you wanted to cry and punch something at the same time.”
I looked away.
The elevator climbed.
So did my pulse.
“I don’t cry in hotel elevators,” I said.
“Where do you cry?”
“Expensive bathrooms. Like a professional.”
His smile came back, softer this time.
There was a beat of silence.
Then he said, “For what it’s worth, I think not answering is a strong choice.”
I laughed under my breath. “You know nothing about it.”
“I know men usually want back in right when you start making peace with the door being closed.”
That shut me up.
The elevator dinged at eighteen.
The doors opened.
I stepped out first because I needed air.
Dean followed.
Our rooms were in opposite directions.
Thank God.
Probably.
“Well,” I said, turning to him. “Goodnight, Dean.”
“It’s six-thirty.”
“I’m practicing boundaries.”
“Proud of you.”
“Don’t be.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Just once.
But I saw it.
Felt it.
My whole body warmed.
This was dangerous.
Not relationship dangerous.
Not Sean dangerous.
Different.
Dean looked like the kind of mistake that knew it was a mistake and still had the nerve to be worth it.
Casual sex, my brain whispered.
No, my common sense snapped.
Maybe, said the part of me that was tired of being good.
Dean stepped back, giving me space.
That made him worse.
“See you around, Allie.”
Then he turned and walked down the hall.
I watched him for exactly two seconds too long.
My phone buzzed again.
Sean.
I pulled it out.
Please just talk to me.
For once, I did not feel the immediate need to type back.
Instead, I looked down the hall where Dean Di Laurentis had disappeared.
Casual sex.
Maybe I could learn.
I made it forty-seven minutes upstairs before I gave up on being a healthy, emotionally independent woman.
Forty-seven minutes was respectable.
I took off my shoes. Washed my face. Opened my script. Read the same line six times and retained absolutely none of it. Drank half a bottle of water because hydration mattered, even during an emotional spiral.
Then Sean texted again.
I know I don’t deserve another chance. I just miss us.
Us.
God, I hated that word.
Us was dangerous. Us was warm blankets and shared Netflix passwords and knowing exactly how someone liked their eggs. Us was a trap door. Us was what I crawled back into every time being alone felt too big.
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
Then I stood, put my shoes back on, and went downstairs.
Not to answer him.
Progress.
To drink wine.
A different problem, but still.
The hotel bar was dim and expensive, all leather chairs, low gold lighting, and men who looked like they had said “market volatility” out loud at least once in the past twenty-four hours. I slid onto a stool and ordered a glass of red because I was classy and also one bad text away from making a terrible decision.
The bartender poured.
I took one sip.
Then I saw Dean.
Of course.
He was sitting at a small table near the windows, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand, whiskey in front of him. He looked relaxed. Annoyingly relaxed. Like the Heyward Hotel bar was just another room in his house.
He looked up.
Our eyes met.
He smiled.
I considered pretending I hadn’t seen him.
Then he lifted his glass.
Damn it.
I picked up my wine and walked over.
“This is not me seeking you out,” I said, dropping into the chair across from him.
“Obviously.”
“I came down here on my own.”
“Naturally.”
“And you just happened to be here.”
“In my family’s hotel bar. Very suspicious of me.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
I took a sip of wine. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Be charming. I’m fragile.”
His expression shifted, barely.
“Ex still texting?”
I groaned and leaned back in my chair. “Yes.”
Dean set his phone facedown on the table.
Not dramatically. Not like he wanted credit for it.
He just listened.
Maybe it was the wine.
Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Maybe it was the fact that Dean Di Laurentis looked like someone who had never once had to beg anyone to choose him, and I resented that enough to start confessing things.
Either way, I told him.
Not everything.
But enough.
Sean. Five years. The breakup. The way he’d said I always put Hannah first, like loyalty was an affair he’d caught me having. The way he had left, then somehow decided, right as I was rehearsing for the biggest opportunity of my life, that he missed me.
Dean didn’t interrupt.
Which was irritating.
