by Emma Chase
The conversation between me and Dean flows easy—we talk about everything and nothing at the same time.
“If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
He frowns—and even his frown is hot. Possibly hotter than his smile.
“Damn, that’s hard.”
I don’t relent.
“Life’s most crucial questions usually are.”
He tilts his head toward the ceiling, exposing the enticing swell of his Adam’s apple. And there’s something so deliciously manly about it—I want to lean over and lick it.
But then he dips his chin, blocking my move. “Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits.”
“That’s not a song—that’s a whole album.”
“That’s my answer.”
I poke the curve of his bicep—it’s like prodding a warm, sexy, rock.
“That’s cheating.”
“Then I’m a cheater.” He shrugs. “Screw it.”
Later, we delve into each other’s souls . . . kind of.
“Tell me something you hate,” Dean asks, before downing his shot.
“I hate commercials where you have no idea what they’re trying to sell you until the end.”
His head bobs in agreement. “They suck.”
“What about you?”
“I hate people who drive in convertibles with the top down and the windows up. Like dude . . . pick a side.”
And he says it in such a serious, adorable way, I crack up.
Dean watches me, staring at my mouth, his eyes deep-water blue and enraptured.
“That’s a great sound.” He leans in. Closer and closer.
“What sound?”
He takes a curl of my hair, brushing it between his fingers thoughtfully. “Your laugh. It’s a beautiful laugh, Lainey.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. “I work really hard on it every day.”
His lips stretch into a full, chuckling smile. Then he grabs the bottle of vodka on the bar, tosses down a few bills and tilts his head toward the door.
“You want to get out of here?”
And I don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
~ ~ ~
We shuffle across the back parking lot of the bar—holding hands, taking swigs from the bottle and giggling. Because alcohol is a time machine—it makes you young and silly.
Dean leads me up the steps to an apartment above a detached garage. “This is where we stay when we play at the Beachside Bar. But these days, Jimmy and the guys get hotel rooms with the wives and kids, so it’s just you and me tonight.”
He flicks on the lights revealing a small living room with a couch and television, and a tiny kitchen. It’s sparse, and void of any real personality, but it’s clean.
I follow him through the set of French doors that lead out to a balcony, with two cushioned lounge chairs and a hot tub that overlooks a dark, wooded lot.
I nod, smiling. “Nice.”
“I’m going to take a quick shower. You good here?”
I give him two thumbs-up. “I’m good.”
Dean takes out his phone, fiddles with the buttons and sets it on the table, leaving Amos Lee to sing “Wait Up For Me,” as he goes inside. And I soak it all in—the warm breeze, the way the moonlight shimmers on the trees, the smell of the ocean in the air, and the loose, languid feel of my bones.
Here, now, in this moment—life is really good. And when it’s good, it should savored, enjoyed. Celebrated.
A few minutes later, the song changes and “Boardwalk Angel” plays from Dean’s phone. I close my eyes, humming along, tilting my head up to the sky and spinning slowly in time to the music.
Until I feel him. I turn around and Dean is leaning against the door-jam, the heat of his eyes following my every move.
He’s wearing jeans—shirtless—his hair a damp, dirtier shade of blond. The muscles of his arms and chest are long and taut, all beautiful swells and shadowed ridges. Little water droplets glisten on his shoulders and I’m suddenly very thirsty.
“Hi,” I whisper, a little breathless because—wow.
His mouth does that sexy quirk thing.
“Hi.”
Dean moves forward, eating up the space between us and I step in into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands skim up my back, pressing me close, and mine slide down his arms—loving the warm, smooth feel of his skin beneath my palms.
And then we’re dancing. Swaying together to this slow song about the boardwalk and carnival lights and falling in love on a carousel. And there’s a sweetness to the moment—a magic and tenderness—that I just might remember for the rest of my life.
“This is a good song. John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band.”
I feel the chuckle that comes from his chest. “Most people would’ve said Eddie and the Cruisers.”
I shake my head. “Not me. I know my music.”
He strokes my hair down my back.
“What kind of music do you like, beautiful?”
“I like songs that tell a story. That make me feel. That make me remember. There’s a song for every big moment in my life.”
“Me too.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. “When I was a kid, music always made sense to me, even if nothing else did.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
And he smells so good—like sandalwood and spice and a unique, clean man-scent that’s just him. I want to run my nose across his skin—smelling up every inch of him.
When the song ends, our eyes lock. And I whisper his name, because I like the taste of it on my tongue. “Dean…”
He swallows harshly, his throat rippling, his eyes tracing my face.
“Lainey… Jesus.”
Then his mouth comes down on mine—hard and hot. His hands sink into my hair, angling my head, and a needy, frantic spike of pleasure streaks up my spine with every stroke of his warm, wet tongue.
It’s a great kiss, the kind they write songs about. A movie-star kiss—that gets the audience all hot and bothered. The kind of kiss that deserves surging background music—a whole soundtrack—that goes on and on and on.
“I wanted to do this the second I saw you,” he tells me between kisses.
I sigh against him, molding my body to his, warm putty in his strong, talented hands.
