muñeca

His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?

He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.

Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.

Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.

Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.

He closed the app and opened it again.

Nothing.

His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.

You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.

You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.

Three minutes later it buzzed again.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.

This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”

You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.

You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.

Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.

Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.

Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”

You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.

Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜

You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.

“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”

You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.

“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.

You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.

“Babydoll?”

Silence.

“Honey?”

Still nothing.

“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”

You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.

“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.

Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.

You always come.

So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.

You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.

Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.

“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.

You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.

The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.

The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.

He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.

His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.

“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he hums.

“Everything alright?”

“Great.”

Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”

The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.

That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.

“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”

“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”

No, it doesn’t.

Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.

“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”

Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.

The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.

Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.

Your seat is empty.

His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.

The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.

Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.

The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.

The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.

Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.

He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”

His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.

Straight to voicemail.

His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.

Another call. Another voicemail.

The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.

“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.

Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.

“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”

“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.

“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”

The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.

He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.

“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.

He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”

His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.

“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.

The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.

The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.

You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.

And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.

His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.

“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.

“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”

He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.

“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”

The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.

And he still doesn’t have an answer.

He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.

He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.

And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.

He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.

Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.

It means admitting he might actually be losing you.

If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.

His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”

His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.

And still, nothing.

What the fuck did I do, baby?

His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.

For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.

“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.

He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.

By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.

Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.

His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.

Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.

He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.

“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.

Nothing.

He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.

His eyes stay fixed on the window.

The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.

What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.

His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.

You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.

The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.

He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.

He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.

Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.

He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.

The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.

By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.

Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.

His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.

You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.

You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.

You were supposed to be at the game.

You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.

His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.

Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.

“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.

“Just leave.”

“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”

Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”

Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.

Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.

He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.

He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.

Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”

The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.

“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”

He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.

“You’re killin’ me.”

Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.

“Baby—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.

“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”

“Fucking finally, Dean.”

“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.

“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”

“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”

“Why do you suddenly care?”

“I've always cared about you—”

“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.

“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”

“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”

“I—”

“You forgot. So I made them.”

“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”

“I'm not done.”

His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.

“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”

Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.

“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”

“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.

“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”

“I remember,” he breathes.

“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”

He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.

“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”

“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.

“What did you eat?” he asks softly.

“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”

His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”

“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”

“You know I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”

He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.

“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”

“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”

Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.

“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”

He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”

Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.

“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”

“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.

“What?” he asks.

“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”

He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.

“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”

Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.

“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”

He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.

“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”

“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”

A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.

You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”

“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”

“We’re still together.”

He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”

“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”

He nods in agreement, waiting for more.

“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”

“Of course, honey.”

“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”

“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.

“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”

“Of course.”

“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”

Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.

“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”

“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.

“Obviously.”

“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.

“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”

His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.

“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”

He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.

His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.

His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.

And now, he knows you were all alone.

And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.

His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.

“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”

He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.

“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”

He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”

Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.

“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”

You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.

He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.

“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”

“Dean—”

“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.

“Go ahead,” you whisper.

“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”

His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”

You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.

“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”

He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.

“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”

“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”

“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.

He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.

“I want you here.”

“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.

“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.

“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.

You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”

“Promise,” you whisper.

“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.

“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.

“Unblock me.”

“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.

“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”

“I promise,” you whisper.

“Thank you, baby.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”

He shakes his head once before speaking again.

“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”

“I love you,” you murmur.

His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”

He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.

“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”

He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.

“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.

You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.

He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.

You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.

You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.

He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.

You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.

“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.

Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.

“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”

“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.

“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.

“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.

“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.

“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.

Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.

You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.

You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.

Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.

His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.

Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.

He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.

“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.

He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.

Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.

He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.

He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.

“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.

“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”

Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.

He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.

Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.

Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.

Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.

“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.

You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”

“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”

“Yes.”

“Made for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.

Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.

“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”

“Harder,” you whimper.

“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.

Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.

“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.

Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.

“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.

“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.

Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.

“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.

“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.

“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”

Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.

Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.

You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.

“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.

You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”

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In a slow flicker, the recollections of last night presented themselves, settling heavy into the air along with the scent of sweat and faded cologne—The fragile lace of your dress. The dense heat of the club. The dim lighting and how it’d angled across winsome features. The splay of hands across your waist, feeling now as though some distant dream.

How those very same hands had felt teasing your flesh, pinning you to the mattress. 

How one of those hands rested still at the curve of your hip.  

Tentatively, you carefully twisted your frame, turning until you were on your side, facing chiseled contours and tousled golden hair. You pried your memory for any echo of a name, but it was to no avail. 

The man was finely wrought—all defined aspects and strong delineations, with thick, blonde lashes fanning out against his cheeks as he resided still in slumber. This close you could even admire the faint speckling of freckles along his nose and notice even the subtle bump along the bridge of it. With streaks of sunshine hitting him, his skin glowed bronzen, smelling vaguely of cardamom and the remnants of her perfume. 

So in your quiet perusal of his visage, you realized what the slight twitch of his bow-shaped lips meant. Your gaze tarried at the lines of his mouth as the man began to stir awake, recalling then the blazing path his lips had made along your thighs just hours before. 

Languidly, he came to awareness, his eyelids moving in a tepid flutter. Then—before you had the time to steel yourself with a breath—drowsy emerald eyes held you in place. You watched his thoughts stutter in their course of processing the moment, your bodies woven together, the rise of your breathing.  

You watched the mischief rim the edges of his irises, the way it punctuated the serrated grin taking form at his lips. The arm he had strewn across your figure curled, tightening its grip and dragging you closer. You felt the muscles of his arm shift along her bare back as you were pulled atop him, the man situating you onto his chest. 

Reason tore at you, offering whatever relic of sound logic still stood after the events of the previous night. But you found yourself enjoying the gleam reflecting in his eyes, the unbridled warmth of all of him pressed against all of you. So, for now, you allowed him to handle you, for his touch to roam along your frame as if he were trying to remember the dips and swells of your silhouette. 

