Liaa

Allie had once asked her offhandedly what would be in her sex room if she had one. Admittedly, her cousin had been very drunk and had just finished watching Fifty Shades Darker. Humouring Allie, she had taken a sip of her drink and answered.

“A king sized bed. A damn good stereo system. Maybe a scented candle or two. Nothing crazy. Just a man who loves me.”

“You love love!” Allie had squealed. “But seriously, that’s it? No sex swing? No handcuffs or blindfolds?”

“Nope.” She’d laughed nervously. “None of that has ever appealed to me. I just want to feel loved. Be romanced a little bit. I want a man to make the effort.”

Allie had never forgotten that conversation. So when John Tucker called her one afternoon and asked what he could do to make YN’s first time special, Allie knew exactly what to do.

What Tucker didn’t expect was to be sent a detailed checklist over Apple notes.

“Allie,” he’d asked nervously “why are silk boxers on this list?”

“Just trust me!” Allie had insisted. “She wants to be wooed! And romanced! Make her feel special!”

“And dressing up like Hugh Hefner is going to do that?”

“Try less playboy mansion and more Tom Cruise in Risky Business.”

When Dean walked past the open door of the bedroom while Tucker was setting up, he couldn’t hide his smirk.

“Seriously? Dude, you are so fucking whipped.”

“Shut up! I just want her to feel safe with me.”

“Tuck, I don’t know a single person that wouldn’t feel safe around you. Just be yourself, and make sure she feels like she can also be herself.”

He spent ages getting ready. Picking out the right collared shirt, the right pair of Levi’s jeans, the right cologne. He even put curl cream in his hair, which happened so rarely that Garrett almost passed out in shock.

Tuck came down the stairs with his phone, wallet and keys, yet still somehow worried that he missed something.

“What?” He asked cautiously, pausing in the living room when he noticed the other three hockey players staring at him with shit-eating grins.

“Nothing.” Garett smirked “we’re just wondering why you have an entire IKEA’s worth of tea lights in your room.”

“And why you smell like a rich asshole who’s just been arrested for embezzlement.” Logan laughed.

“First of all, fuck all of you.” Tucker glared. “Second of all, I want you all out of the house tonight. She’ll feel more comfortable if she’s not worried about you jackasses listening in. Third of all, can one of you please turn on the tea lights before you leave?”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “We got you, bro. Just promise the rest of the house will get to meet her eventually.”

The night had gone perfectly. A great dinner at a new resto-bar that her boss had given her a gift card for, and a phenomenal showing of the Briar theatre department’s rendition of Shrek: The Musical, in which Allie shined as Princess Fiona. YN looked beautiful in her strapless polka dot dress and red heels.

The house was eerily quiet when they returned. Thankfully, the others had heeded John’s warnings and fucked off for the night. Tucker led her upstairs, gently rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

When Tucker opened the door, even he had to admit that he was pleased with what he had put together. One of the other players had lit up all of the LED tea lights before they left, illuminating a path from the door to the double bed, which was sprinkled with wrapped Hershey’s kisses and confetti hearts. A teddy bear sat on the nightstand, innocently hugging a fresh box of condoms.

YN wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry as she looked at the setup. “Tucker,” she breathed, fingers feeling tingly. “what is all of this?”

“I wanted your first to be special. I mean, it’s my first with you, which makes it special for me as well, but you deserve perfection. You deserve to feel comfortable and relaxed and like your best self.” Tucker explained, hooking his phone up to the Bluetooth speaker on his desk.

Marcy Playground’s Sex and Candy started to play as she sat on the bed, a bright smile on her face as she played with the sparkly confetti.

“It’s perfect.”

Tucker beamed, moving to sit next to her. “I thought the music would help you relax. Quiet some of the noise in your head. I know you’re nervous, but I promise I’m going to take really good care of you.” His touch was gentle as he combed her hair behind her ear, leaning in for a soft kiss. “Hang on one second, I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared down the hallway, and she unwrapped one of the small chocolates, softly singing along under her breath. While she waited, she sent a quick text to Allie.

This was all you, wasn’t it? That conversation we had after you watched Fifty Shades? He’s just brought it to life!

When Tucker came back, she had to bite her lip to stifle her laughter. Tucker was wearing a ridiculous leopard print silk bathrobe and a pair of aviator sunglasses. His chest was bare, and he wore shiny black silk boxer shorts. He struck a dramatic pose in the doorway, peering at her over the lenses of the glasses, and she found that she couldn’t hold back her laughter any more.

“What are you wearing?”

“Can’t a man dress up for his woman?”

“Like a character in the Godfather?”

Tucker groaned. “I was going for Risky Business!”

“You thought I wanted Tom Cruise?” She raised her eyebrows. “Honey, I’ll only ever want you.”

He rejoined her on the bed, where she carefully pulled his sunglasses off, folding the arms in and placing them on his nightstand. He gently caressed her sides through the fabric of her dress, his chest warming when she leaned into his touch, exhaling softly.

“Let me take care of you, baby.”

She smiled, leaning in to kiss him, fingers coasting along the lapels of his ridiculous bathrobe. She tastes like chocolate and smelled like vanilla, two contrasts that made his head spin. Testing the waters, he gently slipped his tongue into her mouth, trailing his hands further up her sides, staying respectfully clear of the zipper on her dress.

She gently scraped her nails against the skin on his neck, and he could feel her smile into the kiss as he started to gently play with her hair. Feeling bold, she nipped at his bottom lip with her teeth, blushing almost immediately afterwards.

“I like that you aren’t shy right now.” Tucker said softly, trailing one hand up the hem of her dress. “It tells me that you trust me, and fuck, baby, I feel so honoured that you trust me to do this for you.”

“You’ve ruined me for anybody else.” She laughed nervously, running her hands up and down his arms. She didn’t quite know what to make of her feelings for John Tucker.

He made her feel safe and protected, like she could be herself instead of one of the many faces she had to put on in order to get through her day. He was someone who made her feel valued, and made her laugh. Someone she couldn’t imagine ever losing.

It felt too soon to say she was in love. That was an emotion that felt too big and too scary to voice, almost as if she was subconsciously hoping that he would say it first, making it okay for her to admit the same.

She could feel him smiling as he started kissing her neck, gently squeezing one of her boobs over her dress. He loved the way she inhaled, and how her fingernails dug into his skin around the same time that he squeezed. “Tucker.” She breathed.

“I know, baby. You’re so good. So perfect.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair, guiding his face back to hers. “I might get clingy.” She warned in a breathy whisper.

“Then it’s a good thing I like clingy.”

Laughing, she kissed him again, sliding her hands behind her back to undo the zipper on her dress, letting the fabric fall and reveal her bare chest.

“Holy shit.” Tucker breathed, reaching out to touch her with shaky hands. “You fucking undo me, baby.”

She swore she could hear her heart pounding in her chest, louder than the soft rock playing in the background. His thumbs trailed gently over her peaked nipples as he stared at her in wonder.

“C’mere darlin’” He drawled softly, pulling her closer and twisting her body so her back rested against his firm chest. He ran his hands over her breasts, kissing her neck deeply and breathing her in.

His hands moved, sliding under her dress and over her bare thighs. “You’re so beautiful.” He hummed, gently nipping at her earlobe. His hand came to rest gently over the crotch of her panties, the other tracing hearts against her thigh.

“How’re you feeling?” He asked softly, kissing her shoulder.

“Good.” She breathed. “Nervous, but good.” She laughed, moving her skirt aside to lace her fingers with his. Her chest heaved with anticipation, her dainty cherry necklace resting at her breastbone.

Tucker smiled softly against her skin. “This first bit isn’t anything we haven’t done before. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you.”

He gently started to rub against the soaked seat of her panties. She relaxed into his touch, sinking back against his chest with a sigh. Her thighs fell open for him, allowing Tucker to slip his fingers inside, curling them gently.

Her breath hitched, a moan escaping as her lips curved into a smile, fingers tangling in his hair. Even though they had done this so many times before, something about this time made it feel so much more intimate. Bigger.

“There’s my girl.” Tucker beamed, kissing up her neck. “Breathe with me. Let yourself feel good.”

Every curl of his fingers sent shockwaves through her body. She moaned harshly, her grip tightening in his hair. As her fingernails grazed his scalp, he practically purred, nuzzling into her neck. She giggled, a bright smile on her face before his free hand came back to one of her breasts.

“I love your fucking laugh. Drives me absolutely insane.” He rasped, curling his fingers faster.

“Tuck, shit, right there.” She breathed, shaking under his touch. His thumb came down on her clit, rubbing gentle circles. She felt like her body was on fire, her chest filled with love.

“Atta girl. Let go for me.” He breathed in her ear, his free hand lacing with hers. She dug her nails into the back of his hand, moaning harshly as she clenched around his fingers. “I’ve got you.”