“I wanted that too.”
His fingers dance across my rib cage, pushing my tank-top up and off. And the sensation of our bare stomachs pressing, my breasts rubbing against the hard heat of his chest, is nothing short of heaven.
“It was all I could think about the whole set. Walking off that fucking stage and kissing the hell out of you.”
I wrap my arms around his neck—pulling him nearer, wanting him closer.
“Yes.”
Dean’s arm is an iron band across my lower back, lifting me off my feet, moving us into the apartment. He pushes me against the wall, grinding the unrelenting ridge of his erection against my pelvis. And it’s so good—that mindless kind of good that’s all instinct and no thought. An effortless intimacy that makes me tremble.
He holds my face in his hands when he kisses me—and I love that. The way his tongue delves deep, his fingers brushing my cheek, like I’m something precious.
His lips slide down to my neck, rasping against my skin.
“Lainey, are you drunk?”
“Yeah.” I rub my cheek against the spiky stubble on his jaw, and moan with how damn good it feels. “But not too drunk. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want.”
He straightens up and looks into my eyes, both of us breathing hard.
“Tell me.” He sweeps his thumb against my lip, like he can’t stop touching me. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want you.”
I skim my palm over the ripples of his abs into the front of his pants, cupping him, taking the hot, impossibly hard length of him in my hand and stroking up and down.
“I want this. I want to feel you
inside me.”
He groans, diving back in. “That’s a great answer.”
He kisses my breasts over the lace of my bra, sliding to his knees, nibbling my stomach on the way down. My jeans are unbuttoned, tugged down and off my legs.
“What do you want?” I ask, because I want to hear his words.
For a moment, he stares at the pale, pink lace of my panties.
“I want to make you come so many fucking times.”
That sentence—and the rough, needy way he says it—almost makes me come all by itself.
Dean pulls me forward by my hips, pushing my panties aside, and puts his mouth on me. And he goes down on me like a guy who really, really likes going down on a woman. He takes his time, kissing me open-mouthed—swirling his tongue and sucking gently at my flesh.
Heat surges through my veins and it feels like the floor has left the building—like I’m about to fall, about to fly. My nails scrape the wall beside me for something to hold on to.
Dean’s voice is low and husky. “You taste like fucking candy.” He skims my panties all the way down and off, then he looks up at me—into my eyes. “Open your legs for me, Lainey.”
And it’s the sexiest moment of my life.
Until I do.
And Dean spreads me with his fingers, and drags his tongue up and down, slow and deliberate. He slides his fingers inside me, pumping his hand, and his tongue moves to my clit, making tight, hard circles over and over. I’ve never had an orgasm in this position—standing up—but Dean seems hell-bent and determined to make it happen.
His fingers, tongue and lips work me over in the same rhythm. And that decadent, telltale pressure starts low in my stomach, building and cresting and spreading out through my limbs.
“Oh, God,” I whimper. “Oh, God.”
My hips rotate all on their own, and I grip Dean’s hair—pressing mindlessly against his face. The sensations claw and climb higher and higher, until a deep moan drags out of me that would make a porn star blush. And everything goes tight and pulsing and I’m plummeting with the pleasure—falling so hard, right over the edge.
Before I can come all the way down, Dean skims up my body, and I cling to him on shaky limbs as he lifts me off my feet, kissing me down the hall to the bedroom. He sets me on the bed, the blanket cool and downy against my knees. And I curl my way around him—like a cat worshiping her scratching post. I kiss his shoulders, his chest—everywhere I can reach.
I make a wet trail down his torso, tracing the lines of his abs with my tongue. I kiss the V of his pelvis—that sexy, sculpted indentation that disappears down the waist of his jeans. I rip at the button of his pants and push them down his hips because I’ve felt the massive bulge between his legs—and now I want to see it.
I want to taste it.
When his jeans are a puddle on the floor beside him, I’m not disappointed.
Dean’s cock is beautiful. It seems silly to think of a dick as beautiful—but this one is. The kind that should be sketched in a high-level art class or described in vivid detail in a bestselling romance novel. It’s big, thick, velvety smooth and rock-hard, with a glistening rounded head that I want to feel between my lips and down my throat.
I wrap my hand around him, pumping, and then take him in my mouth, swirling with my tongue, leaving him nice and wet. I tighten my lips around his shaft, dragging back, then moving down again—all the way—until the head of his dick taps the opening of my throat.
“Fuuuck.” His mouth opens on a groan above me. “That’s so good.” And the hot gravel of his voice turns me on even more.
I suck him hard, bobbing slow, taking him deeper, making it good for both of us. I clench my thighs—feeling the slippery heat between my legs, because he tastes so good.
Then Dean’s gripping my upper arms, pulling me up, kissing me hard.
And I mumble out rushed words against his lips.
“I don’t do this.”
I don’t know why I want him to know, but I do. That for me, this is something different. New. Special.
“I never do this, Dean. Ever.”
“You should.” He touches my cheek, my hair. “You should do this all the time. You’re really good at it.”