And when his fingers coiled at your nape, tilting your face lower so that he could softly press his mouth to yours—you allowed too for your eyes to gently seal. He kissed you in the manner of a person still half-attuned to sleep, with the slow and lazy sloping of his lips. 

And when he almost reluctantly seemed to pull back, permitting you breath, the pad of his thumb swept along the plushness of your lower lip. 

Garrett followed Logan into the kitchen, sweaty from a quick weight lifting session in the garage. He grinned, seeing Tucker's perplex express. "Too busy for anything."

"Why-" Tucker cut himself off hearing a thump and giggle from upstairs. "Ohh."

"Exactly," Logan smiled, avoiding Tucker as he left the room with the bowl of pretzels in his hand.

After a few minutes, the slapping of feet coming down the stairs could be heard.

"Finally..." Tucker grumbled under his breath, annoyed to be the only one make this party presentable. He'd already finished laying out all of the snack, although the pretzels had mysteriously disappeared.

Dean appeared in the kitchen, you hanging from his tall frame like a baby koala. You arms were wrapped around his strong shoulders and your legs were snug around his hips. Dean smiled at Tucker, holding his hand out for the tap. He kept on hand lightly on your ass, not appearing to actually support any of your weight. He kept it more there as an armrest of sorts.

"Alright, I'll tap the keg." Dean said, leaning over the keg with the tool in his hand.

Tucker just gawked at him. "How are you doing that?"

Dean just glanced at him, focused on the keg. "What? You've seen me tap the keg before-"

"No," Tucker remarked, pointing to you. Your head was tucked into Dean's neck, your hair covering your face in a way that screamed "go away to outsiders. "Holding her without either hand."

Dean glanced down at you, seeing your eyes peered up from against his throat. He grinned, "Just what a man has to do when he has a clingy girlfriend."

You grumbled, your voice muffled against his chest, "I'm not clingy."

"That's insane." Tucker proclaimed as Garrett and Logan re-entered the room.

"What's insane?" Logan asked.

Tucker gestured to the sight before them of the two most love-sick people on earth.

Logan just shrugged, "They do that all the time. You're usually passed out drunk, but I guess they're starting early in the evening."

Garrett hummed in agreement, the stolen pretzels had somehow ended up in his possession at this point.

"I didn't sleep well." Your muffled voice said.

Tucker snatched the pretzels away from Garrett, "I feel like you guys are punking me."

"Nope," Garrett said, "They're just freaks."

Music pounds through the speakers overhead while people fill the downstairs area. Love Island is still playing somewhere in the background on the flatscreen TV, reruns of the Heart Rate challenge episodes running on a loop while the real one plays out between the people packed into the living room.

Topper sits forward. JJ starts gossiping before anybody can see who’s coming. Because after nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, it’s finally your turn, and every guy on that couch had been counting down to it.

Sorority president, honor roll regular, if you wanted it, you got it.

Most of the guys in the room had only ever seen you at Greek Life events or buried in the library until it closed, somehow still finding time to run the entire house. None of them were mentally prepared for this.

And neither was he. Rafe knew you better than anybody else in the room. You didn’t know how to half-ass anything ever. The second you’d agreed to this challenge, Rafe should’ve known you were going to play to win.

Rafe knows exactly what’s about to happen. You’re going to work your way down that couch. That’s literally the point of the game.

He knows they’re going to enjoy every second of it.

Rafe’s hand freezes halfway to his beer as you step into the doorway wearing a fitted button-down tucked into a plaid skirt.

The sleeves are rolled neatly to your elbows, top few buttons undone just enough to show off the lace bra underneath. A pair of black-framed glasses sit on your nose. Your stockings squeeze your thighs, the little lace detail making him physically weak. High heels. A wooden ruler tapping against your palm as you survey the room—Rafe Cameron was absolutely fucked.

You’re dressed like every college fantasy Topper has ever had in his entire life, and Rafe can already hear him giggling into his cup beside him.

He drags a hand across his mouth and manages to look away for approximately half a second before his eyes drift right back.

You adjust your glasses and smile sweetly at the room. “Alright, boys,” you announce, pointing the ruler toward the crowd. “Class is in session.”

Rafe’s eyes stay locked on the screen in front of him, shutting out the first two dances with some assholes from Alpha Delta. He tries to focus on seeming unaffected, like you weren’t moving exactly how he’d hope someone would given your little arrangement.

Casual, unattached, free to have fun with other people. And in those times when you were seeking something more reliable, more familiar, you’d link up. The issue is, Rafe wasn’t doing that. And he hadn’t for a while, and sitting here in this moment, he realized just how long it’s been since he broke that agreement completely.

You walk over to John B. and he sinks farther back into the couch cushions, looking up at you. The gladiator costume suddenly looks a lot less intimidating when he’s staring at you with the same expression a golden retriever gets when somebody opens a bag of treats.

You slap the ruler against your palm as a slow smile pulls at your mouth.

“Well, Mr. Rutledge,” you say, adjusting your glasses. “I reviewed your grades before class tonight.”

You take a step closer, resting the ruler beneath John B.’s chin before lifting it lightly.

“Questionable,” you decide.

John B.’s eyes go wide before he plays along immediately. “Professor, I can explain.”

“Can you?”

“No.”

The answer comes so fast that even you start laughing.

You sway your hips with the music, one hand settling on John B.’s shoulder while you continue your little routine. Your lips find his skin, your fingers drifting around the back of his neck as he tilts for you, a grin spreading across his face as you dance.

The room breaks in applause as John B. helps you off his lap, the look on his face begging you to stay as a soft “wait” falls from his lips, making everyone laugh.

You make it three steps before stopping in front of Pope. The pirate hat is already halfway off his, his button down shirt opened wide. You look him up and down thoughtfully.