Her grip on his hand loosened as she came down, breathing heavily in his arms, cradled against his strong chest as he peppered gentle kisses along her cheek, jaw and neck, gently removing his fingers.

“You did so good, baby.” Tucker beamed. “So perfect.”

She smiled lazily, leaning back to look at him. “It’s so not fair that I’m basically undressed and you’re still wearing that dumbass robe.”

Tucker laughed heartily, tightening his arm around her waist as she turned around to kiss him softly yet deeply.

He helped her to her feet, smiling cheekily as she stood in shaky legs, allowing him to help her step out of the dress and panties. Her chest swelled as she watched him reverently hang the delicate dress over his desk chair before taking off his own clothes. His hands were soft and warm, guiding her towards the bed and under the warm layers of blankets. Tucker settled on top of her, reaching for the box of condoms on the nightstand.

“Tonight has been perfect.” Tucker exhaled, running a hand up her thigh. “I feel so close to you, it’s unreal.”

She smiled up at him, fighting the inexplicable urge to cover up. This was Tucker. He’d already made her fall apart on his fingers for fucks sake. Why the hell was she still so nervous?

There was a brief pause in the music, and then the beginning of a deafening grunge riff. She recognized it instantly, bursting out into uncontrollable laughter.

“Fucking Smart Shuffle!” Tucker cried.

“Is this Alice in Chains?” She laughed. “Why are we listening to Man in The Box?”

Despite himself, Tucker laughed with her, weakly draping his body over hers. “I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to be in the playlist. I swear, it was all soft rock and adult alternative.”

“Don’t apologize.” She giggled, softly kissing his cheek. “It’s very us, don’t you think?” Just hours earlier when Tucker had picked her up from her parents house, they had cruised towards the theatre building at Briar while singing Econoline Crush’s You Don’t Know What It’s Like at the top of their lungs.

“At least there’s no Nickelback.” He smiled, burying his head in her neck.

“You know how many aura points I’d have gotten for losing my virginity to Animals?”

“How many do you get for Man In The Box?”

She smiled, kissing him softly, carding her fingers in his hair. “Not telling.”

He took one of her hands in his, gently drawing circles on her palm with his thumb. Layne Staley continued to croon about the man in the box behind them, but all he could see was her. His heavy cock rested against her thigh, and he could see her cheeks start to blush faintly. Almost as if she hadn’t stopped blushing the entire time.

“Still with me, pretty girl?” He asked softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Still with you.” She confirmed. “Just go slowly.”

Tucker smiled. “I’ve got you, pretty girl. I’m not going anywhere.”

He started to slowly push in, feeling her nails dig into his shoulder blade. He hissed in pleasure, trying desperately to keep all of his focus on her, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. She fought the urge to hide her face in his chest, overwhelmed at the feeling of his cock inside her.

“Doing so well, baby. Almost there.” Tuck encouraged, gently pushing in the rest of the way, pausing to let her get comfortable.

she opened her eyes, which she had previously closed in something akin to pleasure. “Okay. So, you’re bigger than I expected.”

Tucker bit his lip, trying hard not to laugh. “Don’t inflate my ego, darlin’”

“Shut up and start moving.” She laughed, drawing a deep moan from Tucker when her walls tightened around his throbbing dick.

His thrusts were gentle yet deep, and she could tell he was holding back with her comfort and safety in mind. Her toes curled with each thrust, nails leaving angry red marks on his shoulder.

“Oh, shit.” She moaned. “You feel so good, Tucker.”

“This is all for you, baby.” His voice was gravelly as he said it, dropping his head down to kiss her neck. “You drive me insane. In all the best ways.”

She locked her legs around him, connecting her ankles over his back, moaning uncontrollably as his thrusts got deeper. Tucker knew she was t going to last long, especially on her second orgasm of the night, but he had hoped that he would have more composure. But alas, he could feel his own thrusts faltering as she tightened around him.

“Feel so warm and tight, baby, I think you’re going to make me come prematurely.”

She giggled. Well, it was a half giggle half moan, and when she clamped down on Tucker once more, he was a goner. His eyes rolled back, arms buckling where he was holding himself over her. He cursed loudly and repeatedly as he spilled into the condom, hips jerking like they had a mind of their own.

Despite the exhaustion that had crept into his bones, he kept thrusting, messy and shallow, in an attempt to get her closer to her own edge. His free thumb started to draw messy circles on her clit, and her high-pitched, needy moans were enough to get him half-hard again.

“Come on baby, do it for me.”

“Fuck, Tucker, I don’t know if I can.”

“Yes you can.” He encouraged. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to keep making you feel good.”

She shrieked as she clamped down again, harder and tighter this time, both of her arms coming to wrap tightly around his neck and shoulders. She buried her face in his shoulder while she came, looking for any kind of comfort and security she could find. Tuck’s thrusts slowed down, gently easing her through the high as she spilled around him.

“That’s my perfect girl. So good, sugar.” He breathed, pressing kisses to the top of her head. “So, so good.”

He pulled out, discarding the condom and offering her one of his Texas Longhorns shirts before he disappeared momentarily, coming back with a wet cloth, gently running it over her skin to clean her up. He pulled the blankets over them, disrupting the confetti and the chocolates, which were now squished and half melted.

She didn’t care, picking up on if the chocolates and popping it in her mouth before she kissed John softly.

“How do you feel?”

“Exhausted. A little sore. But emotionally, I feel fantastic.” She could feel her eyes getting misty. “I never thought I’d ever feel this comfortable and this safe with another person. Thank you for making me feel safe.”

“Baby, you don’t need to thank me.” Tucker breathed, tucking her body into his side. “I’m always going to be here to make you feel safe.”

And that was when she knew.

Your words die on your lips when Garrett and Wellsy crash down into the booth as well, Tucker and Logan scooting closer, none the wiser.

Dean glances down at the app on his phone before lifting his eyes back to you. “Nobody knows,” he chuckles, relaxing back into the booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder, his mouth brushing your temple. “Trust me—” Buzz!

You press your body back into the seat, eyes pinching shut as you ride out the next wave of vibrations coming from the toy in your panties.

“You doin’ okay, babe?” Hannah asks from across the table and your eyes flash open immediately. Your thighs are already slick when Dean’s hand traces through it. Your legs quake and your hand comes up from its wicked grip on the leather, squeezing his wrist like a warning.

“M’perfect, Han. Just a little hot. Is it hot in here?” You ramble.

Dean’s arm wraps a little tighter around your shoulder. The other hand settles back against your thigh and he has the decency to look pleased with himself.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs under his breath. “Who do you think bought this for me, huh? Hell of a gift, by the way.”

Your glare sharpens and he tips his drink toward you like he’s proving a point.

Dean is having way too much fun at Malone’s—drink in his hand, shirt half-unbuttoned, chain glinting against his chest every time a laugh works loose.

And even though he’s supposedly lost in a conversation about summer plans, he’s watching. Watching every breath you take. Every little tremble. Every pause while you try to keep up a conversation with Logan and Tucker without coming undone.

“You need another drink, pretty,” he drawls when you go to take a sip.

You gasp, missing the straw completely as another round of vibrations catches you off guard. A little bit of liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup—not much, just enough for Dean’s eyes to drop to it. You quickly lift it to your lips, sucking the rest down.

“Shaky tonight,” he chuckles, putting it on a low, steady vibration.

Dean smiles at you like a bully when he sees you struggling to compose yourself, leaning over to press a kiss against your temple.

“I’m serious, you want anything?” His fingers tap against the glass before he reaches for it like a gentleman—but his eyes are anything but polite, glittering with wickedness as he watches you struggle.

He wraps his hand around the cup too, trying to pull it away, but the death grip you have on it to keep yourself from cracking leaves him chuckling under his breath.

“Dean, please,” you whisper.

“What?” He blinks at you innocently. “You wanna come with me to the bar or somethin’?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“Me?” He presses his hand to his chest, feigning surprise. “Not like I’m waiting for you to beg or anything.”

You look toward your friends, still deep in conversations around you. “I’m not gonna beg,” you whisper.

“Yet,” his lips twitch against the rim of his glass, winking before he tosses the rest back.

You laugh weakly, shoving him out of the booth.

“Where are we goin’?” His hand reaches for yours.

“Anywhere but here,” you press the words through your teeth as you fake a smile, pulling him through the crowd toward the door and he follows.

A long, cruel vibration punches a gasp from your chest as your thighs clamp together, stopping you in your tracks. You whip around, fury and need burning through you all at once. “I swear to God, Dean—”

“What? Did I do somethin’?” He takes a step closer, his voice calm and daring.

“God, I hate you right now,” you whisper-laugh as you glare at him, chest heaving.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head, smile deepening, eyes soft and sharp at the same time. “You don’t mean that, pretty.” He reaches a hand to cradle your face as you look up at him, his thumb rubbing along your trembling lip.

