He carefully drew up the bottom of her dress, hiking it over her hips, then inched his fingers down until they met satin and lace. God, she was still his fucking wet dream, all soft skin and muscular thighs. She whimpered when he lingered there, her hips shifting toward his touch. It was a heady feeling, making her wait, and he kept doing it until she let out a thin cry of desperation. Palms framing her thighs, he urged her onto her knees. Jamie balanced her hands on his shoulders, and Dean checked her face one more time before slipping his hand into her panties and tracing a wet circle over her clit.
She panted out a curse, hands fisting in his shirt. He watched her movements, the way she rocked forward when he did something she liked. How she gasped when he rubbed someplace sensitive, how her mouth fell open when he got the rhythm right. She cried out in disappointment when he stopped, but her protests died quickly on a high-pitched mewl when he dipped lower and slid a finger inside her.
Hot. Tight. So fucking wet.
His cock throbbed at the feel of her slick clasp, but Dean ignored it, enjoying the view of her writhing above him as he pushed in and out in leisurely strokes. He added another finger, twisting, pressing along her front wall until she let out a deep moan. Wetness spilled over his hand.
“Dean…oh, fuck.”
The surge of victory made him smirk, and he stroked her sweet spot again. She jerked above him.
“Holy shit, how are you doing that?”
Dean chuckled. “Shhh. Just feel.”
Her forehead dropped against his, her eyes shut tight, breath on his face. He kept at it until her thighs began to tremble, but she wasn’t there yet. He skimmed his free hand up her side, smoothing over her breast to thumb the stiff tip of her nipple. She jolted, her body spasming around the slow pulse of his fingers. Tugging her dress and bra down an inch, Dean nuzzled her breast and looked up her.
“Ride my fingers, Jamie.”
She groaned, but didn’t do it. Just opened her eyes again and stared at him as the quaking in her thighs moved up her body. Her arms were starting to shake. He knew she needed more to get there, but the way they were sitting wouldn’t let him get the angle of his hand any deeper, and he wasn’t going to do a damn thing to stop where they were headed, not even to change position.
“Come on, honey. Do it. I know what you need. I’ll make it good for you.”
He closed his mouth around her nipple and sucked. Jamie’s head fell back again on a soft moan, and another splash of wetness drenched his palm. Finally she started to work herself over him, hips grinding, her hands clenched even more tightly at his shoulders. He tongued and stroked until her breathing changed, pants turning into abrupt little shudders.
He remembered that sound.
Scooting down slightly but never stopping the pumping motion of his hand, Dean brought his other thumb to meet it, coating the pad and running it over her clit. He knew right away when he found the right combination—it was like a gunshot, the way one touch made her go rigid and then start to thrash—and rubbed her soft flesh with quick circles, murmuring, “That’s it, honey, there you go,” until she finally cried out, shattering above him.
It was the most goddamn beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Her face contorted in a mask of pleasure, she chanted his name like she couldn’t believe it was happening, too good to be real. He felt the same way, dizzy with the sight of her coming again, knowing he was the one who got her there.
Dean watched her absorb every shiver until she slumped down, her face against his neck, her breathing fast. He slid his fingers free and brought his hand to his mouth.
Light. Sweet. The tiniest bit salty. Just like he remembered.
“God, Jamie. Come home with me.” He had to grit his teeth he was so hard. He needed more. More of this. More of her.
She hadn’t heard him, though. She pawed at his chest, clumsy hands slinking lower to unbutton his fly. He was nearly deranged for her touch, but he didn’t want to keep going like this. Not hidden in the back of a bar, worrying someone could walk in at any second. He wanted to take her to his bed, spread her out and drink in every glorious inch.
She managed to lower his zipper. He caught her hands in his.
Jamie lifted her head, her eyebrows hunched down low. “What’s wrong?”
“Come home with me,” he repeated, not wanting to have to figure out the why or the how or what was going to happen tomorrow. “We don’t have to…it doesn’t have to be a big thing. We can…just for tonight. Fuck.” He hooked his arms over her shoulders and pulled her down onto him, so she could feel how crazy she’d made him. “Come. Home. With me.”
She stared at him, teeth digging into a plump lower lip.
“Is that a good idea?” she asked. “I don’t know. I’m not thinking clearly right now.” She swayed a little, then giggled. “But I guess neither of us is, right? I mean, we’ve been drinking. This is what we do when we’re drunk.”
All the blood that had drained from his brain rushed back into it again. He thought she’d been sober enough to make this decision, but he’d read her all wrong, too eager to take what she was offering. She had no idea he hadn’t had anywhere near as much to drink as she had, or the fact that unlike at the beach, he’d had no desire to stop.
And now they’d gone and made a mess of things. Again.
“I’m not drunk, Jamie.”
“What?” A deep line dug itself between her eyes. “But I saw you. At the bar.”
“That was my first beer. And I’d just started it.”
She gaped at him, obviously confused. Dean sighed, his hard-on quickly subsiding. Damn it, why couldn’t he stop fucking up when it came to her?