“Hmm,” you hum and he straightens up and you tap your chin with your finger. “You’ve actually been doing really good lately.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?” He asks hopefully. The smile tugging at your mouth gets bigger.

“Mhmm,” you smile, opening your shirt, one more button, reaching into the top of your lace bra, pulling the sparkle star sticker out.

“Wooooah,” he slurs and the room hoots and hollers as you peel the sticker off the sheet, opening his shirt a little more to press it against his skin.

Pope’s mouth falls open as the sticker sparkles on his chest, looking down at it like he actually earned this shit.

“Proud of you,” you whisper as you tilt in, smiling against his lips, feeling him sink into the couch before you kiss him softly.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

The words mumbled past Pope’s lips and hit Rafe like a punch to the chest. The knife twists when he chases your lips as you tease him, rewarding him with a kiss.

JJ sits sprawled next to him, beer balanced casually against his knee while his other foot bounces impatiently.

Rafe drops his head into his hand, rubbing at his forehead like maybe if he covered his eyes this would all stop happening as you stand up.

JJ’s hands open subtly in anticipation, ready to take you into his arms when you settle on top.

“Look at this asshole,” Topper chuckles against the rim of his drink and Maybank turns his head, smiling in agreement. JJ doesn’t even deny it.

You stop directly in front of him, and JJ’s eyebrows lift as you slide your glasses off.

You climb onto JJ’s lap, your knees pressing into the old couch cushions. JJ lets out a dark laugh that makes Rafe want to throw his drink at the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” the words leave Rafe before he can stop them, but nobody can hear it over the music.

You turn the glasses and place them directly on his face, tilting in slowly, letting the tension build between the two of you until the corners of his lips curl in a smirk.

“Such a fucking nerd, Maybank,” you whisper and he throws his head back against the couch before looking at you again.

You grab his face between both hands, squishing his cheeks together, kissing his pouted lips before your fingers thread into his hair.

You draw back, tilting away slightly, his gaze catching on the lowest button of your shirt before drifting higher as you grind on top of him. He grins smugly, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

The worst part was that Rafe had already had his chance. Last week the two of you had ended up alone after everybody else left, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder while the party died around you.

The conversation had shifted for a second. Not long, but long enough for him to realize you were giving him an opening, and long enough for him to panic and do what he always did when something started feeling a little too real.

He’d laughed, made some bullshit comment, changed the subject, and spent the rest of the night pretending he hadn’t noticed it happen.

Rafe drags the cold bottle across his mouth and looks down before he does something stupid.

“Can you believe this shit?” Kelce sighs through a smile.

“I am having a terrible, terrible time,” Topper lies, the widest smile stretching across his face as you walk toward Kelce.

Rafe watches JJ watch you walk away.

One of JJ’s hands rests along the back of the couch while the other comes down to adjust the shorts of his officer costume because they’re suddenly too tight. JJ licks his lips, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the brush of your skirt on your upper thighs.

The room feels ten degrees hotter. Rafe shifts in his seat and drags a hand across the back of his neck, trying and failing to ignore the nervous sweat gathering there.

You twirl the ruler once between your fingers as you approach Kelce, dragging the end of it slowly across the front of his chest, over the referee jersey.

Kelce follows the ruler with his eyes.

“Talking in class?”

Kelce doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“No shame!” Topper adds, tossing up his hands, playing along.

You click your tongue and shake your head.

“That’s disappointing.”

“I’m sorry, professor,” he answers eagerly.

“Turn around,” you breathe, and Kelce scrambles to do just that, and whack! The party breaks out in laughter as you smack him playfully on the ass.

“One,” you call and the party screams out three more along with you.

Kelce spins back around laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath, your hands twist into his shirt, pulling him to your lips, and without warning he lifts you off your feet.

And Kelce’s still grinning when you lean down and kiss him, your hands moving from his shirt to the back of his neck, dragging him close enough to pull a groan from his lips.

He sets you down on your feet and you smile, reaching for a breath, your eyes still locked on Kelce’s as you walk away. Rafe tears his eyes away, his heartbeat pounding in his ears because the touching and kissing was bad enough, but that look—that smile. That’s his.

And he did this all to himself. You hadn’t even wanted to do this.

He remembers standing in the library two weeks ago while they tried to recruit. You’d laughed, called the whole thing silly, and said you’d cheer them on. Rafe had been the one telling you to do it. Told you it’d be fun. Told you people would love you. ‘Just don’t overthink it, baby.’

Now he’s the fuckin’ baby overthinking everything.

“Mr. Thornton,” the words drip honeyed past your lips, and the second they do, Topper cups a hand beside his ear, asking to run that back.

Topper sinks his head back against the couch as he looks back up at you. “Say it again.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, placing your hands on your hips. “Mr. Thornton.”

Topper squeezes his eyes shut for a second, nodding like that scratched an itch he’s had for a while. “Yes, professor.”

Then the second you’re within reach, he grabs your waist and pulls you straight down into his lap. The crowd roars.

Your back lands against his broad chest and Topper drops a quick kiss against the crook of your neck like he just can’t help himself.

“What did I say about phones in class?” You ask as you take his phone off the couch from beside him, flicking a finger to pull up the camera.

Topper’s arms tighten around your waist as the picture snaps. His laughter vibrates against your skin, more than happy to have that saved in his phone while his best friend struggles beside him.

You start to grind on his lap where you sit, his blue eyes tracing over your body. The view is almost too much. That little bra somehow even more distracting than before. His big hands find your thighs, thumbs tracing under the hem of your skirt.

You’re thrown off balance for half a second, reaching out instinctively to catch yourself, resting on the nearest thing, which happens to be Rafe’s thigh.

The contact lasts barely a second.

But Rafe still feels it.

That same hand slides away from Rafe, hooking loosely around Topper’s neck instead. You let the ruler hang loosely at your side before tilting your head.