“Stop teasing me, Di Laurentis.”

“Or what?” He asks, condescending. “What are you gonna do, bun? You dragged me over here. Seems like you’re the one without a plan.”

You chuckle helplessly, completely at his mercy while he just stands there enjoying every second of it.

“I want you to stop teasing me.”

“Baby, you don’t even sound convincing.”

“Can you just stop,” you groan through a flustered laugh.

“That’s funny,” he scoffs. “You don’t look like you want me to stop—that’s not what your face is tellin’ me. You are doin’ a hell of a lot of yappin’ I’ll give you that.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe as he dips down for a kiss.

“Fuck me? Now we’re gettin’ somewhere… That sounds like a perfect idea, baby,” he hums. “We can get outta here. Or we can stay right where we are. I’m havin’ a pretty good time either way.”

“I’m aware.”

“Oh, shit… Is it that obvious?” He asks, dimple deepening in his cheeks as he looks down at you. “I know what you want.”

“I’ve said it ten times.”

“You said that twice… ‘Stop teasin’ me, Dean’,” he tries on your voice just to piss you off, dragging you toward his mouth to whisper, “Tell me what you need from me.”

The tension builds between the two of you, thick and heavy with the words you know he wants to hear.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He chuckles, his laugh deep and syrupy, like the night finally went his way.

“There’s my girl,” he mumbles, the words brushing your mouth before he draws back, looking toward the bathrooms, catching the little line of people waiting, backed against the wall. He looks to his left, catching the photo booth, the corner of his lips twitching.

“Dean…”

“Bunny.”

“Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Baby doll.”

“We’re gonna get kicked out,” you giggle, resting your hands on his chest. “Again.”

“And yet,” he hums as he closes the space between you. “They keep lettin’ us back in.” Buzz.

The sharp vibrations nearly buckle your knees and you shove him hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. He catches your wrist immediately, laughing as he pulls you with him.

His eyes flick one way, then the other, checking the crowd before he reaches for the little sign hanging outside the booth. You already know exactly what he’s thinking. The sign spins between his big fingers from Open to Out of Service.

You’re still laughing when he tugs you inside, the curtain swinging shut behind you. His grin matches yours as your hands find his belt. Dean's fingers disappear into your hair. His mouth crashes into yours before either of you can say another word, his body pressing tight against yours.

“How am I supposed to help myself when you’re so fun to tease, baby?” He asks quietly, dragging his lips against yours.

“Enough,” you breathe, your voice shaky and thin as the constant vibration keeps you on edge. You feel him smile against the kiss. “I told you what I need, alright, I—”

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, huffing a quiet laugh when you grab another fistful of his shirt. “You’re alright. M’just messin’ with you.”

“Really?” You chuckle against his lips as his big hands drag up your thighs, lifting your skirt up with it. “Who woulda thought?”

“I know,” he mutters, his words ghosting across your lips. “I almost never fuck with you. I should do this more, huh?”

He hooks his thumbs around the lace of your panties, tugging them higher, pressing them harder against your clit as you try to maintain your composure, leaving you twisting his shirt in your fingers for balance.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you hum.

“Been enjoying myself all fuckin’ night. Can you blame me?” He buries his face in your neck, hand diving between your thighs.

“Shit!” You gasp.

“Fuck me.” The words drag out of him against your skin as he feels the vibrations hum against his palm, pressing it higher, your hips answering with a slight buck.

The music from the bar pulses around you, his big body taking up most of the little booth leaving the air around you hot and thick. His zipper slides down, and he bends you over just enough, not letting you get far.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice roughening as he kisses down your neck, feeling how wet the panties are. “Made a mess of these, huh?”

A couple people pass by, leaving the curtain swaying slightly in the breeze. His head snaps toward it and he draws back the curtain just enough to check, the other hand shoving his jeans down just enough.

You bite your lip, gasping as you feel him, hard and thick, dragging against your thigh, the press of his thick tip maddening. “I can feel your legs shaking, baby.”

“Dean, please…” You breathe, hand flying back to claw at his hip as the other hits the booth’s wall.

Dean breathes out a laugh, nuzzling into your hair, his fingers hooking into your panties to tug them just aside.

His hand curls over your mouth, sealing off the sound as he sinks into you. It’s slow and deep, your moan trembling against his palm while his catches tight through his teeth. His strong arms tighten around you, holding you steady to his chest as he moves.

“Squeezing me,” Dean grunts as his hips snap forward again, rougher this time. His belt clinks at his hips, jeans shoved just low enough, the cold buckle grazing your thigh with every deep, hungry thrust. He buries his face into your neck—groaning against your skin.

You answer with nothing but a whimper, legs trembling, the slap of skin loud in the booth, the bar music louder overhead.

“So good,” he grits out, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, fingers digging in—cruel and punishing, needy and greedy, desperate to have every part of you.

Your skin claps against his, the sweat and slick between your bodies making each motion obscene. You look back over your shoulder, catching him in the dim light, his shirt caught between his teeth so he can watch the way he slides in and out, his eyes rolling back before his head lulls to the ceiling.

The knot in your stomach tightens, the pleasure that has been building inside you coming to a head. Your thighs tremble beyond belief, Dean’s muscles swelling as he keeps you in place, biceps tugging the sleeves of his shirt taut.

His hips snap forward and you stumble slightly, hands reaching out to catch yourself, the two of you laughing and breathless—Ding. Ding. Ding. Pop!

The photobooth goes off and your stomach sinks as it captures a picture. Dean’s grip locks around your hips with no plans to stop, your body teetering at the edge of ecstasy anyway.

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he mutters. Ding. Ding. Ding. Pop!

A second photo snaps as you throw your head back, hips tilting, grinding into him as you gasp.

“Fuck, Dean,” you moan as he picks up the pace.

The third and final flash bulb cracks as you shudder, your orgasm breaks and he lets out a guttural groan, almost losing his balance as he fucks into you, spilling deep, clutching you so tight as his head falls between his shoulders.

“Oh my god,” you mumble, forehead pressed to your forearm as you try to get some air through the heat, your body trembling as you fight the panties off your clit, pushing them down your thighs just enough to escape the vibrations, your body still warm and sensitive everywhere Dean touched.

“Fuck, that was good, huh?” He asks, grin spreading as his hand reaches around, hooking under your chin, pulling you back to his chest, pressing his lips to yours. “So beautiful when you cum. You know that?”

His blonde fringe is wet, hanging in his eyes, his shirt opened just a few more buttons, showing off the slick of sweat on his chest.

His laugh melts right into your skin as he kisses his way to your jaw, lips resting on your shoulder, thumb rubbing on your bare hip as he pulls out.

“Absolutely not,” he tuts, smiling against your skin as he pulls the panties back in place, the hum of the toy, so soft you can barely feel it, but it’s there before he smoothes your skirt back down.

“Dean—”

“You complainin’, pretty?” He taunts and chuckles. “What? You want it higher?”

“You’re such a bully,” you whisper as he turns you around, taking two steps back with you, sitting down on the photo booth bench, guiding you to climb on his lap.

He reaches down to his phone, shutting the vibrations off completely, before setting it to the side.

“You turned it off?” You hum.

“M’done messin’ with you, bunny,” he chuckles as you straddle him.

“Why?” You ask like there has to be a catch.

“Just wanted to kiss my girl for a minute,” he mumbles, reaching for you when your body settles, kissing you slow and lazy, so tender it makes you lightheaded. His tongue drags along yours, his other arm binding around your waist with a heavy hand.

“This thing’s always broken?” Someone bitches from outside the curtain and you and Dean freeze, the two of you collectively holding your breaths, while the people stand right outside the curtain.

Dean watches you through half-lidded eyes as you pinch the zipper of his jeans between your fingers, gliding it up slow.

They disappear and Dean pulls back with a laugh, pressing his lips against yours while the two of you try to catch your breath.

“The pictures,” you whisper.

“If they took ‘em I’m gonna lose my shit.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, smiling against his lips.

“Mhmm,” Dean hums as his hand slides up your back, settling between your shoulder blades before he pulls you a little closer. The photo booth suddenly feels too small for him. “Those are mine,” he mumbles as he reaches out, pressing the button.

“They are,” you smile.

“Hell, yeah they are. So are these.”

The camera flashes and neither of you look at it. His hand settles against your cheek, thumb dragging softly against your skin as his gaze settles on you—another flash lights up the booth.

“Just like that,” he hums, shifting for the next shot, smiling when you climb closer.

The next kiss is slower, the corner of his lips curling into a smile as his eyes flash toward the lens as the camera flashes again.

“You’re so beautiful. You know that?”

Your smile tugs against his mouth. “You tell me that every day.”