I expected jokes. A smirk. Some rich-boy wisdom about never taking an ex seriously unless he came with stock options.
Instead, he listened.
By the time I finished my first glass, I was angry.
By the second, I was embarrassed.
By the third, I had taken my phone out five times and still had not texted Sean back.
Dean watched the fifth attempt with narrowed eyes.
“Give it to me.”
“My phone?”
“No, your wine. Yes, your phone.”
“I’m not giving you my phone.”
“You keep picking it up like it owes you money.”
“I have self-control.”
He held out his hand.
I looked at it.
Big hand. Long fingers. Expensive watch. Probably very good at contracts.
Probably very good at other things, too.
No.
Bad Allie.
I dropped my phone into his palm.
“Fine. But don’t snoop.”
“I’m a lawyer. Snooping is billable.”
“Dean.”
He slid my phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“There. Now you can’t text him.”
“That jacket better not leave my sight.”
His mouth curved. “Attached to me already?”
“Attached to my personal data.”
“Less romantic, but I’ll take it.”
I should have left then.
I had successfully outsourced my impulse control to a man with too much confidence and a trust fund. That was enough personal growth for one night.
Instead, I finished my wine.
“So,” Dean said, leaning back. “What do you want?”
“My phone.”
“No.”
“A fourth glass of wine.”
“Probably also no.”
“A personality transplant.”
“You’d miss this one.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Still not the answer.”
I looked at him.
His face was casual.
His eyes weren’t.
“What do I want?” I repeated.
“Yeah.”
I laughed under my breath. “Right now, or existentially?”
“Start with right now. Existentially sounds exhausting.”
Right now.
I wanted Sean to stop texting me.
I wanted to stop wanting him to text me.
I wanted to stop feeling like being single meant I had failed some secret test women were supposed to pass by getting chosen.
I wanted to stop being careful.
I wanted to feel wanted without being needed.
I wanted someone to touch me without expecting me to become their home.
I took a breath.
“I want casual sex.”
Dean went still.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
I immediately wanted to crawl under the table and die.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “That was the wine.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“It was partly the wine.”
“Maybe. But not all of it.”
My face heated. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
“No.”
“Dean.”
“I’m processing.”
“Oh my God.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on mine.
“Casual sex with who?”
My throat went dry.
“That is not a normal follow-up question.”
“It’s the only relevant question.”
“I didn’t mean anyone specific.”
“Liar.”
I hated him.
I hated the way he looked at me like he already knew the answer. Like the air between us hadn’t been getting tighter since the elevator. Like I hadn’t watched him walk away earlier and thought, very clearly, maybe him.
Instead, I said, “I don’t know how to do casual.”
Dean’s expression softened by a fraction.
“Because of Sean?”
“Because of everyone.” I wrapped both hands around my empty wineglass. “I had a boyfriend all through high school. Then Sean. That’s basically my entire adult life. I don’t know how to sleep with someone and not start wondering what groceries they need.”
His lips twitched.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re internally laughing.”
“A little.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I didn’t.
That was a problem.
Dean’s gaze dropped to my mouth, then came back up.
“I know how to do casual,” he said.
My pulse skipped.
“Shocking.”
“I’m very good at it.”
“Also shocking.”
“No expectations,” he said. “No relationship talk. No nesting.”
“Do not make nesting sound dirty.”
“With you, I suspect anything can be dirty.”
Heat moved through me so fast I had to look away.
Dean noticed.
Of course he did.
His voice lowered. “Allie.”
I looked back at him.
The bar noise seemed to fade.
“What?”
“If you want casual, I can give you casual.”
My breath caught.
There it was.
No metaphor.
No coy little game.
Just the offer, clean and direct and dangerous.
“That sounds like a terrible idea,” I said.
“It might be.”
“We know the same people.”
“Yes.”
“You’re Garrett’s lawyer.”
“And friend.”
“I’m Hannah’s best friend.”
“I noticed.”
“This could get messy.”
“Only if we let it.”
That was such a lie.
A pretty lie.