“Aww…” You coo as you slip off Thornton’s lap, smoothing out your skirt, glancing down at Rafe. “It’s the class pet.”

The entire room erupts. You take another step forward and Rafe’s hands find your waist, pulling you down to him, not waiting for you to settle yourself.

Your nose brushes against his, your fingers drifting up his neck into his hair just like they do when you’re alone. The noise around you fades until all that’s left is the way Rafe is looking at you.

Your lips brush against his as his hands steady you, gripping your ass in his big palms.

“My favorite student.” The words barely leave your mouth.

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “You rehearsing these lines?”

“Maybe,” you smile. “I like to win.”

“Holy shit,” he sighs, because that’s just another thing he loves about you. Cheering swells around you when your lips part and his tongue finds yours, guiding you to rock on top of him to the music.

You pull away and his lips chase after yours, leaving Topper and Kelce snickering beside him, Thornton shoving at Rafe’s shoulder because he’s so far gone and everyone can see it.

But, that was way too fucking short for his liking.

Now he’s sitting here thinking about Topper’s picture, Kelce’s kiss, JJ’s dance, even that stupid fucking sticker on Pope’s chest, somehow convincing himself everybody else got more than he did. He knows it doesn’t even make sense, but he can’t stop keeping score like some petulant little kid.

He’s spiraling.

“You’re up, Cameron,” you whisper against his lips.

Rafe’s eyebrows pull together, his expression saying he’d completely forgotten there was a challenge.

“M’pretty comfortable where I am,” he answers, his rough thumbs catching on the soft lace on your thighs.

“We’re playing a game,” you giggle, stepping off his lap, but he’s quick to stand.

“Are we?” He hums as his face turns in closer to your ear, his hand resting on your waist to keep you close as the other boys move toward the kitchen without him.

He pinches your chin between his fingers and steals another kiss. Your hands land on his stomach, his skin warm and tight underneath your hands before he pulls back, adjusting the cowboy hat on his head.

You watch him disappear into the crowd, settling behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys as the music pounds through the speakers.

The challenge keeps moving as Rafe stands and waits, a fresh beer in his hand and absolutely no peace left in his body.

Empty cans and cups cover every available surface. Every set of eyes in the room is fixed on the couches. Especially Rafe’s.

The first guy goes, and Rafe can’t even bring himself to watch, scrolling through his phone trying to look busy—pulling up the weather app to pretend he’s doing something.

The president of Alpha Delta, Lane Daniels, drags his attention right back anyway. His name leaves your lips, the familiarity in your voice making Rafe sick.

He leans down and steals the smile off your lips with a kiss and Rafe’s throat tightens, his chest aching as your fingers twist into the front of the construction vest.

Lane flips you on the couch and you gasp, straddling his waist, his hands resting on your lower back.

Rafe bites his lip nervously, nodding like he’s physically trying to tell himself he’s okay. That he can have fun like this.

The crowd starts screaming when John B. pulls the armor over his head. The movement is awkward enough to make you laugh, the plastic getting stuck on one arm before he finally yanks it free.

The grin on his face only gets bigger when you clap for him. By the time he flexes one arm dramatically and kisses his bicep through his laughter, half is chanting his name.

JJ takes a page out of John B.'s book, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one as the crowd completely loses its mind around him. The second it comes off, he spins it once above his head like a helicopter before tossing it somewhere into the party. He goes for his handcuffs next, binding your wrist before he kisses you deep.

Pope announces that he’s on the lookout for buried treasure, which can only be found by kissing along your foot and working up your thigh.

Kelce’s referee jersey is two sizes too small, riding up enough to expose the hard lines of his stomach when he throws a flag in the air. He stands in front of you, towering over you, dipping down just enough so the whistle dangles in front of your lips, trying to sound sexy, but it comes out through a half-laugh when he tells you to “blow it.” You bury your head in your hands, hiding your smile, your cheeks hot and burning from your grin as you do just that.

Rafe drops his focus to the counter, ring tapping against the surface anxiously. Topper’s phone starts vibrating on the kitchen island, completely unattended.

Rafe reaches for it without a second thought. The camera roll pops open. He finds the picture. The one Topper took while you were sitting in his lap. The one Rafe has been trying not to think about for the last fifteen minutes. He deletes it, opens the recently deleted folder, and does it again so it sticks. Permanent delete.

Not because he doesn’t trust Topper to delete it himself. He doesn’t even think that far. His thumb moves before his brain catches up, erasing the only thing anybody could point at and get the wrong idea from.

The moment it’s gone, Rafe just stares at the screen.

“Yeah, I’m fucked,” he mutters under his breath.

He locks the phone, sets it right back where he found it, and drops his head into his hand with a quiet sigh.

There’s no coming back from this.

“Abs!” The crowd screams and your hands rest on Topper’s stomach, tracing down each one as his hips sway. You gasp when he grabs you, flinging you over his shoulder like a firefighter mid-rescue. Your skirt flips forward, doing nothing to hide your little booty shorts underneath—Rafe’s hand tightening around the bottle as his possessiveness flares.

Kelce claps him on the back, snapping him out of it. “Cameron, you’re up,” he smiles but Rafe’s already pushing off the kitchen island.

He breaks through the crowd. His eyes find yours and the corners of your mouth lift. He takes a breath, focusing on the task at hand, ‘cause he’s got this, right? This is what he wanted.

The first girl smiles up when he approaches, and Rafe can’t help but smile back as he throws an invisible lasso, giving her a wink.

She waits for what comes next—the contact, the kisses. Instead, she gets little more than a bit of movement before he heads to the next one.

He just stands there for a second, completely blanking on what to do next. Her hands reach for his stomach instantly and Rafe’s abs flex as his breath catches, the whistle of approval that slips past your lips, pulling his attention right back to you.