“Yeah, well.” He looks at you for a second before his thumb drags across your cheek again. “M’gonna keep tellin’ you.”

“Dean.”

“Baby?” His forehead falls against yours as the final picture snaps.

“We should probably get outta here.”

“Probably…” He sighs, arms tightening around your waist. “Couple more minutes.”

Dick Grayson:

You thought you were being slick, taking your hand off the back of Dick’s neck and inching it towards the nightstand. 

Dick stills inside of you, tilting his head at you in confusion. There’s a goofy smile on his face. “What’s up?”

You blink at him, wiping a hand over your sweat-slicked forehead. “I need water,” you smile sheepishly. 

He chuckles, grabbing the comically large water bottle he keeps on his nightstand and flicking out the straw. You prop yourself up on your elbows, Dick holding up the bottle to your lips. 

You sip on it, the water instantly cooling you down and fixing the dry ache on your tongue. 

“Good?” He asks and when you nod, he puts it to his own mouth and chugs about half the bottle in one go. 

You watch him chug it, his throat bobbing and water glistening on the corners of his mouth. His own hair is sweaty, stuck to his head and dangling over his forehead. 

You reach up and swipe a strand away. Dick puts the water bottle back down, letting his body sandwich you against the mattress again. 

“You know,” he mumbles in your ear, “I didn’t realize I tire you out so much you needed a water break.” 

You smack his bicep. “Shut up.”

He rolls his hips into yours, a smirk on his face. “Are you sure you want to have an attitude right now?”

You swallow, shaking your head. 

Jason Todd:

Jason’s off you the minute the word slips from your lips, pulling himself back with his hands raised in surrender. His lips are parted slightly, dark brows furrowed in concern as he analyzes your body. Your legs are shaking, face twisted in pain.

“Everything okay? What’s going on?”

Oh god. He hurt you, he was too rough and he hurt you and you’re in pain and you’re never going to trust him again and—

You arch your back on the bed, twisting and stretching your limbs. “Leg cramp.”

He blinks. “Leg…cramp?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pulling a knee to your chest. 

The hammering in Jason’s chest stills, his face blank in that way it gets when he’s not sure what to think. 

“Jay?” You cock your head to the side, looking at him through your lashes, “you alright?”

“I thought,” he frowns, “I thought you were hurt, or something.”

You laugh, pressing a hand to his cheek and leaning in for a kiss. You ghost your lips over his, smiling into him, “you think too much.”

He cups the back of your neck, laying you back down on the bed. “Maybe, wanna help me with that?”

“Gladly.”

Wally West:

“Wally.”

The redhead hums, head sunk low in the dip between your shoulder and neck, giving no indication of stopping. You shove at his shoulder. 

“Wally!”

He pulls away, eyes glassy and pupils blown, hair a total mess. He blinks, “sorry, fuck, is everything alright?”

“I think…I just started my period.”

“Okay,” he says, pursing his lips and leaning back in to kiss your neck again. 

“Wally—I’m gonna stain your sheets.”

He shrugs. “So? I’m not scared of a little blood.”

“I’m gonna make a mess.”

“It’s just blood,” he repeats.

“But—“

He cups your face, squishing your cheeks together. “Look, doll. If you’re in pain or you don’t want to keep going, say the word. But if you’re stopping because of me, cause you think I’ll be grossed out or something, don’t.”

You sigh, falling back into the sheets and tentatively parting your legs. “You swear its fine?”

Wally grins ear to ear. “Swear on my sheets.”

Hal Jordan:

Hal stares at you blankly when you pull away from him with a wince, rubbing the side of your head. One minute, you seemed to be enjoying yourself, your hands on his chest and head against his shoulder while he thrusted into you.

“What’s up?” He asks, still breathless.

You point to his hand, specifically the ring sitting on one of his wide fingers. In it rests a small chunk of your hair, strands splayed out every which-way. Hal holds it in front of his eyes, eyebrows shooting up as he realizes what happened.

“Is that?”

You nod, “my hair? Mhm.”

He smiles sheepishly, plucking it out from where it’s gotten caught on the band and discarding it over the side of the bed. “Jesus,” he shakes his head.

“Yeah,” you frown, scrunching your nose. “Hurt like a bitch.”

“Aw,” he teases, a huge grin on his face, “need me to kiss it better?”

And to his surprise and delight, you nod, leaning your head in so Hal can run his lips over your temple. He catches you in his arms then, pulling you back into his chest.

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squinting down at his stupidly attractive face, you shake your head, “don’t be a smartass.” suddenly able to see the drool he left on your shirt you grimace with no malice. “ugh you got spit all over me you gremlin.”

he laughs aloud and pinches your side to make you jolt. “what this? it’s just drool.”

“same shit as spit.”

then he smiles, “no, spit is when i’m intentionally doing it. drool is mindless. see, i just love your tits even in my sleep.”

he leans over and bites you through your shirt. since you don’t wear a bra to sleep, you feel the press of his teeth completely and it makes you jolt and gasp again. you shove at his head and he just catches your wrists, still smiling at you.

the domesticated annoyance melts into something even more tender as his eyes seem to sparkle up at you. like he’s drinking in the sight of you like this but not consciously doing it. as though he could burn this memory into his soul and not flinch when his flesh form remembers.

you feel yourself fall into him when he raises your shirt over his head and ducks underneath.

“what’re you doing?” giggling as he presses wet kisses onto your abdomen. taking small bites enough to leave a little indent but not to break skin.

“shh it’s sunday baby.” he coos, “this is worship time.”

you’re still laughing and he’s making it up the valley of your breasts, bringing a hand under your shirt too. he gropes one of your breasts while the other takes familiarity in his mouth. suckling and moaning as though this was the best thing to ever happen to him. a laugh turns into a moan before you can stop it.

“shit— jay, i gotta study, come on.” you sigh but you really didn’t want him to move.

luckily he doesn’t because you don’t seem to stop him. he pulls your shirt up higher as higher until it comes off from over your head. unable to help it, your hands go into his hair and hold him there, humming as he groans against your skin. your back arches off the mattress and he decidedly perches you up a little higher with his hand slithering up your spine, stopping between your shoulders blades. bringing your chest closer to his mouth by pressing you right into him. he moans egregiously and sucks in pulses, making the most delicious pressure. he takes the opportunity to bite the flesh again. leaving teeth marks on your breast beside the reddish purple marks that were already forming.

he was purposefully giving you hickeys.

breathing through your teeth as you feel the graze of teeth a little harder, biting down and tonguing at you at the same time. when you tug at his hair, that’s enough for him to moan at the feeling and he looks up at you again, gauging your reaction.

when you finally get a look at your chest, it looked like you’d been punched by a bunch of little fists. shades of the galaxy—purple and blues with hints of red surfacing. you scoff and look at him. jason looks entirely sorry, his bottom lip sideways and his brows pressed low.

“oopsies baby i just meant to put a couple on there—”

you cut him off, “just a couple? i look like i’ve been beat up. oh my god, someone is gonna think i got jumped.”

he blinks and his expression falls, “who else sees your boobs?”

“no one?” you shove him but he just falls back ontop of you as if his bottom half wasn’t already slotted between your legs. regardless of what you’d just said, he’s still nuzzling into your skin like none of it mattered.

“good then. it’s my canvas.” he hums as he settles on the plush part in contentment. “five more minutes.”

you sigh, “three.”

“ten. and i’ll make you pancakes.”

pretending to think as your hands find their way into the hair at the nape of his neck again, he makes a small sound of approval. you use it to coax him more.

“eight and you have to make coffee too.”

he lifts his head so he’s face to face with you and squints before he pecks your lips. “i was gonna do that anyways.”

just as quickly as he got up, he settled back into the position he’s kept you in. though sleep tugged at you as the lazy sunday took full effect on more than just jason. and even though you debated him on how long you’d stay pliant under him, you both knew you could stay there forever.

bored and thinking of jason todd.

one of his hands was resting on your knee, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles through the fabric of your jeans, creating a soothing, radiating warmth.

every couple of minutes, he would shift, tilting his head up just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare wrist, or whatever patch of skin was closest to his lips, humming contentedly against your skin.

"tuck," you murmured.

you glanced around the sunny campus grounds, your shoulders tensing slightly as a group of students walked past. "you're doing it again."

he looked up at you, a lazy, utterly content smile spreading across his handsome face. "doing what?" he asked, his voice smooth, gentle, and thick with affection.