Exactly the kind of lie a woman drank three glasses of wine to believe.
I narrowed my eyes. “Rules.”
Dean’s mouth curved. “I love rules.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I love breaking them. Different thing.”
I pointed at him. “No feelings.”
“Fine.”
“No jealousy.”
“Easy.”
“No weirdness around Hannah and Garrett.”
“Agreed.”
“No telling people.”
“Obviously.”
“No making me regret it.”
His expression changed then.
Less teasing.
More intent.
“I won’t.”
My stomach tightened.
I believed him.
That was probably the first mistake.
The second was letting my gaze fall to his mouth.
Dean stood.
Not fast.
Not cocky.
Just decisive.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out my phone, and held it out.
I took it.
His fingers brushed mine.
A tiny touch.
It landed everywhere.
“Still want to text Sean?” he asked.
I looked down at the screen.
Sean’s name was there. Waiting.
Familiar.
Safe in the worst possible way.
I locked it.
“No.”
Dean’s eyes darkened.
I stood too.
“Room?” he asked.
My heart hammered.
“Yours.”
His mouth lifted slightly.
“Good choice.”
We walked to the elevator without touching.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Inside, the mirrored doors closed us in with gold light and silence. Dean pressed eighteen. I stood beside him, my shoulder inches from his arm, my entire body suddenly aware of every place we weren’t touching.
“This is casual,” I said.
Dean stared straight ahead. “Very casual.”
“One time.”
“One time,” he agreed.
“If it’s bad, we pretend it never happened.”
His eyes flicked to me. “It won’t be bad.”
The confidence in his voice should have annoyed me.
It did annoy me.
It also made my thighs press together.
Dean noticed that, too.
The elevator dinged.
We stepped out.
This time, we walked in the same direction.
His room was three doors down from mine.
Of course it was.
He unlocked it and pushed the door open, then stepped aside to let me in first.
Polite.
Dangerous.
I walked in.
The room was big and dark, city lights glowing beyond the windows. Behind me, the door clicked shut.
For one second, I stood there, feeling the line beneath my feet.
Not with Sean.
Not with Hannah.
With myself.
Dean came up behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, but he still didn’t touch me.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said quietly.
I turned.
He was right there.
Tall. Beautiful. Serious in a way I hadn’t expected from him.
My pulse beat hard in my throat.
“I don’t want to change my mind.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
“Good.”
Then he kissed me.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
Dean kissed me like he had been waiting since the lobby and resented every second between then and now. One hand slid into my hair, the other found my waist, pulling me against him with enough control to make my whole body light up.
I made a small, humiliating sound against his mouth.
He smiled.
I felt it.
“Don’t,” I breathed.
“Don’t what?”
“Be smug.”
His mouth brushed mine again. “Too late.”
I kissed him harder because if I was going to make a bad decision, I was going to make it aggressively.
Dean backed me toward the bed, and I went willingly.
Casual.
No strings.
One time.
That was the plan.
And I was absolutely not going to think about how natural his hands felt on me.
Dean backed me toward the bed, and I went with him.
For about three steps.
Then I remembered something important.
I was tired of being handled like I might crack.
Tired of men deciding what kind of woman I was allowed to be in bed. Sweet. Patient. Soft. Quiet. Grateful for whatever they gave me.
No.
Not tonight.
I put a hand on Dean’s chest and pushed.
He stopped instantly.
His eyes searched mine, sharp and focused. “You good?”
That did something to me.
Not the question itself. The speed of it. The way every part of him went still the second he thought I might need him to.
I curled my fingers into his shirt.
“I’m good.”
Then I shoved him again.
Dean’s eyebrows lifted right before the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he dropped onto the bed.
For one perfect second, he looked surprised.
Dean Di Laurentis, heir-adjacent hotel prince, gorgeous attorney, walking sex hazard, looked surprised.
I climbed into his lap and kissed him before he could recover.
His hands landed on my hips, hot and firm, but I caught his wrists and pinned them to the mattress on either side of his head.
He froze again.