By the time he reaches the third girl, the crowd starts to die down because it’s painfully obvious that Rafe Cameron is not participating in the challenge. He’s cutting through it.

He looks down at the third girl and can’t make himself do it. Not that she isn’t stunning—she is. Her little halo sits lopsided on her head, her corset practically defying gravity.

Rafe glances over at you, and one eyebrow arches in his direction because this is not the Rafe Cameron you know. This is not the Rafe Cameron who can’t keep his hands to himself or his lips off anything. He’s completely lost in thought.

“There we go, buddy,” the boys cheer him on from the kitchen as he helps the next girl to her feet, the crowd going crazy for something—anything.

“Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.” The room breaks out in a chant.

Rafe looks down at her with a polite smile, spinning her under his finger. Her hands wrap around his waist when she gets the opportunity, her chin tilting up for a kiss. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead and a few people giggle around him.

And by that point he’s over it. He holds out his hand for the fourth, giving her a high five.

“Rafey, this is Love Island, buddy. You’re givin’ the boys a bad name. Shake some ass or somethin’,” Kelce shouts.

Rafe doesn’t even acknowledge it, giving the same treatment to the fifth and sixth girls down the line, all “good game” high fives as they look back at him baffled.

“Here we fuckin’ go,” John B. and the guys cheer from behind the counter and, for the first time all round, the room actually starts paying attention again.

Rafe stops in front of the seventh girl and reaches for the leather vest hanging open on his broad shoulders. People whistle as he strips it down one big arm, then the other, biceps flexing as he slides the vest off nice and slow, tossing it in her direction.

The crowd erupts and Rafe winks, tossing her a set of finger guns. The cheering dies almost instantly when he steps away.

“What the hell was that?” Topper shouts over the music.

“What?” Rafe laughs, throwing both hands up. “I’m participating.”

“You’re not!” Kelce yells from the kitchen.

“Virgin Mary over here,” Topper barks. “Thought you were a slut, Rafey.”

“Fuck off,” Rafe chuckles, taking off his hat with one hand, carding his fingers with the other, blowing out a sigh of relief as he makes his way over to you.

You tip your chin up toward him and smile, so genuinely happy to see him that even he gets a little bashful, especially with you sitting there looking like that. He bites his lip as he leans down, his big hand resting on the back of the couch. “You look so fuckin’ good,” he hums against your lips.

For the first time all night, there’s no one between you and him, no one blocking his view, no one fighting for your attention, and no one making him sit there pretending this doesn’t bother him.

You’re right in front of him now, looking back at him in that little skirt and those cute glasses, your glossy lips tugging into a smile, and Rafe finally feels like he can breathe.

“Princess?” He drawls, settling his hat onto your head, the room responding with catcalls and whistles of approval. He draws back, grabbing your hands, running them down his strong chest, over the ridges of his abs, straight to the top of his shorts.

“Rafe,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly.

“Legs in the air,” he tells you and your heart starts to race, one of your sorority sisters reaches over, grabbing your arm with secondhand fluster. “What did I say, huh?” He asks with a smile, and a sparkle in his eye as he grabs your bare thighs. “Legs in the air.”

You scoot down the couch and the second you do he dives in, hooking his strong arms under your thighs, practically folding you in half as he wraps them tight. You gasp and the crowd roars as he lifts you off your feet, the man bouncing you along with the beat of the song, rutting so hard you have to catch your hat to keep it on your head as you laugh.

He sets you back down on the couch, pawing off the handkerchief around his neck, taking it between his hands. You’re breathing heavily now, smiling ear-to-ear.

“Hands,” he mumbles, and you bind your wrists for him, the man tying the red fabric in a knot around your wrists, binding them together.

He grabs your arms and leads it over your head, pinning it to the back of the couch, pressing his lips against yours in a deep kiss.

“Keep this, yeah? No more touchin’ anyone else, understand? You can take it off when I tell you.”

“Okay,” you whisper through a giddy little laugh and he tugs at the handkerchief for emphasis.

Rafe pushes off the couch, pumping his fist as the crowd cheers. Your hands fall to your lap, heart racing in your chest.

Rafe ends up back behind the kitchen island with the rest of the guys while the judges argue over scores near the living room, half the room shouting over them like their opinions matter any more than the crumpled bills stuffed into the betting jars.

The challenge is technically over, but the party hasn’t settled down at all. Rafe stands with a beer hanging loosely from his fingers, pretending to listen to the guys around him when every bit of his attention keeps drifting back across the room to you.

You’re exactly where he left you, sitting on the couch with his cowboy hat still tilted over your hair and the red handkerchief tied around your wrists in your lap. Rafe keeps trying to look away first and keeps failing almost immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting every time yours does.

“I thought we lost you for a second there,” Kelce says from beside him, leaning back against the counter with his cup lifted halfway to his mouth. Rafe barely looks over, only dragging his eyes off you long enough to shoot Kelce a look before immediately finding you again across the room.

“You did,” he says, and Topper laughs into his beer.

“Yeah, no shit,” Topper mutters, following Rafe’s line of sight toward the couch before shaking his head.

He forces himself to stay where he is anyway, tapping the bottom of his beer against the counter while an underclassman with a clipboard tries to get everyone’s attention over the music.

Someone needs to pick a winner already. Someone needs to count whatever money they’re counting, read whatever dramatic announcement they’re planning, and end this thing before Rafe loses his patience completely.

You finally push yourself up from the couch before they announce anything, and Rafe straightens before he even realizes he’s doing it.

You make it a step before Lane swoops into your path. You glance up with a polite smile already forming, and Rafe’s jaw tightens before the guy even finishes whatever opening line he decided was worth trying.

The guy gestures toward the hat on your head before stepping closer. Apparently whatever he’s saying requires him to lean in, too.

“Fuck that,” Rafe sighs, already pushing away from the island while Kelce turns his head toward him.