"you know what i mean," you said, as you could feel a familiar embarrassment coming over you once again. "we're outside. literally anyone could walk by."

see, thing was it wasn't that you didn't love him.

you loved him fiercely, but you also inherently preferred the quiet corners of life.

you kept your head down and preferred to keep your personal life strictly personal. it wasn't some dramatic defense mechanism, nor did you think you were superior for being low-key.

you liked your privacy. it was your way of life.

any sudden influx of attention made you instinctively guarded, and tucker's open, unashamed affection was honestly a lot to adjust to.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

truthfully, his intensity was the exact reason you had been so reluctant to have anything to do with him in the first place.

you had met at a mutual friend's birthday dinner at a diner off-campus. you had been trying to quietly eat your burger and chat with the girls next to you when tucker sat across from you, completely throwing you off balance.

you would’ve liked to say it was because he lacked charm but it wasn’t that because he had too much of it. he was effortlessly sweet, attentive, and so insanely attractive that it made you nervous.

when he asked for your number at the end of the night, you had actually hesitated, gently telling him that you didn't think you were his type.

you assumed his interest was a passing whim and you didn't particularly want to get swallowed up by his massive social world.

unfortunately for you, tucker had been relentlessly patient. he didn't push, but he didn't disappear either.

he would prove, look by look, that he was willing to learn your boundaries if it meant getting close to you. he respected your wishes, but he also made it clear with every sweet text and gentle smile that he wasn't necessarily going to be going anywhere.

little by little, those boundaries started to soften. you found yourself looking forward to his goodnight texts, and your heart would do a dangerous little skip whenever you saw his name pop up on your phone.

you were falling for him and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

as it turned out, tucker was in the exact same boat. for all his easy confidence, he had been entirely helpless against how deeply he was tumbling for you, completely enchanted by the grounding presence you brought into his world.

a few weeks later he had offered to walk you to your car after a long afternoon of studying, and right before you got in, he gently pulled your heavy class textbook out of your arms.

you watched in confusion as he opened it up to the exact page you had bookmarked, sliding a custom, glossy card stock bookmark inside.

right in the center of the it you read: i know i'm not your usual type, but will you let me be your boyfriend anyway?

below it, tucker had checked a tiny box next to the words 'yes', 'definitely yes', and 'ask me again after practice'.

when you looked up, the athlete was flushing a faint pink, holding the textbook out to you like a nervous kid handing over a valentine.

you had taken a pen from your bag and checked 'definitely yes' on the spot.

but the first real test of your tolerance for exposure had happened a couple of weeks into dating, during a weekend beach trip.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the beach was beautiful, but it was vast and incredibly loud.

the shoreline was dotted with young adults, families, and tucker's rowdy teammates playing an aggressive game of beach volleyball a few yards away.

you weren't particularly miserable, but you were definitely feeling the pressure of your surroundings.

you were sitting near the back of the sand, your knees pulled casually to your chest, with a large pink beach towel completely wrapped around your shoulders.

your sunglasses covered your eyes, acting as a kind of protective barrier between you and the crowded shoreline.

"hey, we're heading down to the water, do you want to come?" allie asked, jogging up to you with a bright smile, her sunglasses pushed up into her wavy hair.

you offered her a genuine, easy smile, pulling the pink towel just a little tighter around your shoulders.

you liked allie immensely, but you simply didn't have the energy to engage in socialising just yet. "go ahead without me. i'm actually good right here. just taking it all in."

"are you sure?" allie checked, looking at you closely to make sure you weren't just being polite. "i don't want you feeling left out."

you reassured her that it was okay, your tone warm and entirely steady.

"alright, but i am stealing you for food later." she called out with a laugh as she turned back toward the water.

you watched her go, satisfied with your spot, until a shadow fell over you.

tucker had just jogged over from the volleyball game, glistening with sweat and sea spray, his curls damp and wild. he looked vibrant, perfectly at ease in his own skin, and entirely in his element.

he dropped to his knees on the sand next to you, kicking up a tiny spray, completely unbothered by the chaos around him.

"you're missing a legendary comeback, sweetheart," he breathed, flashing a bright, dimpled grin as he reached for his water bottle.

his eyes scanned your posture—from the pink towel clutched tightly at your throat to the slight tension in your jaw. his smile softened instantly into something incredibly tender. "hey. you doing okay out here?"

"yeah," you said, your voice steady, though you kept your eyes on the horizon. "it's nice. just a lot of people."

without a word, he smoothly shifted his body, positioning his broad frame directly between you and the crowded shoreline, effectively blocking out the rest of the beach.

it was a deliberate, protective move, creating a physical wall of privacy just for you.

he reached out, his cool, damp hands gently nudging your ankles, encouraging your legs to uncurl from your chest.

you gave him a dry look, but the steady, patient humor and warmth in his eyes made you yield.

you guided your legs out straight, and he immediately laid down right beside you, propping his head up on his hand, his shoulder firmly and comfortingly pressed against yours.

"talk to me," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your ankle. "are the guys being too loud?"

"the guys are fine," you whispered, adjusting your sunglasses. "it's just... never mind."

tucker looked at you for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate breath.

he reached over, his fingers gently sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose just enough so he could look directly into your eyes.

there was no pity in his gaze, only an immense, grounding warmth that felt entirely safe.

"look at me," he asked softly, to which you did.

"who's on this beach right now?"

"garrett, dean, allie, logan... a million other people." you sighed.

"no," tucker interrupted, a small, heart-melting smile tugging at his lips. he leaned a fraction closer, shutting out the rest of the world. "right here. in this particular square foot of sand. who is here?"

"just you," you whispered.

"just me," he agreed firmly.

he reached out and gently nudged the edges of the large pink towel away from your chest, his movements slow, deliberate, and free of any rush.

he peeled the fabric back from your shoulders, letting the warm sun hit your skin.

your instinct was to pull it back around yourself, but tucker immediately placed his warm palms flat against your collarbones, smoothing down over your bare shoulders, melting your tension away.

he shifted, draping his large, heavy arm over your waist and pulling your back flush against his chest, tucking you perfectly into his side while the pink towel now draped loosely over both of your laps.

all wrapped in his scent and his heat, the crowded beach completely faded away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

but even after that afternoon on the sand, navigating his complete lack of a filter when it came to affection was still a daily exercise.

just yesterday, you had been waiting for him in the stands after hockey practice. you had chose a seat a few rows up, fully expecting to just wave, wait for him to change, and walk out together like normal.

but tucker had spotted you instantly. he didn't care that he was still half-dressed in his gear, or that the rest of the team was skating by.

he had jogged right up the bleachers, his skates clacking loudly and heavily, drawing everyone's eyes right to your row.

when he reached you, he had wrapped his arms around you, planting a lingering, unapologetic kiss right on your cheek, murmuring how glad he was that you came.

you had frozen up as you felt the weight of his teammates' teasing glances from the ice. you could hear garrett shouting a joke over his shoulder, and while you knew it was all in good fun, you wished he would have just saved the enthusiasm for the privacy of the car.

tucker had noticed your sudden stiffness then, his expression shifting to something more mindful, but the self-consciousness of the moment had lingered.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

tucker noticed that same familiar, reserve taking over your features right now against the tree on the campus lawn.

the playful smirk faded from his lips, replaced by a gaze so soft and fiercely tender it made your breath hitch.

he didn't move away. instead, he rolled over completely, propping his elbows on either side of your thighs so he was hovering over you, creating a little bubble just for the two of you.

he reached up, his knuckles lingering against your flushed cheek, rubbing a gentle circle there. his deep brown eyes held yours with absolute certainty.

"let them look," tucker said softly, addressing the silent hesitation from yesterday. "i just care about you."

"it's just a lot sometimes. not you, tuck. just... yesterday at the rink, i felt like i was part of a show," you sighed, looking down at his collarbone because looking into his eyes felt too intense.

tucker understood completely. he knew you valued your privacy and that it took time for you to let someone into your space, and he wanted nothing more than to make sure you felt secure.

he made it his personal mission to meet you halfway and make sure you always felt safe with him.

he gently caught your chin, tilting your face back up. when you looked at him, his smile was so sweet, so full of pure, unadulterated adoration, that your heart did a clumsy flip.

"i'm sorry about yesterday, i got ahead of myself," he promised, leaning up to press a soft, slow, lingering kiss to your lips. completely private and entirely for you.

"but i'm never gonna stop wanting to show you off. you're the best thing in my life. you're allowed to be held, you know. anywhere." he whispered.

a soft, amused laugh escaped you, the lingering tension in your chest finally unraveling into pure warmth. "you're actually so ridiculous."