Then his mouth curved against mine.
“Oh,” he murmured.
“Shut up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A laugh broke out of me, but it turned into a gasp when he lifted his hips beneath me.
God.
He was already hard.
Very hard.
I felt him through his pants, thick and insistent, and heat shot straight through my stomach.
Dean’s eyes darkened when I rocked against him.
Slowly.
On purpose.
His throat worked.
There it was.
That tiny crack in his control.
I wanted more.
I bent down and kissed him again, sliding my tongue into his mouth before he could decide the pace. Dean made a rough sound and kissed me back, filthy and open-mouthed, his wrists flexing under my hands.
I dragged my mouth away and bit his lower lip.
His eyes flashed.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
The word hit me like praise.
I sat back and started unbuttoning my blouse.
Dean watched every movement.
No smile now.
No teasing.
Just that look, like waiting another second might actually kill him.
Good.
I wanted him like that.
I wanted someone starving.
I pushed the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall somewhere behind me. His gaze dropped to my bra, black lace because apparently I had packed like the version of myself who might become brave this weekend.
Thank God for delusional packing.
Dean’s hands twitched.
I glanced down at them, still trapped beneath mine. “Did I say you could touch me?”
His face went blank for half a second.
Then something dark and thrilled moved through his expression.
“No.”
I smiled.
His jaw tightened.
Oh, he liked that.
He really liked that.
I leaned down again, dragging my mouth along his jaw, then his throat. He smelled expensive and clean and warm. I kissed the place beneath his ear and felt his whole body tense.
“Jesus, Allie.”
I scraped my teeth lightly over his skin.
He swore again, lower this time.
I loved it.
I loved the way he sounded when he wasn’t performing. The sharp little breaths he tried to swallow. The way he had probably expected to be the one in control, expected me to be flustered and impressed and maybe a little shy.
I was not shy.
Not about this.
Not tonight.
I released his wrists and slid down his body.
Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, watching as I knelt between his legs. His chest rose and fell faster now.
I undid his belt.
His eyes went almost black.
“Allie.”
“That sounded like a warning.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Good.”
I opened his pants, pulled down the zipper, and glanced up at him through my lashes.
That did it.
His head tipped back for one second, like he needed divine assistance.
I nearly laughed.
Then I got him out.
My mouth went dry.
Okay.
Fine.
Dean Di Laurentis had reason to be cocky.
Annoying, but factual.
I wrapped my hand around him, and his elbows nearly gave out.
“Fuck.”
“Already?”
His gaze snapped back to mine.
“Careful.”
The way he said it made my pulse beat everywhere.
I licked him once.
Slowly.
Dean’s hand fisted in the comforter.
I did it again, wetter this time, dragging my tongue along the underside of him from base to tip before taking him into my mouth. He filled me, hot and heavy, and his groan was so filthy it made me clench around nothing.
I loved sex.
I loved this part of sex. The power of it. The heat. The way a man like Dean, who moved through life like everything was his to touch, could unravel under my mouth.
I took him deeper.
His hips jerked.
“Fuck, Allie, wait.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him.
He was staring at me like he had never seen anything better in his life.
“Too much?” I asked.
His laugh was strained and wrecked. “No. That’s the problem.”
I smiled around him.
Then I took him again, hollowing my cheeks and using my hand where my mouth couldn’t reach. Dean cursed, one hand flying to my hair before he caught himself.
I looked up.
His hand hovered there.
Asking without words.
That was sexy too.
So sexy it made me angry.
I grabbed his wrist and put his hand in my hair.
His fingers tightened immediately.
Not painful.
Just firm.
Perfect.
I hummed.
Dean’s control snapped another inch.
His hips moved carefully at first, then rougher when I didn’t pull away. His hand stayed in my hair, guiding without forcing, and every sound he made went straight between my legs.
He was losing it.
Beautifully.
“Christ,” he rasped. “Your mouth.”
I dragged my tongue over him and looked up again.
His eyes locked on mine.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then Dean sat up fast, grabbed me under the arms, and hauled me onto the bed like I weighed nothing.