“Go easy on him, Cameron. He’s got his whole life ahead of him,” Kelce taunts at the flagrant display of jealousy.

Rafe doesn’t answer because Daniels made you laugh again, and that’s more than enough information for him.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe breathes, reaching out to fix your skirt where it’d ridden up on your hip before wrapping his arm around your shoulders, lips pressing against your temple.

Rafe taps Lane on the arm, a little rougher than necessary. “Hey, man.”

“You need somethin’, Cameron?” Lane asks with an annoyed laugh.

“Need her, yeah,” he answers, his hold around you tightening. “Unfinished business,” he chuckles, tugging the fabric a little between his two fingers.

“Sure,” Lane scoffs in reply.

“Have a great night, yeah?” Rafe smiles, clapping him on the chest, using the contact to push Lane away, ever so slightly. You give him a look and he looks right back down at you—shrugging like the reaction was restraint.

Rafe’s hand traces down to your wrists, grabbing the bandana, tugging it loose.

“Still had it on,” he hums.

“I’m a good listener,” you breathe as he tilts in for a few soft kisses. Your heart is racing in your chest, everything up until this moment taken between closed doors, no public claims to speak of and now you’re in the middle of the frat house all wrapped up in his arms.

“Had you all tied up for me and they still didn’t put it together,” he sighs, your hands finding their way around the back of his neck, nails sliding into his hair. “You wanna go upstairs?” He asks, his voice deep and desperate.

“We don’t know who won,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance with how long this is taking—especially now that he’s got you like this.

“Hey, winners? Who are they?” Rafe’s voice barks across the party impatiently.

“You got places to be, Cameron?” Topper asks teasingly against the rim of his beer bottle, and Rafe’s arm tightens around you, wordlessly sharing the answer with you—absolutely I do.

The underclassmen huddle around the board of tallied tickets while everyone waits. They point at you and JJ and the crowd cheers. You throw your hands in the air and smile, and JJ’s quick to swoop in, celebrating the moment with you.

“So Maybank and my girlfriend. We done here?”

Kelce’s head snaps toward Rafe so fast. “His what?” He mouths to Topper whose eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. John B. physically chokes on his drink. Even JJ’s celebration slows for a second as he sets you back on your feet. But Rafe doesn’t seem to notice a thing when his hand finds your back again.

Around them, Rafe’s reaction to the challenge suddenly makes sense—the jealousy, the focus, and the complete lack of interest in anyone who wasn’t you.

The corner of Kelce’s mouth twitches as he tips his beer in Rafe’s direction. “Could’ve fuckin’ told us,” he mutters, and Topper snorts into his drink.

“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Topper hollers.

Kelce lets out a laugh, but Topper’s already reaching into his pocket for his phone, the picture clearly hitting him at the same time. “Might as well get rid of that picture now,” he says absentmindedly, unlocking it with one hand as he leans into the kitchen island. “…The fuck?”

“What?” Kelce asks, leaning over far enough to look at the screen.

Topper stares at it for another second before a laugh escapes, shaking his head as he locks the phone again. “He already did it.”

“Oh? It’s gone? Rafe? Our Rafe?” Kelce asks, clutching his metaphorical pearls like he’s surprised in the slightest.

Topper slips the phone back into his pocket, still chuckling to himself. “That tracks.”

Rafe’s hand stays locked with yours as he leads you through the crowd, weaving around people. The noise of the party grows quieter the farther you get from the living room, just the sound of your heels clicking against the hardwood and your heart thumping in your chest.

He’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking, his mind swirling with images of you with other guys. Guys who’d make you happy too, and if he didn’t step up, they were gonna step in. He’s never been casual about you anyway.

Rafe glances over, catching the smile on your lips.

“What are you smilin’ about?” He asks through a chuckle as you clear the last step, moving upstairs. He uses the momentum to twirl you under his finger, that little skirt about your hips kicking up, the pleats fluttering.

“Nothing,” you answer. “I’m not—”

“Smile’s too pretty not to notice,” he hums as he pushes through his bedroom door. “Seriously?”

Your lips pull to the side as warmth creeps into your cheeks. He walks around you, unable to keep his eyes off you. His gaze works its way up your body before meeting yours.

“You have a girlfriend now?” You ask curiously and Rafe freezes. And for a second, the realization hits him, replaying the moment downstairs when he spoke those words without another thought.

“Oh, shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, standing across from you. “I said that, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you answer, tossing the cowboy hat to the side.

“I didn’t mean to just throw that out there like that,” he says. “M’sorry—”

Whatever he was about to say dies instantly when you kiss him, his hands catching your waist. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pushing your body closer as he takes two steps, crowding you into his door.

The wood rattles on the hinges and your tongue slips between his lips. His hand falls to grip your thigh, lifting it higher as he presses his hips forward, pushing against you just right.

You whimper against his mouth and he smiles against your lips, kissing along your jaw to your ear.

“Gotta ask you somethin’,” he mumbles, the heat and pressure between the two of you thick when he looks you in the eye. His forehead rests against yours.

He takes a deep breath anyway, smiling despite how badly he wants you, and how nervous he is.

And, even though it’s been weeks of nights just like this, they’ve never ended just like this.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” He asks.

Your nose scrunches and you smile, feeling him move a little closer when he sees your reaction. His other hand drops to your other thigh, pulling you into his arms, your legs hooking around his waist.

“Of course, I will.”

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Took you long enough,” you laugh softly.

“I know,” he sighs, pulling you off the door, not letting you go. “I’m a fuckin’ idiot. Made me sweat it out for a few seconds there.”

“A few seconds?” You ask with a sarcastic bite, playful nonetheless, leaving him laughing and tossing you down on the bed.

“That was a lie,” he mumbles as he crawls onto the bed, pushing his weight and his lips against yours. “I was fucked up all night.”