One of them had to start thinking clearly.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “It’s not a good idea. I got carried away.”
He re-buttoned his pants and shirt, then patted her hip. She shifted off his lap, wobbly like a fawn, and he helped her up as he stood. He took a minute to comb her hair through with his fingers, straightening out a few tangles he’d caused, then swept his thumbs over her cheeks, wiping away any traces of what had happened. Making sure she was presentable.
“Sean’s probably calmed down by now. You should go back inside before anyone wonders where you’ve gone.”
“Okay.” Her eyes were two big pools of chocolate brown. She looked so flustered, so lost. It made him want to hold her and comfort her, to kiss the crown of those now-ragged curls and promise her everything was going to be all right.
The only way it was going to be all right was if they stopped doing this. They had to. It was too fucking hard.
“I’m gonna head out,” he said. “I’ll let you know when the pictures are ready.”
He left the room without another word. He’d broken his own rule, getting his emotions involved, making something out of nothing, wanting something he could never have. He knew better than that. He wasn’t what Jamie needed, and never would be.
He wouldn’t let this happen again.
Chapter Seven
Jamie leapt off the diving board and dove into the pool. Wednesdays were her longest day: preschoolers’ group lessons in the morning, private lessons until her guarding station at two, then coaching the town rec swim team until six. She’d been in the pool for hours, but retreated to it when her shift ended anyway, hoping for the clarity she always found underwater.
But even with the world blocked out, her hearing muffled, gravity lessened and her movements fluid, all she could think about was Dean.
Today was the first time she’d heard from him since the wedding three days ago—an emotionless text to let her know the photos were ready. She’d replied with a quick okay, not sure what else to say. What were her options?
Thanks for helping out again. Oh, and by the way, can we talk about what the hell happened on Sunday?
The whole day was still a blur.
She’d plied herself with liquid courage, drinking a little more champagne than necessary during a toast in the country club’s bridal suite with Kim and Krissy. With her hair different and wearing that dress, Jamie had wanted to feel sophisticated. Glamorous.
Like someone who had her shit together.
The prospect of seeming that way for two hundred of her parents’ friends had Jamie downing a second glass before they headed out to the ceremony site. She’d been dangerously close to tipsy by the time she saw Dean, waiting for them at the front door. Dressed in a crisp pewter suit and silver tie, he was clean-shaven, hair neat, tats hidden.
The boy cleaned up good.
She didn’t necessarily like him all buttoned up, but the fact that he’d done it for her, that he’d unearthed his camera and shown up because she asked him to, made her feel all kinds of things she shouldn’t have been feeling.
It had been part of what made her reach for more booze.
It was stupid, but it wasn’t just him, either. She’d needed to escape the pressures of the party, from having to smile and face questions about her career. All she wanted was to throw off her cares and enjoy herself, to forget about how she’d done nothing but tread water during the last three years of her life, and have fun.
She ended up having a bit too much fun.
Jamie glided forward, covering the last few feet before somersaulting off the pool wall and propelling herself several yards into her lane. What happened in that dark corner with Dean wasn’t all his fault. She’d been clear-headed enough to know she wanted him.
Kissing him felt essential. Like she’d die if she didn’t.
And he’d proved once again that he knew how to play her body like no one else could. Her orgasm nearly tore her apart, waves of pleasure that swept over her with a ferocious intensity, and Dean had drawn it out, touching and whispering and encouraging until she was sure she’d never move again.
Then he’d said the words just for tonight. They’d been a shrill starting whistle, a knife cutting through the haze of lust and bringing everything into focus. One night with him was what she’d been aching for, but it had been hard enough for her to bounce back the last two times, and they hadn’t even slept together. How much would it muddy the waters of an already murky friendship if they finally did it when they were drunk, crossing that line completely?
He hadn’t been drunk, though. He’d been completely sober. And Jamie had no idea what to make of that.
Her chin broke the surface at the other end of the pool. So much for clearing her head.
She climbed out, ditched her cap and goggles and dried off. Tugging on her lifeguard sweatshirt, she went into the break room and started filling out her daily paperwork. She’d meant to do it on her break, but spent it in her boss’s office instead, wolfing down her lunch as they discussed her future. She’d plastered a smile on when he brought up the assistant director position again, pretending that scheduling lessons and coming up with pool curriculum was something she was genuinely interested in.
She’d talked her way into a little more time to think about it.
Finished, Jamie hung up the clipboard and retreated to the pool deck. She began piling the kickboards in the storage closet, letting each one fall with a satisfying thwack.
It was nuts to turn down a job that was basically being handed to her. She was like a celebrity when it came to swimming here—her glory days as a champion meant that everyone who came within fifty yards of a pool knew who she was.
It was something she could do though, not something she loved. Not anymore, anyway. Sure, it was cool when she helped an infant learn how to float or ran the rec team through the speed drills that helped her break that record. But accepting this job meant accepting that she was never going to do anything amazing with her life.
She wanted to be someone important. To do something important. It was a possibility that only felt real when she dressed up. When she pretended to be someone else.