I landed on my back with a startled laugh.
He was over me immediately.
“My turn.”
The words were low.
Intent.
My stomach flipped.
Dean kissed me hard, tongue in my mouth, no hesitation now. I tasted him on myself, and the kiss got messier. Hotter. His hands moved over my waist, my ribs, my breasts through the lace. When he tugged one cup down and put his mouth on me, I arched so hard I nearly came off the mattress.
“Oh God.”
He sucked my nipple deep into his mouth, tongue firm, then used his teeth just enough to make me gasp.
The sound seemed to light him up.
“There she is,” he murmured against my skin.
I grabbed his hair. “Do that again.”
He did.
Harder.
My thighs opened around his hips without permission.
Dean noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He noticed everything.
He dragged his mouth down my body, kissing my stomach, my hip, the skin just above the waistband of my skirt.
Then he looked up at me.
For all his cockiness, his voice was steady when he said, “I’m going to make you come.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a promise.
I swallowed.
“Then stop talking.”
His grin went wicked.
He pulled my skirt down with my underwear in one smooth motion and tossed both over his shoulder.
Then he spread my thighs.
Not gently.
Not roughly.
Confidently.
Like he had been thinking about it all night.
The cool air hit me for half a second before his mouth did.
I stopped breathing.
Dean went down on me like he had something to prove.
No fumbling. No lazy, obligatory nonsense. No man acting like thirty seconds of effort counted as generosity.
He used his tongue like he knew exactly what he was doing and loved doing it. Slow at first, tasting me, teasing, dragging deliberate strokes through me until my hands twisted in his hair. Then firmer. Deeper. His tongue circled my clit with perfect pressure while two thick fingers pushed inside me, curling against the spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
My head fell back.
“Dean.”
He groaned against me.
The vibration made my hips jerk.
He did it again, his tongue circling my clit while his fingers moved inside me.
I nearly sobbed.
Dramatic.
I did not care.
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He curled his fingers exactly right, and I had one insane thought.
Sean had never done this.
Not like this.
Not even close.
Sean had always treated oral sex like a favor, something to check off a list before the main event. Dean looked like he wanted to stay there, licking and sucking with greedy sounds that only made me wetter.
The thought vanished when his mouth sealed over my clit and sucked.
Hard.
I came with a sound I barely recognized.
Dean held me through it, fingers still moving, tongue softer now, dragging every last pulse out of me until I pushed at his shoulder because my whole body had gone electric and useless.
He lifted his head.
His mouth was wet.
His eyes were feral.
“Oh my God,” I said, because apparently my vocabulary had died.
Dean wiped his thumb over his lower lip.
“Yeah.”
Smug bastard.
I should have insulted him.
Instead, I grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him up.
Our mouths crashed together. I tasted myself on his tongue, and it made me dizzy. He kissed me filthy and deep, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him down against me.
“Condom,” I said against his mouth.
Dean moved fast.
Beautifully fast.
Wallet. Foil packet. Torn open. Pants shoved lower. Shirt gone somewhere along the way. I barely had time to appreciate his chest before he was back between my legs, rolling the condom on with quick, practiced efficiency.
Of course he was practiced.
That should have annoyed me.
It did.
It also meant he knew what he was doing.
Useful.
He lined himself up and paused.
The pause was tiny, but I felt it.
He was watching my face.
I hooked one leg higher around his hip and pulled him closer.
“Dean.”
That was all.
He pushed in.
Slowly.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
He was big, and the stretch was intense enough that my hands flew to his shoulders. Inch after inch filled me until I felt him deep. Dean’s forehead dropped to mine, his breath harsh, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Fuck,” he said, rough against my mouth. “Fuck, Allie.”
I clenched around him.
Accidentally.
Maybe.
Dean’s eyes squeezed shut.
For one second, I had the pleasure of watching a man regret every choice that had brought him to this exact, perfect torture.
Then he moved.
Careful at first.
Too careful.