And then we’re falling back onto the bed—a tumble of laughing limbs and moans. We roll around, mangling the sheets. Dean’s body is a wonderland, and I explore every bit of it. And he plays me like an instrument. He teases and tortures me, strums his slick fingers between my legs, rubbing and petting, while his lips wrap around my nipple, sucking in long, slow drags.
Dean’s a multitasker—and it’s glorious.
Then he’s climbing over me, kneeling between my spread thighs. I watch as he brings a condom wrapper to his mouth and tears it with his teeth.
“That’s so hot.” I moan, reaching for him.
It’s like a whole new porn fetish category—I could watch this man rip open condom wrappers all night long.
He takes himself in his hand, his movements sure and confident, and rolls the latex down his length, pinching the condom at the tip. And he’s so hard when he presses against my opening—so big when he pushes inside. We moan, long and low, as our bodies rock together.
All my senses are focused right there—where we’re connected—on the surging feel of him filling me where I’m tight and wet around him.
Dean’s head rolls back on his shoulders. “Your pussy is heaven.” He holds my hip for leverage, thrusting. “Literal heaven.”
And I love it. The sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, the taut contraction of his muscles, the relentless breach of his cock, the feel of his solid hips between my thighs. I love how his big hands hold my waist, lifting me, angling me to take all of him. I love how his spine curves and chin dips low, and how he watches himself disappear inside me.
I love it when he rolls us over, so he’s flat on his back and I’m straddling him.
“Ride me.” His voice is jagged and raw. “Ride me, Lainey.”
And I love that too.
I straighten my back, arching, my hair falling long all around. And I swivel my hips and squeeze my muscles hard around him—he’s so deep this way, and I want to feel every inch.
Dean grips my ass in his large hands, sliding me back and forth. And I love the way he looks up at me—the heavy-lidded heat in his eyes and the harsh rise and fall of his chest—that makes me feel every bit as beautiful as he said I was.
I love all of it. Every moment. This wild rollercoaster of perfect, aching, pleasure.
Dean lifts up, licking my breast, kissing my neck. Then he cradles the back of my head as he shifts again, taking us down, so he’s on top. And he glides back and forth into me—riding me in smooth, steady strokes.
“Christ, you feel—”
He presses me into the bed, going deeper, fucking me faster—pushing the breath from my lungs with every thrust.
“I’m gonna come.” His voice is a mirror of mine—urgent and clinging. “I’m gonna come so hard.”
It’s his words that get me there—those words.
A keening sound comes from the hollow of my throat, and I clasp at his back, wrapping my legs around his waist. It feels like a whirlwind is building inside me, swirling and stretching. So close, so close…
And he feels it too—I know it in the way his thrusts go wild, in how he rocks forward and forward, pushing like he can’t get close enough, pressing in so deep I feel the liquid heat of him in my womb.
Golden stars burst behind my eyelids as perfect white-hot pleasure tears through my body and pulses in my veins. Dean drives into me one last time, groaning my name into my hair.
I come back to languid awareness with the feel of him nibbling on my lips. A minute later, I open my eyes to see that sexy, dirty-boy smile aimed down at me.
“I’ll be right back.” He pecks my nose. “Don’t fall asleep.”
I wiggle a little underneath him.
“After that, I think we’ve earned it.”
His hips slide forward in a shallow jab of a thrust.
And he gets hard.
Again.
Inside me.
“We’ll sleep when we can’t move. Right now, we’re just getting started.”
And it’s official—in a past life, I must’ve been a very, very good girl.
~ ~ ~
My eyes creak open the next morning, only about a half hour after Dean let me close them. And I want the sleep—I need the sleep—I’ve earned all the sleep.
But my internal clock is an asshole, so once I’m up—I’m up.
I untwist myself from the cream sheet and slip out of bed, leaving the sleeping hunk of warm sex machine behind me. I scurry around the apartment on a mini scavenger hunt for my clothes, and then I head for the bathroom. In the trashcan beside the sink, I notice the used condoms—a whole box’s worth of used condoms—and I grin like the filthy girl I never knew I was, remembering how each one ended up getting gloriously used.
I guess if you’re only going to have sex every five years or so, this is the way to do it. Like a camel—fill the hump.
The reflection of the woman who stares back at me from the mirror is wonderfully wrecked—tousled hair from strong, gripping hands, smudged makeup, swollen lips, flushed cheeks . . . shining happy eyes. There’s a dark red hickey on my right shoulder—and I remember how that got there too. With my back to Dean’s chest, his hand covering my breast, and his mouth latched on to that spot as he came deep inside me.
After cleaning up my face and using my finger and Dean’s toothpaste to scrub away the morning breath, I step out of the bathroom. He lays on his back, one arm bent over his head, the other resting on his stomach, his spent cock—still impressive in its sleepy state—resting against his thigh.
And there’s a pull—that magnetic connection—that nudges me to crawl my ass right back in that bed with him.
But I fight it. Because I don’t know how these morning afters are supposed to work—but I know it always feels better to leave before being left. To get out when the getting’s still good—to not overstay your welcome.
