FORBIDDEN LINE
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Tucker!Sister!Reader
Summary: Hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, falls for his teammate’s sister
The bass from the off-campus house party thumped through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. You stood in the crowded kitchen, nursing a lukewarm beer and trying not to look as out of place as you felt. Visiting your brother for the weekend had seemed like a good idea at the time, until Tucker had dragged you to this hockey house party and immediately disappeared with his girlfriend.
“Stay where I can see you,” he’d warned before vanishing. Classic big-brother nonsense.
You were twenty-one, a senior at a different school two hours away, and perfectly capable of handling yourself. Still, the Briar University hockey crowd was… a lot. Loud, cocky, and ridiculously attractive. Especially the guy currently leaning against the counter across from you, watching you with lazy, amused interest.
Dean Di Laurentis.
You’d seen his face on Tucker’s Instagram enough times to recognize him instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-brown hair that looked like it had been styled by someone’s fingers, and a smirk that should probably be illegal in several states. He was exactly the type of guy your brother had spent years warning you about.
And he was staring.
You looked away first, pretending to be fascinated by the fridge magnets. A moment later, a warm, deep voice cut through the noise right beside you.
“You’re Tucker’s little sister.”
You turned. Dean was even taller up close, and the way his green eyes dragged slowly down your body before returning to your face made heat bloom low in your stomach.
“Little is relative,” you replied, lifting your chin. “I’m twenty-one. And you’re Dean Di Laurentis. The one who apparently never met a puck bunny he didn’t like.”
His grin widened, slow and dangerous. “Tucker talks about me. Interesting.”
“He talks about how you’re a walking STD commercial.”
Dean laughed, low and genuine. The sound did unfair things to your pulse. “Harsh. Accurate, maybe, but harsh.” He tilted his head. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you Trouble?”
You told him your name. He repeated it like he was tasting it, and you hated how much you liked the way it sounded in his mouth.
For the next hour, he didn’t leave your side. He was charming without trying too hard—funny, quick-witted, and surprisingly attentive. He kept your cup full, deflected drunk teammates who tried to hit on you, and somehow made you feel like the only person in the room.
When someone bumped into you hard enough that beer sloshed over your hand, Dean’s palm settled at the small of your back to steady you. The touch burned through your thin top.
“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Just crowded.”
His thumb brushed once, almost absently, against your spine before he pulled away. But the ghost of the touch lingered.
Tucker appeared sometime after midnight, looking flushed and happy. His eyes narrowed the second he saw you standing close to Dean.
“Di Laurentis,” he said flatly. “Why are you breathing on my sister?”
Dean raised both hands in mock surrender, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Just keeping her company, man. She’s cool.”
“She’s off-limits,” Tucker said, pointing a finger. “Don’t even think about it.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m right here.”
Tucker ignored you, glaring at his teammate. “I mean it, Dean. Not her.”
Dean’s jaw flexed, but he gave a lazy nod. “Message received, Tucker.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur of music and stolen glances. Every time you looked up, Dean was watching you. And every time your brother turned his back, Dean found an excuse to touch you, brushing your arm, leaning in to speak against your ear and his lips grazing the shell so lightly it could have been accidental.
It wasn’t.
By the time Tucker walked you back to his apartment, your skin was buzzing and your thoughts were dangerous.
The next morning, you woke up on Tucker’s couch to the smell of coffee and the sound of male voices arguing in the kitchen.
“…she’s my sister, dude.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Dean’s voice, calm and amused. “We talked. She’s funny. Sue me.”
“You looked at her like you wanted to eat her alive.”
A pause. Then Dean, quieter: “She’s beautiful. Hard not to look.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stayed very still on the couch, pretending to still be asleep.
Tucker groaned. “She’s not one of your hookups. She’s family. If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. Slowly.”
“I hear you,” Dean said. There was something heavier in his tone now. “Loud and clear.”
You heard the front door open and close. A few minutes later, Tucker stuck his head into the living room.
“You awake?”
“Barely,” you lied, sitting up and stretching.
He studied you. “Dean’s an idiot. Don’t let him flirt with you. He doesn’t do serious.”
You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Inside, something twisted.
That afternoon, you went to the hockey arena to watch practice. Tucker had given you a guest pass, mostly so he could keep an eye on you. You sat in the stands, chin in your hand, watching the players fly across the ice.
Dean was impossible to miss. Fast, aggressive, graceful. Every time he slammed someone into the boards, your breath caught. When practice ended, most of the team headed for the locker room, but Dean skated over to the boards near where you sat, helmet off, hair damp with sweat.
He looked up at you and grinned. “Enjoying the view?”
“It’s alright,” you called down, trying to sound unaffected.
He laughed. “Liar. You were staring.”
“So were you last night.”
His expression shifted, something hotter and more intense. “Yeah. I was.”
Tucker shouted something from the tunnel. Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Meet me tonight,” he said suddenly, voice low enough that only you could hear. “There’s a bar off campus. The Dime. Ten o’clock. Tell Tucker you’re meeting an old friend from high school or something.”
Your pulse spiked. “You’re really trying to get me to lie to my brother?”
“I’m trying to spend time with you without him threatening to castrate me every five seconds.” His green eyes locked on yours. “Say yes.”
You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His smile was slow and victorious. “Good girl.”
You told Tucker you were grabbing coffee with a girl you’d met at last night’s party. He bought it, mostly because he was exhausted from practice.
The Dime was dim, warm, and surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. Dean was already there, tucked into a back booth wearing a black Henley that clung to his shoulders and chest. He stood when you approached, eyes dragging over your jeans and soft sweater like he wanted to peel them off.