"i'm crazy about you, there's a difference," he grinned, his beautiful dimples flashing.

he shifted, laying his head back down in your lap, but this time he took your hand, intertwining his fingers perfectly with yours and resting them directly over his racing heart. "see? look at that smile. i love seeing you happy."

you let out a soft breath, finally relaxing completely against the tree. you didn't look around to see if anyone was watching. you just looked down at tucker, whose eyes were closed as he contentedly soaked up your presence like.

you hesitantly brought your free hand up to slide your fingers through his soft curls, gently twisting the thick strands and massaging his scalp.

tucker let out a low, pleased hum, burying his face closer into your thigh, pressing a sweet, hidden kiss there.

because you weren't one for big declarations or public displays, you poured your love for him into the quiet, invisible details of his life.

tucker loved purely and loudly, but you loved him intentionally.

he didn't know it yet, but you were the one who always made sure his favorite gatorade flavor was stocked in the fridge.

you had also quietly started reading up on hockey regulations just so you could fully understand the plays he talked about with such wild passion.

you showed up for him in the background, anchoring him while he took center stage.

behind closed doors, away from the crowds and the watchful eyes of the campus, your own form of affection came alive.

it had taken you a while to get there, a steady building of trust as tucker proved time and time again that your boundaries were safe with him.

but when it was just the two of you in the quiet, cozy sanctuary of his bedroom, you didn't hold back.

you were the one who would pull him down by his collar, losing yourself in deep, unhurried kisses that left him completely breathless and reeling.

in those private hours, you would map the line of his spine with your fingers, holding his heavy body close against yours, letting him know exactly how deeply he was wanted.

you just preferred saving the best parts of your love for an audience of one.

"stay like this for a bit?" he mumbled, his voice thick with a sudden wave of sleepiness, his chest rising and falling in a steady, comforting rhythm beneath your intertwined hands.

"i have chapters to read, tuck," you teased softly, though your fingers didn't stop moving through his hair, untangling the stubborn knots with gentle, loving precision.

"the book can wait. i can't," he murmured, tightening his grip on your hand just a fraction and pressing closer to you.

you smiled, the last remnants of your apprehension melting away into the warm, quiet afternoon.

"ten minutes," you bargained softly, though your fingers didn't stop their soothing rhythm through his hair. "and then i'm turning the page. if your head is in the way, i'm using your forehead as a bookrest."

tucker let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your thigh, his eyes remaining closed, a soft smile playing on his lips. "deal. you're ruthless, you know that?"

"someone has to keep you in line," you murmured.

you leaned your head back against the rough bark of the tree, finally letting the rest of the campus blur into completely irrelevant background noise.

you didn't need to change who you were to fit into his world, and he didn't need to dim his light to fit into yours.

which now brings you to now, you’re sitting on tucker’s bed, naked as he sits behind you with his legs locked around yours, holding you in a firm position. his strong hands that you’ve probably spent entirely too much time looking at, trails down your chest, circling your nipple as you let out a soft whine.

“tell me what you want, baby,” he says against the skin of your neck as he continues to touch and tweak your nipple. “please tuck, i need you to touch me,” you beg as you lay your head on his shoulder.

complying with your request, his free hand trails down your body and towards your wet cunt. he spreads your wetness around before taking his thumb and softly rubs your clit. moans escape your lips as he teases a finger in towards your hole.

“please,” you whine, rolling your hips trying to gain more friction. he chuckles against your ear, slipping a finger inside of you, slowly thrusting it in and out of you. your moans gradually become louder as he speeds up with his finger before sliding in a second finger.

“look at you, so pretty and wet for me,” tucker says as he looks at you through the mirror in front of his bed. you moan again in response, grinding down against his hand.

“such a needy girl yeah? want another finger, angel?” he taunts, you nod as he slips a third finger into you.

between the hand that’s still taunting your nipple, the three fingers inside of you plus the thumb circling your clit, the erotic sight in the mirror, and tucker praising you in soft murmurs, tears prick your eyes smudging your eyeliner down your cheeks.

tucker smirks, “look at you, crying from my fingers looking absolutely gorgeous,” you clench around his fingers as you feel yourself coming closer and closer to your orgasm.

“i’m gonna cum,” you moan out as you cum all over tucker’s fingers.

tucker continues to move his hand in and out of you as you squirm against his chest, “too much t, please,” you plead.

he finally slips his fingers out of you with a smile. “well, i accomplished my goal, don’t you think?” he asks as he moves his other hand from your breast to your chin, forcing you to look at you tear and eyeliner stained cheeks.

you take in your appearance and unfortunately he is very much correct.

john tucker successfully your so called never smudging eyeliner.

A small grin grows on your face as you lean forward to look past Dean to the man next to him.

"Thank you, Beau," you say. He gives you a wink with an "of course." Your eyes drift over to Dean's face as you sit back in your seat. He runs his fingers through his hair while giving you a slow once over.

"It's too early for this," you tell him. He lets out a quiet laugh as he opens his laptop.

"I literally haven't even talked yet," he says.

"And yet, somehow you have found a way to already make an 8am lecture worse."

To be fair, Dean is right. Technically, he hasn't done anything to tick you off today, yet. One would think, however, that the blonde would see you choosing a random seat in the half-filled lecture hall every week as a sign. Especially when all of your classmates have stuck to the same seats the last two and a half months, no doubt watching your game of musical chairs. Today, you chose one of the back corners having hoped that he wouldn't see you.

"You know you'd miss me," he whispers as your professor pulls up the powerpoint to the week's lesson.

"Mhm, would I now? Beau, did he get checked into a wall during last night’s game? He's more delusional than usual." Dean scoffs as Beau snorts trying to cover his laugh.

“No, but I promise I’ll pay one of the hockey guys to if you come to the party tonight.”

“I have a shift tonight, but I’ll text you if I’m able to get off early enough.” You tell him as you begin writing what’s on the current slide.

“What? You’ll give him your number, but I have to DM you on Instagram?” Dean whines. A guy two rows in front of you turns to glare at the three of you. You give him a tight-lipped grin and elbow Dean.

“Believe it or not, Beau and I are friends. We’ve been friends for three years. You were quite literally there when we became friends. And I muted you on Instagram.”

Dean’s jaw drops before he tries to recover and act like he’s not affected by this information.

“Well, if you do show up tonight, we could always take a trip down memory lane…” You stop writing and turn your head to stare at him, sure that you heard him wrong.

He chuckles awkwardly.

“Six Flags, right?”

You give him a quick once over, his cheeks turning a light pink.

“Don’t steal my line. I’ve heard you’ve been using it on your puck bunnies.”

“Why, jealous?” He asks with a smirk now.

“More like mad because my material is being stolen. I can’t have people thinking I’m associated with you.” His smirk falls away.

“Who else have you used that line on?” He angrily whispers at you.

“You want a list or?”

“Brutal,” you hear Beau mumble.

“Beau,” you say looking Dean in the eyes.

“What?” Beau asks looking above Dean’s shoulder at you.

“Nothing, I’m just giving Dean the list,” you say not breaking eye contact with Dean, his narrowing before he whips his head around to look at Beau. Beau raises his hands in defense.

Author’s Note: Beau’s here for a good time and a long time. He’s a certified passenger princess in this series. This is just the opening scene, but I’m hoping the full chapter will be up by the end of Sunday!

The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.

The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.

“No,” you answered.

Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”

Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Allie didn’t bother trying.

She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”

Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”

“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”

Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.

“Just hear me out,” he tried.

“Absolutely not.”

“[Y/N], come on.”

“Dean, no.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”

Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.

Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”

“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”

You gave him a sweet smile.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”

Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”

Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.

Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”

You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”

“You don’t have the context.”

“Was the context that you lied?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”

Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”

“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”

Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”

His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re judging me with your whole face.”

“I’m capable of both.”

Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.

You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”

Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.

“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”

“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.

“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”

“I’m getting there, okay?”

“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.

Hannah tried to hide another smile.

“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”

You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.

“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.

“She got weirdly intense.”

“She asked whether you had a date.”

“She asked it like it meant something.”

“Oh my god, Dean.”

“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.

Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.

“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.

Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”

“You’re dealing with consequences.”

“I need your help.”

“You need a reality check.”

“I need a girlfriend.”

“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.

Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”

“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.

“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”

“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”

“That’s actually hurtful.”

“That feels fair.”

Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”

“No.”

“It’s three days.”

“Still no.”

“Two nights, technically.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll owe you big.”

“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”

Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”

“I was just trying to distract him.”

“Distract him from what, exactly?”

Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He sighed your name, long and pleading.

You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.

Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.

He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.

But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.

You found that deeply inconvenient.

“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”

“I already know too many hockey players.”

“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”

“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”

“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”

“You absolutely can’t.”

Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”

Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”

Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”

“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”

“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.

“Somehow, still no.”

He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”

Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”

“That’s not how involvement works.”

Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.

“Please,” he murmured.

The word landed differently this time.

It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

Damn him for making it harder to say no.

You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.

“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.

Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”

You frowned at him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”

Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.

She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”

You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.

“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”

“You say stupid things all the time.”

“Exactly. I need supervision.”

You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.

“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”

“I’m not.”

Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.

“You are,” you told him.

“I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“You should be afraid.”

“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You dragged both hands over your face.

This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.

He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.

“No kissing,” you told him, and Dean went still.

Dean’s smile spread slowly. “So you’re considering it.”

“I’m setting a condition.”