“You weren’t having fun?” You whisper between kisses.

“No.”

You laugh at his reaction, the word tight and short, feeling his big hand grip your thigh, spreading you wide underneath him.

“Hardest shit I ever had to watch,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?” You ask and he chuckles when he feels your lips tilt into a smile.

“Watching my girlfriend dance on other guys? Kiss other people? Fucking nightmare.”

“I wasn’t your girlfriend yet.”

“You are now,” he hums and you gasp when he rolls you on top.

You giggle as you dip in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am.”

“You look so damn good,” he mumbles as his tongue slips between your lips, sliding against yours, one hand working up the back of your button-up shirt while the other squeezes your ass. “I know I already told you that, but fuck. Didn’t even get to tell you. First time I saw you like this and you were climbing into someone else’s lap.”

You gasp when his big hand pushes under your skirt, fingers tracing up the inside of your thigh when he whispers, “You know how insane that made me?”

“You’re the one who told me to do this?” You giggle as he peels off the shorts underneath your skirt.

“Had no idea it was gonna be that hard,” he mumbles with a deep tone that rumbles against your soft lips. You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips to tease before you push off his chest. His jaw tightens as you pinch the top button of your shirt. He pitches his hips fast, fighting his shorts and boxers down his strong thighs, his heavy cock hitting his skin with a slap when he sees more and more skin.

“You look good, Rafe,” you whisper and he chuckles under his breath hearing that come from you.

“You…” He mumbles, getting distracted when the shirt falls off your shoulders and flicks to the side, leaving you in nothing but heels, stockings, a bra, and that little plaid skirt that’s been tormenting him all damn night. “Fuck, you look so beautiful, baby.”

He wraps his hand around his dick, stroking himself as he looks up at you, lip tucked with his teeth, the muscles in his chest and arms swelling with each stroke as you take off your bra too.

“Oh, shit,” he moans, his eyes rolling back, head pressing into his pillow, before he slides up on the bed, his bare chest pressing against yours.

Your nails work through his hair as his mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking and kissing while his fingers press against your pussy.

He moans into your tits and you whimper as his fingers push inside, your hips rocking back and forth.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “My baby’s wet, huh?” You can hear the smile in his voice as his fingers curl inside you. “All mine… All fuckin’ mine, huh?” His words come out tight and impatient.

“All yours,” you whisper.

“Get on your knees for me,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips before he flips, leaving you gasping and clawing for the comforter, not even letting a second pass before he takes what he wants.

“This fucking body,” he groans as his hands grab your hips, palming your ass, spreading you open with a low sound.

You shiver when his spit hits your hot skin, the wet rolling between your ass, catching at your entrance before he stuffs it inside with two thick fingers.

He works his hand fast, palm slapping against your skin, your pussy sounding like water. Your back arches and your muscles tighten, bunching up his blankets in your hands as the pleasure in your body swells.

“Rafe,” you squeal, your words muffled into the bed.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Cum on my hand, baby. Let me have it.”

“Fuck,” you cry out, pussy fluttering around his fingers as they dart in and out, only stopping when you soften around him. Tears spill onto the bed when he leans in, sliding his tongue along your slit, moaning like a slut at the taste.

“Oh my god,” he sighs like he was starving for it, pussy-drunk already when he bunches up your skirt in his big fist, the other wrapped around his dick.

Rafe’s hand finds your neck, pulling you back, pressing his lips against yours as he squeezes. He pushes in slow, moaning against your mouth until his body presses tight against yours. “How could you belong to anyone else, huh?” He asks when he feels your breath catch against his lips. “Fit so fuckin’ good inside you. Wish you could feel how you feel around me. You’d be losing your mind too.”

Your lips tremble against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as he lets you sit with it for a moment before pushing you back down.

He thrusts in rough and hard, making the fat of your ass bounce, his big hands gripping your waist tight, eyes set on the wet place the two of you connect.

Your body falls forward into the mattress, face mashed to the sheet as he drills into you from behind, using the hold on your skirt and your hip to work you over.

Your thighs start to shake uncontrollably, each sound from your lips more pathetic than the last.

“Need you to cum again, yeah?” He asks as his arm slides around your waist, pulling you back against him.

His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight little circles that have your hands flying to his forearm and thigh, nails clawing into his flesh as you whimper you’re cumming, squirting around him with a hoarse sob.

“There she is,” he groans, his fingers working through the wet spurts, thighs losing their rhythm, cum spilling inside you as he curses against your shoulder.

His breath comes out hard and fast against your throat, your thighs soaked and sticky as he chuckles softly into your neck, nuzzling closer.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, his smile curling against your skin. “You fuckin’ own me, you know that?”

“What was that?” You ask, needing to hear it again. He rests his chin against your shoulder, holding you a little closer.

“M’yours,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper, and he wraps his arm a little tighter, lips grazing yours.

“That’s my girl.”

🏝️🍹 tag list on my pinned post 🦩 @rafesthroatbaby @hockeygirlyyyy @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ornellastreet @cokewithcameron @loserboysandlithium @buckybarnessweetheart @torturedpoetism @slut-4-rafey @americanboz0 @taliescapes @slxttfadustin @cdiaz18 @tangledinmyfeelings @harrrrystylesslut @st8rkey @obsessedwrafe @my-name-is-baby @dollforafe @abbottjunior01 @seulbeomie @pillowprincess4him @moondustbaby @premiumshitt @gigislover08 @lilithblackkk @babygoddam @harringtonsbowgirl @yesimeasyy @angelicameron @ashleyytatum @stace-041193 @rafesbabygirlx @lhhlver @raf3cam3r0n @rafesbuzzcutseason @jscasmth @bunnyx2 @diasnohibng @ariieeesworld @ilovehughbiggs @willowpains @esmerai-artemis @simp4f1 @mochachocalat @sexychickenmagnet @isastarset

“Mmm, you can be. Very actually, but you make up for it in other ways.” You say staring into his pretty eyes. Dean laughs, one hand coming behind you to unclasp your pretty lace navy bra.