I dug my nails into his back.
“More.”
His eyes opened.
Something dangerous crossed his face.
“There we go,” he said softly.
Then he gave me more.
My head tipped back into the pillow as he drove into me, deep and hard enough to make the bed shift. He kissed my throat, my jaw, my mouth. His tongue slid against mine every time I tried to moan too loudly, swallowing the sounds like he wanted to keep them.
I clung to him.
Not sweetly.
There was nothing sweet about this.
This was heat and skin and pressure, his hips snapping against mine, my nails dragging over his shoulders, his mouth filthy at my ear.
“You feel unreal,” he said. “Do you know that?”
I couldn’t answer.
He thrust harder.
“Answer me.”
My entire body went tight.
Oh.
Oh, no.
That tone.
I liked that tone.
Dean felt the reaction instantly. His rhythm faltered for half a second.
Then he smiled against my cheek.
“There it is.”
“Shut up,” I gasped.
“Make me.”
So I did.
I kissed him hard, tongue in his mouth, teeth catching his lower lip, hips rising to meet every thrust. Dean made a sound that was half laugh, half groan, and then there was no more teasing.
Just fucking.
Hard, messy, perfect.
I came again with his name in my mouth.
He followed seconds later, hips driving deep, body locking over mine, a rough groan tearing out of him.
For a minute, neither of us moved.
I stared at the ceiling.
Dean breathed against my neck.
My legs were shaking.
That had not happened in a while.
Possibly ever.
Dean lifted his head.
His hair was a mess. His mouth was swollen. There were red marks on his shoulder from my nails.
He looked dazed.
Good.
I wanted him dazed.
He stared down at me and let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Holy shit.”
I grinned, still breathless. “You’re welcome.”
His laugh deepened.
Then his mouth was on mine again.
This kiss was slower, but not softer. His tongue slid into my mouth like he had every right to be there, and my body, treacherous little disaster, responded immediately.
Dean felt that too.
His hand skimmed down my side, over my hip, between my thighs.
I grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t look so proud of yourself.”
“I’m not proud.” His fingers moved. “I’m impressed.”
“With yourself?”
“With you.”
That shut me up.
Only for a second.
Then he kissed his way down my throat, over my chest, my stomach. He took his time with his mouth on my skin, making me squirm and curse and tug at his hair until I was wet and aching again.
When he turned me over, I let him.
When he dragged my hips up, I pushed back.
Dean went very still behind me.
I looked over my shoulder.
He was staring down at me like his brain had just short-circuited.
“What?” I asked.
His hand settled on my ass, fingers spreading.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
His palm slid up my spine, then back down again.
“You are extremely distracting.”
I smiled. “Good.”
He cursed under his breath and reached for another condom.
The sound of the wrapper tearing made my whole body tighten.
Dean knelt behind me, one hand on my hip, the other guiding himself. He pushed in slowly this time too, like he wanted to feel every inch. The new angle let him sink even deeper, stretching me wide around him until I felt full and aching in the best way.
I dropped my forehead to the mattress.
“Fuck.”
His hand moved to the back of my neck.
Not hard.
Just there.
Possessive enough to make me clench.
Dean made a rough sound behind me.
“Oh, you like that.”
I pressed my eyes shut.
“Maybe.”
His fingers tightened slightly.
“Maybe?”
I pushed back against him.
Dean inhaled sharply.
Then his control went.
This was different.
Dirtier.
The angle was deeper, his hands firmer, his breath hot against my shoulder when he bent over me. The bed moved beneath us. My knees slid wider. His mouth found the side of my neck, then my ear.
“You take me so well,” he said, voice wrecked. “Jesus, Allie.”
The words went straight through me.
I had never been talked to like that.
Not really.
Not like he meant it. Not like he was losing his mind because of me.
I reached back blindly, and he caught my hand, pinning it to the mattress beside my head as he moved harder.
My whole body tightened again.
Dean felt it.
Of course he felt it.
His other hand slid between my legs, fingers rubbing tight circles over my swollen clit.