“That sounds a lot like considering.”

“I can still say no, Dean.”

“You won’t.”

“I absolutely can, actually.”

“But you won’t.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”

Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.

You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”

“Define necessary.”

“You know exactly what necessary means.”

“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”

“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”

Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.

Almost.

Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You were starting to think that might be a problem.

“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.

Allie choked on a laugh.

Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”

Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”

Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”

“Very responsible of you.”

“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”

“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”

“Right. Very tragic rule.”

“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”

Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”

“Yes. For you.”

Dean laughed. “For me?”

“You seem emotionally fragile.”

“I’m already devastated.”

“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.

“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.

“Because that’s weird.”

“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s not interesting, Dean.”

“It’s kind of interesting.”

“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”

Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.

The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.

Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”

Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I told you, I’m desperate.”

“That’s very comforting.”

“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”

Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.

Dean glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.

“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”

“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”

You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.

“You owe me,” you reminded him.

“Anything,” Dean promised.

“You don’t even know what I want yet.”

“Then I’ll find out.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.

Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”

Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.

**

Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.

Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.

dean

wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with

you

so basically nothing?

dean

very hurtful.

you

objectively accurate.

dean

my mom’s going to love you.

you

because i’m obviously charming?

dean

because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.

you

your family sounds smarter than you.

dean

everyone says that, actually.

By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.

Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.

You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.

Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.

His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.

“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.

You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

His mouth curved. “Expensive.”

You stared at him because somehow that was worse.

Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”

“That was a weird compliment.”

“My mother’s going to love it.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.

“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”

You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.

“What was rule number four again?”

Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

“And are we currently around anyone?”

Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”

“Dean,” you warned.

“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”

“Much better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You literally begged me.”

“I’m regretting it already.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.

“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”

That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.

The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.

“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”

“We’re going to need a story.”

“We already have one.”

You looked over at him. “Since when?”

“I flirted with you until you gave up.”

You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”

“That’s not a story.”

“It’s close enough to the truth.”

“It’s absolutely not.”

Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”

“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”

“Not anything.”

“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”

Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”

You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”

“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”

“Dean. Rule four.”

“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.

“That still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.

You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.

He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”

You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.

Mom

Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.

You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”

“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”

“Since when is nice a problem?”

“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”

Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.

That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.

“You’re nervous.”

Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“I’m just focused.”

“On lying to your parents, you mean?”

“On surviving this weekend.”

You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”

He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.

“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”

You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.

Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.

“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.

Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.

“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.

His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said something nice to me.”

“That was an accident.”

“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”

Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.

“Rule three,” you reminded him.

“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”

But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.

**

The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.

It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.

You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.

Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”

“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”

His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”

“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”

“You think I look less scared?”

“You look like you belong here.”

Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”

Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.

“Dean, sweetheart!”

Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.

A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.

His parents.

Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.

“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.

She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.

“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.

You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.

His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”

“He left that part out,” you told her.

Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

Finally.

The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.

You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.

“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”

Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”

Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.

His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”

“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.

Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.

His eyes flicked down to yours.

For half a second, the lobby disappeared.

His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.

So you looked away first.

Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.

She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.

Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”

You blinked at him. “At first?”

His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”

You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”

Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”

“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”

His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.

It was ridiculous how easy it was.

That should’ve been the first warning sign.

The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”

You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.

Your stomach dropped.

“King suite?” you echoed.

Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.

She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Dean said, too quickly.

At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”

Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.

Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.

“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”

You turned your head very slowly toward him.

Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Your nails dug into your palm.

Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.

Still.

Dean was enjoying this.

You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.

Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.

“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.

“You started it,” you whispered back.

“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.

“Can’t wait.”

You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.

Then he stepped back, smile still in place.

You were in trouble.

The room was somehow worse.

The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.

Neither of you spoke.

Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”

Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”

“You knew.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You absolutely knew.”

“I thought there would be a couch.”

You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”

You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.

It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.

Dean made a face.

You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”

“I’m six foot two.”

“Congratulations.”

“I won’t fit.”

“Fold.”

Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”

“You created this problem.”

“I didn’t create the furniture.”

“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”

You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”

You laughed. “Of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”

“My ego and my charm.”

“Your delusion.”

“You like my charm.”

“I tolerate your charm.”

“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”

“I’m expanding the category.”

He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”

“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”

“Maybe that’s my love language.”

“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”

Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.

But you noticed.

The joke had landed wrong somehow.

You almost apologized.

Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”

Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.

The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.

You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.

Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.

You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.

“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”

You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”

Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”

“You created the job.”

“I meant the story.”

“What story?”

“Our story.”

The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.

“How did we get together?” he asked.

“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”

“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”

“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”

“True.”

“You flirted.”

“True.”

“I rejected you repeatedly.”

“Debatable.”

“Dean.”

“I’m listening.”

“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”

“You like being called annoying?”

“I like that your version still has me winning.”

“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”

“I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.

Dean saw the almost-smile.

“Careful,” he murmured.

You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”

“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”

The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.

You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”

“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.

He probably noticed anyway.

Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.

His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.

“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.

Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”

“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”

“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.

His mother noticed.

You could feel it.

“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”

You nearly choked on your water.

Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”

His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”

“That’s completely different.”

You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

Then he said, “Only to complain.”

“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

His mouth curved. “Prove it.”

The table faded again.

That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.

You hated it.

You liked it.

You were doomed.

Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The performance dropped, sort of.

Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”

You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”

He laughed quietly. “Humble.”

“I was excellent.”

His smile softened. “You were.”

The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.

“My mom loves you.”

“She has good taste.”

“My dad too.”

“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”

Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”

Your pulse stumbled.

No.

Absolutely not.

You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.

It wasn’t.

The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.

You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”

Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cold.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might not.”

“How tragic.”

He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re biting your lip.”

“Out of grief.”

He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.

You couldn’t help it.

Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”

“Deeply.”

“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”

You froze, and Dean froze too.

For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.

No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.

“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.

The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.

The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.

Maybe.

You exhaled. “Dean.”

He looked up, cautious now.

“You can sleep in the bed.”

His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”

His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”

“Yes.”

“I love rules.”

“You break rules.”

“I lovingly challenge them.”

“You stay on your side.”

“Yes.”

“No touching.”

“Yes.”

“No flirting.”

His smile widened. “In my sleep?”

“Especially in your sleep.”

“What if I dream about you?”

“Then wake up ashamed.”

Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.

“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.

You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.

When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.

You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.

He looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Where’s your shirt?”

Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”

“I can see that.”

“I sleep shirtless.”

“Not tonight.”

“You’re policing sleepwear now?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”

“I’m glaring at all of you.”

“My chest feels singled out.”

You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.

“Put a shirt on.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I said so.”

Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”

Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.

“There,” he said.

You blinked. “That was… easy.”

“I can be easy.”

“Never say that again.”

His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”

You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”

You stared into the dark. “I know.”

“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”

“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”

Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”

He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.

More surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You went quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.

You recognized the answer because you used it too.

Fine.

The least convincing word in existence.

You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.

He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.

The words were out before you could think better of them.

Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.

“That’s funny,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”

The silence after that was different.

Thicker.

Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.

“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.

“It keeps happening by accident.”

“That’s a dangerous habit.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Your breath caught.

There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.

For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.

Your pulse jumped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.

He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.

“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.

His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.

Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.

Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.

Your fingers curled into the sheet.

He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.

“Goodnight, [Y/N].”

You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”

You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.

━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.

Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.

It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.

He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.

"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.

Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."

"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.

"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."

"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."

"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.

"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.

You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.

Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."

"Don't start."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were about to, and we both know it."

He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.

Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.

His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.

"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.

Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"

"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."

His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"

Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."

"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.

"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.

He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."

"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."

Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."

You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."

"I'm great at comfort."

"You're absolutely not."

"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."

You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.

Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"

You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.

His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."

"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.

"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.

The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.

"Don't do that," he murmured.

You blinked at him. "Do what?"

"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."

Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.

Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.

That helped more than anything else could have.

By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.

"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."

You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."

You froze immediately. "Bad?"

His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"

"You made a face."

"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."

Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.

"You're not just saying that?"

Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."

So you did, moving slowly at first.

Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.

"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.

Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"

"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.

His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."

Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.

Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."

"I'm trying."

"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."

The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.

You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.

Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.

His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.

"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.

Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."

That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.

Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.

"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.

"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"

You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."

Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."

His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.

Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"

Your stomach fluttered.

His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."

You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.

Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.

That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"

His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."

Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.

"Oh—Dean."

His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."

"You're distracting me."

"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."

You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.

"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."

"Yeah?"

"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."

You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."

Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.

Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.

"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.

The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.

Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.

"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."

"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.

Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.

"Come here," he murmured.

Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.

Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.

Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."

"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.

Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.

"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."

"Dean," you whimpered.

"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."

His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.

"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.

He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."

The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.

Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.

For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."

His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."

Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."

"And you were so loud."

"Dean."

"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."

You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.

"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.

"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."

You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.

"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"

You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.

Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Because guys like Dean Di Laurentis didn't look at girls like you.

Not really.

And definitely not twice.

But most certainly not in the way he was looking at you.

You were standing in line at a campus coffee shop, bundled into an oversized sweater, trying very hard not to notice the hockey players who had just walked in.

Then one of them stepped beside you “hey." That voice made the hair on the back of your neck stand.

You looked up.

Dean smiled.

Not a smirk.

Not some cocky grin.

Just a smile that, if you didn’t know any better felt genuine "hi?" You looked behind you as if he was looking through you, only to stupidly be faced with his teammates.

"I've seen you around."

Your immediate thought was that he was either blind or just s

Your second thought was that he was making fun of you.

But then he asked for your name.

And remembered it.

Because he showed up again a few days later.

And then again.

And somehow, against all logic, Dean kept choosing you.

Which six months later, left you still trying to understand why.

Not because Dean gave you any reason to doubt him. It was exact opposite, actually.

He was the most affectionate boyfriend you'd ever seen.

Which for a man that lived and breathed casual, it felt like you were waiting to wake up from this always.

Always touching you.

Always pulling you into his lap.

Always kissing your forehead.

Always looking at you like you were the prettiest girl in every room.

The problem was that your brain refused to let your heart accept it.

Years of insecurity didn't disappear because one beautiful hockey player loved you.

So most of the time they crept back in.

Like tonight.

You and Dean were at a team party.

The house was packed.

Music thumped through the walls.

Girls crowded around the hockey players.

And every few minutes you caught someone staring at Dean.

A blonde near the kitchen.

A brunette by the stairs.

Another girl who literally laughed and touched his arm while he was talking.

You knew Dean wasn't encouraging it because you knew he loved you.

But the little voice in your head was being particularly cruel tonight.

Look at them.

Look at you.

Of course they'd want him.

Why wouldn't they?

You found yourself drifting toward a quieter hallway.

Just for a minute.

Just to breathe.

Your feet carried you up to his room, the place you found yourself most nights.

A few minutes later you heard footsteps.

Then Dean's voice "thought I’d have to get some missing posters up soon.” You looked up to see him holding two drinks.

One for him.

One for you.

You forced a smile as your fingers dropped your bracelet “hey.” Dean immediately narrowed his eyes.

He knew you too well. In the few short months that you had been together, this man could read you like a book "what’s wrong?" He cocked his head as he shut the door behind him.

Dean handed you your drink as you frowned “it’s nothing.” You shook your head.

The boy crouched down in front of you “liar." He rested his hand on your knee as you looked away.

You knew it was one of those things that shouldn’t have been picking at your heart but it rang in your ears "it’s stupid." You pursed your lips together as you sucked at your teeth.

Deans fingers traced random shapes on the inside of your thigh "tell me anyway." You twisted the cup in your hands, clearly letting the mental coin toss play in your head.

He waited.

Patiently.

Eventually you sighed.

Tugging your fingers through your hair "I just-" You sipped at your drink as if it could buy you time.

Because you hated saying it out loud "I don't know." You shrugged almost wishing that he hadn’t caught you upstairs.

Dean stayed quiet.

So you continued "I look around at girls at these parties and they're all gorgeous." Your voice got smaller trying not to look stupid “then there's me."

Dean's entire face fell.

Not in annoyance.

In heartbreak.

Like hearing that hurt his soul “baby.” His hands pulled away from you.

As if he was walking on a tight rope trying to avoid hurting you.

You shrugged "it’s fine." You tried to convince yourself that it was normal to feel that way.

Dean was quick to disagree with you “it is absolutely not fine." You laughed weakly as you picked at the edge of your nail.

"It's not your problem."

The words didn’t get a chance to hang in the air before Dean decided that he had enough "the hell it isn't." Dean set his drink down on the floor and turned fully toward you.

His hands rested on your thighs "look at me." You hesitated and it made him repeat himself.

"Look at me."

So you did.

His expression was unbelievably serious "you think I settled for you?" He cocked his head as you almost looked annoyed.

Your eyes widened "what? No-" you went to explain yourself but he cut you off.

Dean wasn’t trying to argue with you but he really wanted to make sure that you got what he was saying “that's what you're saying." The hockey player sucked at his teeth “you think I looked at every girl on campus and somehow ended up with you by accident?"

You blinked as Dean leaned closer "I chose you." His words were both sweet and somehow effortless at the same time.

Your heart throbbed “Dean,” you couldn’t help it when you cracked a small smile.

His voice was barely a whisper “please listen to me.” His hand found yours as his squeezed.

It was as if you could hear a pin drop in here that’s how quiet Deans room was around you both "I like the way you laugh." Another finger intertwined with yours.

Still your heart pounded in your chest "I like the way you get excited when you're talking about something." All of the guys were used to listening to your tangents about what meats go on a sandwich or why the boys picked the wrong star in whatever Real Housewives collection they let you put on.

He licked his lips before he continued "I like that you snort when something's actually funny." You groaned knowing that it was something that he really wouldn’t let you live down.

Dean smiled as he nodded "I like every inch of you." Heat flooded your face as you scrunched your nose.

You sounded like a teen boy that had just been smothered in kisses by their grandmother "Dean." Your eyes rolled trying to act like you didn’t feel like you were drowning in love.

If you gave him the chance he’d kiss every inch of your body he’d do it "I do." Dean brought your hand up to his lips as he kissed your fingers.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles "you’re beautiful." You shook your head automatically.

Dean immediately caught it "nope." He narrowed his eyes at you like he had all the time in the world to deal with this.

"Dean-“

"No." He poked your cheek cutting you off "you don't get to argue with me about my own girlfriend." You laughed despite yourself.

"That's not how that works."

He stuck his tongue out at you "it is,” as he nodded.

"It isn't."

The two of you sounded like children "it absolutely is." His arm wrapped around your waist.

Strong.

Secure.

Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Besides."

He lowered his voice “do you know how obsessed I am with you?" His words sent shivers down your spine, shooting straight to your core.

You covered your face "oh my God." You shook your head as it was buried in your hands

"I'm serious."

You held back a laugh "you're ridiculous." Your cheeks were sore as you wanted his bed to swallow you.

Dean pulled your hands away as he wanted to see you "I am." He kissed your nose.

He had that smug look on his face as he had your total attention “but I'm also right." It was the truth.

Then your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then finally your lips.

Slow.

Soft.

Patient.

The kind of kiss that felt like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold winters morning.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours “you know what I see when I look at you?" You swallowed almost nervous about what you’d hear.

"What?"

His eyes dropped to your stomach before they quickly went back to your eyes “the girl I want to come home to." Your chest tightened as you knew all about how he wanted three kids.

His thumb drew circles against your wrist “who I want in my jersey at every game." Getting to see you sat in the crowd was almost just as good as getting to get you out of the jersey.

Another kiss on your lips.

He stopped as he took the chance to really look at you, "the girl I can't stop thinking about." His voice was soft as if he was worried he’d scare you.

And just like that he was ready to hit what felt like the nail in the coffin "the girl I love." Your eyes immediately filled and Dean noticed instantly.

"Oh no."

You laughed.

You raised your hand to stop him "don’t." You blinked rapidly to avoid tears falling.

He was quick to tease you "oh, she's crying." You sniffled as you shook your head.

"I'm not crying."

The hockey player laughed as he shook his head "she’s definitely crying." You shoved his shoulder.

Dean grinned as he sat down next to you, quickly pulling you onto his lap.

The moment you settled against him, he wrapped both arms around your middle and squeezed.

Tight and protective.

Like he was proud to be holding you.

Like he wanted the entire world to know you were his “you know," he murmured into your hair, "those girls at the party?" You groaned, shoving your head into the crook of his neck.

The boy grinned as he ran his fingers through your hair “they can look." If anything he enjoyed getting the chance to show you off.

He didn’t stop there, no he was actually convinced he was going to be the most insufferable boyfriend that day “they can stare." It made him smirk how you squirmed.

Your cheeks reddened as you whined, "stop." He laughed as he shook his head.

His fingers danced over the waist of your pants "because at the end of the day?" His lips brushed your temple as he let out a soft breath.

Dean let his fingers rest under your chin as he forced you to look at him "I get the girl I want." That was more than any public claim mattered.

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—

"Uh, darlin'?"

Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.

You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.

"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.

"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."

"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."

"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."

Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.

The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.

You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.

"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"

Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.

"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"

"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."

Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."

You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.

You just stared.

Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.

He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.

You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.

"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.

He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.

Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.

"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.

A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.

"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"

You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.

"Yes," you whimpered.

The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.

He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.

"Come here."

Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.

Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.

The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.

"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.

Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.

The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.

Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."

All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.

The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.

The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.

As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.

You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.

He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.

"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."

You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.

His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.

Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.

"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."

He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.

"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."