Maybe that was why she’d never been able to cut ties and leave Portland. Here she already was someone, even if all that someone did was swim. Coaching was easy, and Lord knew she’d always looked for the easy way out.
Crazy, silly Jamie. She was never serious about anything.
No one in her family had asked any questions when she’d gone back to the ballroom on Sunday, which wasn’t a big surprise. At least now her home had emptied out. Sean and Kim had left for their honeymoon, Brendan and Owen went back home, and her parents had gone off on a little post-wedding getaway. Krissy was the only one who’d stayed behind an extra day, finally vacating the premises yesterday.
Jamie had driven her to the bus station before her shift. The girl’s incessant stream of questions had reached the limits of her patience, especially when Krissy asked why she and Dean weren’t together.
Jamie hadn’t had nearly enough coffee to deal with that one. What was she supposed to say?
“There’s nothing going on between us.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I want him so badly I can hardly function when he’s around.”
She’d replied that it was complicated. That they’d gone there more than once, realized they shouldn’t have, and it was stupid to go down that road again. She’d figured being completely honest would wipe out the chance of Krissy asking another freaking question.
What she’d gotten instead was a lecture, the girl going on for longer than Jamie’s brain could handle about people acting how they thought they should rather than how they wanted to, afraid of the consequences, and that she and Dean should stop pretending they didn’t want each other and get it over with already.
As if it was that easy.
She’d thanked Krissy for the advice and sent her on her way.
The psychoanalysis hadn’t been necessary. Jamie had already thought about Dean’s little theory, wondering what Maslow would’ve said about last weekend’s fiasco.
Sex was a basic human need, so she’d probably earned herself a few hierarchical points with that. She’d only been following her physical instincts, trying to satisfy a craving. But still wanting Dean, when they’d proven several times it could never work out? Maslow probably would’ve said that ranked pretty high up there on the list of the dumbest things she’d ever done.
Dean Trescott was a bad habit, an addiction Jamie needed to kick. She needed to get herself unhooked, not dive headfirst into it.
Unless it was only for one night.
She stared at the kickboards, Dean’s words like a dart to a bull’s-eye. Maybe the reason she hadn’t been able to drop this hunger for him was because they’d never technically done the deed. She needed to move on, but she couldn’t do that until she got what she wanted.
Until she’d satisfied this need.
If they did it, then there was a chance she’d be able to get him out of her head. The idea of “just one night” had alerted her mental warning system when he’d said it, but if she was the one to suggest it, with every intention of walking away, maybe that would work. She didn’t want to navigate their way back to friendship again after another drunken episode, but if they went into it with their eyes open, both of them knowing what was expected afterward, then maybe she could find the kill switch on this crazy cycle they had going and kick her craving for good.
Neither of them would be hoping for more. She wasn’t any more capable of commitment than he was. Dean’s attention span was limited, and she wasn’t stupid enough to think she’d be the woman who changed him.
She didn’t want to change him.
She did want to sleep with him, though.
Done for the day, Jamie showered and dressed quickly, blasting a hair dryer at her curls until heat and defrizzing serum beat them into spiraled submission. Her shoes made a clattering sound against the community center’s fl
oor as she hurried outside. She tugged her sweater closer and eyed the darkening sky with disdain. The sun had already sunk halfway past the horizon when a few months ago it would’ve been bright overhead. Jamie hated it, but wishing for year-round summer was pointless, and she drove toward the harbor, her grip tight on the steering wheel when she arrived at Dean’s place.
His truck was in the lot. She made a point not to look at it.
She climbed the rickety outside stairs to his apartment, took a deep breath and put on her game face. Two short raps of her fist were followed by footsteps, but it was Mikey’s face that peeked around the big steel door after it creaked open.
She knew he stayed here sometimes. Problems at home. He’d never shared the details, and Jamie didn’t know him well enough to ask.
“Hey. Is Dean here?”
He nodded and let the door swing open.
Jamie walked past him and into the open space that was Dean’s kitchen, living and dining rooms combined. It wasn’t an inviting space. The windows lining the far end didn’t have any coverings, and the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling were nothing more than bare bulbs.
But she was unable to focus on that, or anything else, once she saw Dean.
Black track pants were hanging low off his hips, arms running with sweat as he drew his chin up toward an exposed pipe. His shoulders trembled with the effort of lifting his body weight, voice strained as he grunted out numbers. His torso was bare, all his ink gloriously exposed.
Jamie’s mind dissolved into a word that could only have sounded like gnuh.
Dean didn’t notice her standing there though, too busy finishing his set.
“Fourteen…fifteen!” He dropped to the floor and laughed. “Told you I could do it, Mikey. Good thing the pizza’s here because I win the bet. Dinner’s on you.”
He reached for a towel to wipe off his hands, then stopped when he saw her.
“Oh,” he said. “Hey. You’re not the pizza guy.”
“Yeah. No.”
His grin was lopsided. Something flashed in his eyes. Hope, maybe? “What’s up?”
The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) Page 7