“You came,” he said, voice rough.
“I did.”
He bought you a drink. Then another. Conversation flowed easy, about your classes, his hockey season and the ridiculous rules Tucker lived by. Hours disappeared. At some point his knee pressed against yours under the table and stayed there.
When the bar started closing, he walked you outside. The night air was cold, but Dean radiated heat.
“I should get back,” you said, even as you turned toward him.
“Yeah.” He stepped closer. “You should.”
Neither of you moved.
His hand came up, cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed your lower lip. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You didn’t tell him to stop.
Dean kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Deep, hungry, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. You tasted beer and mint and pure want. When his tongue stroked yours, you moaned softly into his mouth and felt him shudder.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You kissed him harder.
He pressed you back against the brick wall of the alley beside the bar, one thick thigh sliding between yours. The friction made you gasp. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, like he wanted to leave a mark.
“Dean…” you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. “Not here. Not like this. Come back to my place.”
You knew what he was asking. You knew what it meant.
You said yes anyway.
His off-campus house was dark and quiet when you slipped inside. His roommates were all out. The second the door closed, Dean had you against it, kissing you like he’d die if he stopped.
Clothes came off in a trail down the hallway, your sweater, his Henley, your jeans and his sweats. By the time you reached his bedroom you were both in underwear. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, laying you on his bed.
Dean took his time.
He kissed down your body, slow and deliberate. Mouth on your collarbone, your breasts—tongue circling your nipples until you arched and whimpered. Lower, across your stomach, until he settled between your thighs.
“Look at me,” he ordered softly.
You did. The sight of his golden head between your legs, green eyes dark with lust, nearly undid you.
He licked a long, slow stripe up your center, then focused on your clit with devastating precision. Two thick fingers slid inside you, curling just right. You came hard, gripping his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
He didn’t stop until you were trembling.
Then he crawled up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock was heavy and hot against your thigh.
“You sure?” he rasped.
“Yes. Please.”
He rolled on a condom with shaking hands. When he pushed inside you, slow and deep, the stretch was perfect. Both of you groaned. He stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he whispered.
Then he started moving.
It wasn’t gentle. It was years of tension and one weekend of forbidden want unleashed. Dean fucked you like he needed it, deep and steady strokes that hit every perfect spot. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back.
He whispered filthy praise against your ear. So tight. So wet for me. Good girl, taking my cock so well. Every word pushed you higher.
You came again, clenching around him. He followed right after, groaning your name like it hurt.
Afterward, he pulled you against his chest, stroking your hair. For a long time, neither of you spoke.
“I’m not supposed to want this,” he said finally, voice quiet in the dark. “Tucker’s my brother on the team. My friend.”
You traced a pattern on his abs. “I know.”
“But I do want it.” He tilted your chin up. “I want you. Not just tonight.”
Your heart squeezed. “This is complicated, Dean.”
“I know.” He kissed you softly. “But I’m not ready to let you go.”
The weekend blurred into stolen moments.
You snuck out again the next night. Dean took you to his bed and worshipped you for hours—on your back, on your knees, riding him slow while he watched you with reverent eyes. He was insatiable and generous, making you come until you were hoarse.
On Sunday morning, before you had to drive back to your own campus, he kissed you against his car in the driveway, slow and deep and aching.
“I’ll text you,” he promised. “We’ll figure this out.”
Tucker came outside just as you pulled away. He waved, oblivious.
You waved back, lips still tingling, heart in your throat.
The secret lasted six weeks.
Texting turned into late-night calls. Dean drove to your campus twice, fucking you in your tiny dorm bed while your roommate was away. You drove to Briar once, letting him bend you over his desk in his room while music played loud enough to cover your moans.
Every time was better than the last. Every time you fell a little harder.
Until the night it all shattered.
Tucker showed up at Dean’s unannounced. Walked in on the two of you in the kitchen. Dean’s hands under your shirt, your back against the counter, kissing like the world was ending.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Tucker said, voice low and furious.
Dean stepped in front of you protectively. “Tuck—”
“No.” Your brother’s eyes were blazing. “I told you she was off-limits. I trusted you.”
You stepped around Dean. “This isn’t just him. I wanted this too. I still want this.”
Tucker looked at you like you’d betrayed him. “He doesn’t do relationships. He’s going to break your heart and I’m going to have to watch.”
Dean’s voice was steady. “I’m in love with her.”
The words landed like a bomb.
You turned to stare at him. He was looking at you, not Tucker. Green eyes serious, jaw set.
“I’m in love with her,” he repeated, softer. “Have been since the night at the party when you told me not to look at her. I tried not to. I couldn’t.”
Tucker ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
You reached for Dean’s hand. He laced your fingers together immediately.
Your brother watched the gesture. Something in his expression shifted, anger giving way to reluctant acceptance.
“You hurt her,” he said to Dean, voice rough, “and I don’t care how good you are on the ice. I will end you.”
Dean nodded. “If I hurt her, I’ll let you.”
Tucker looked at you. You gave him a small, hopeful smile.
He sighed. “I need a fucking beer.”
Six months later, you were official.
Dean still kissed you like he was starving every single time. Tucker still grumbled about it, but he’d stopped threatening violence. The team had taken to calling you “Di Laurentis’s girl” with varying degrees of teasing and respect.
One night after a big win, Dean pulled you onto the dance floor at the victory party. Arms around your waist, forehead against yours, swaying even though the music was fast.
“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.
You smiled, heart full. “I love you too.”
He kissed you slow and deep, right there in front of everyone—including your brother.
Some lines were worth crossing.