I moaned into the sheets.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s it.”
The combination of his fingers, his body behind mine, his voice in my ear, his hand holding mine down, it was too much.
Perfectly too much.
I came so hard my arms nearly gave out.
Dean swore, hips stuttering, then drove in deep and followed me over.
He stayed there for a second, forehead pressed to my back, breathing like he had run sprints.
“Fuck,” he said again.
I laughed weakly into the mattress. “You keep saying that.”
“It keeps being relevant.”
I should have moved.
I did not.
Dean kissed my shoulder.
One kiss.
Barely anything.
Still, my chest did something stupid.
I immediately rolled away and flopped onto my back, breaking whatever that had been before my brain could decide to make it meaningful.
Dean collapsed beside me.
We lay there in the dark, sweaty and ruined.
I was pretty sure my hair looked like an animal had nested in it.
I was also pretty sure I had never felt better in my life.
Dean turned his head toward me.
I felt his gaze on my face.
“Wine was a good idea,” he said.
I laughed.
“Do not give the wine credit.”
“No?”
“No.”
His smile was slow. “Fine. I’ll take the credit.”
“There he is.”
He reached over and brushed a strand of hair off my cheek.
The gesture was small.
Too small to matter.
Except it did matter.
Because I noticed it.
I sat up.
Fast.
“I should go.”
Dean’s expression shifted.
Not enough for me to read.
But enough.
“Yeah,” he said.
He got out of bed and found his pants. I gathered my clothes from around the room with as much dignity as possible, which was difficult while naked and slightly shaky.
My underwear was under a chair.
Naturally.
Dean found my blouse and handed it to me.
His eyes dragged over me as I dressed, but he didn’t touch me.
That made the air feel strange again.
Charged, but quieter.
I hated quiet.
Quiet was where feelings got ideas.
Once dressed, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand.
No new texts from Sean.
For the first time all night, I was glad.
Dean walked me to the door.
He was shirtless, pants low on his hips, hair messy from my hands. There was a bite mark near his collarbone.
Mine.
I felt a smug little thrill.
“Goodnight, Allie.”
His voice was rough.
I looked up at him.
There were several things I could have said.
That was insane.
You are dangerously good at that.
I forgot my own name at least once.
Instead, I said, “Thanks for holding my phone.”
His mouth twitched.
“Anytime.”
I stepped into the hall.
Cool air hit my flushed skin.
My room was three doors down.
I made it two steps before Dean spoke again.
“Allie.”
I turned.
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, watching me with that half smile that should have been annoying and was, unfortunately, devastating.
“You forgot something.”
I glanced down, panicked.
Shoes. Purse. Phone. Dignity, missing but presumed dead.
“What?”
He held up my bra.
Black lace dangling from one finger.
My face went hot.
Dean’s smile widened.
I marched back, snatched it out of his hand, and pointed at him.
“Not a word.”
“I said nothing.”
“You said a lot with your face.”
“My face is expressive.”
“Your face is a lawsuit.”
He laughed, and the sound followed me all the way to my door.
I let myself into my room, shut the door behind me, and leaned against it.
My body was still humming.
My mouth was swollen.
My thighs felt used in the best possible way.
Across the hall, Dean Di Laurentis existed like a problem I had very irresponsibly enjoyed.
I looked at my phone.
Sean’s last text was still there.
Please just talk to me.
For the first time, the ache in my chest did not sharpen into panic.
I did not text back.
I put the phone facedown on the table, stripped out of my clothes, and crawled into bed.
My skin still smelled faintly like Dean.
My body remembered his hands.
His mouth.
His voice.
The way he had looked at me when I took control, like I had ruined him and made his whole night at the same time.
I stared at the ceiling and exhaled shakily.
Casual sex, apparently, was not boring.
Casual sex was dangerous.
Casual sex had very good arms and a filthy mouth and a hotel room three doors down.
I rolled onto my side and pulled the blankets up to my chin.
No strings.
That was the point.
And for tonight, at least, I almost believed it.