“Something tells me this,” he begins, motioning in between the two of you. Your hands roam his bare chest, loving the way his muscles feel under your fingers. “Is either going to end up in marriage or a restraining order.”

You laugh, tipping your head back and exposing more of your neck to Dean, which he takes full advantage of, his lips kissing his way back up to your own.

“Think I’d rather be your wife than your plaintiff, Di Laurentis.” You say. Dean groans.

“Fuck baby, I want you to be my wife.” He says. “Sounds so hot.” He murmurs against your skin, his fingers unbuttoning your jeans easily.

You smile, tapping his chest. “Easy, Di Laurentis. You’re still in tryouts.”

Dean laughs. “Tryouts? I thought I made the team.”

“You made the roster.” You tease. Knowing very well that your so called roster consists of Dean and only Dean.

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.”

One of the things that Dean Di Laurentis loved the most about the Briar weight room was the set of massive windows that looked in on the yoga studio.

It was a show both ways: the guys in the weight room would show off for the sorority sisters in lululemon, and the ladies in the yoga studio were more than happy to ogle the hockey players below.

But over the last couple of months, while his teammates still cheered and grandstanded for the fit young women in downward dog, Dean realized there was only one student that he wanted to see.

She flourished in the liminal space between classes. When her students had left and she was alone in the studio. Dean loved watching her move with the silks. She looked ethereal and angelic, using the delicate silk like a resistance band, suspending her leg in midair as she performed a pose that opened her hips.

She was a goddess, and Dean was so lucky to call her his.

Behind him, Logan wolf-whistled. “Are you going to keep staring at her like a perv, or can I have my spotter back?”

“Fuck off, Logan.” He said quickly. “I’m watching my woman work.”

Logan came to stand next to him as the pair watched her fold herself over the silks in a deep back-bending inversion, effectively suspending herself from the ceiling. Her hands braced against the mat below her, a peaceful expression on her face as she breathed into the stretch.

“Isn’t she amazing?”

He wasn’t going to lie- the flexibility that his girlfriend possessed contributed massively to the success of their sex life. But when he watched her on the silks, it was like watching a work of art.

When the team was finally ready to call it a day, Dean wasted no time drying his hair off before sauntering up the stairs to the studio. The doors, windows and walls were all intended to be soundproof, but he could hear the faint bass of an old pop punk song playing as she sank into another inversion. She looked so relaxed.

He slipped inside the studio as quietly as he could, which was easy when blink-182 was playing so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself think. She had her eyes closed, breathing steadily.

“Nice of you to make an appearance, Di Laurentis.”

Dean laughed, turning the radio down. “How can you focus with the music that loud?”

“It calms me.” She answered. Her eyes were open now, but she was still in the inverted butterfly stretch. “Much better than the white noise I have on for the freshman. If I hear one more whale song I think I’ll scream.”

Dean laughed, hands in the pockets of his Nike shorts as he leaned against a shelf holding yoga blocks. “You going to kiss me, sweetheart, or are you just going to hang there like a vampire bat?”

“Asshole.” She laughed, gripping the sunflower-yellow silk and easing herself into a sitting position, using the silk as a swing.

Dean circled to the other side of her mat, grinning as he pulled her in for a kiss. “You know what terrible idea this is giving me? Two words. Sex. Swing.”

She laughed into the kiss, kicking him lightly. “Not on these. Too much weight will tear the fabric.”

“A man can dream.”

She slipped out of the silk, still giggling as she crossed towards the supply shelves. “Wanna learn something fun?” She grabbed a yoga mat from the shelf, and started examining the silks for length. “Let me show you the inversion. It’ll be a good way to relax before you get on the ice. It will help you get your head in the game.”

She set up a station next to hers, hanging the silk from the metal bar on the ceiling and inspecting it for damage.

“Babe,” Dean started nervously. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” She beamed, settling back into her own silk. “Come on, it’s easy. Start by sitting in the dead middle of the silk.”

Shaking his head, Dean grabbed a hold of his own silk, awkwardly settling his tall, muscular body in the middle. “Okay, humor me. What now?”

“Grab the silk with both hands. Now you’re going to swing your legs up and around the silk. Watch.”

When she did it, she looked so graceful. She leaned back slightly, looping her legs up and wrapping her toes around the silk.

When Dean tried, he looked like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time, and almost kicked himself in the face in the progress.

She laughed, reaching to tap him on the shoulder. “Make sure that the silk stays under your hips, otherwise you’ll fall.”

It took a bit more fumbling, but centrally Dean managed to contort his legs into something resembling the pose that she herself had done.

“Now, make sure you’re holding the silks tight, and then lean back towards the floor. Trust that the silk will support your weight.”

“Babe,” Deans voice was soft. “I’m a hockey player. I don’t think the silk can hold me.”

“Trust, Di Laurentis.” She scolded, bending her back into a deep stretch, forearms planted on her mat. It was the same inversion she had been in when Dean first entered the studio.

Dean leaned back, caught off guard when the silk began to swing, his body gently swaying back and forth. He took a few deep breaths, steadying himself before he let go of the silks.

He attempted to mimic his girlfriends stretch, planting his hands on the floor as he competed the inversion.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad.” He mused.

Of course, he’d spoken too soon. His arms began to shake under the pressure, and he tried to breathe through it, engaging his core muscles. He could feel his sweaty body sliding out of the sling, and was helpless as his hips lost purchase on the silk, sending his body crashing to the studio floor.

“Dean?” She asked through laughter. “Are you okay?”

She swung up and out of the inversion, gracefully stepping out of the silk as she rushed over to Dean, trying to untangle him from the fabric.

“You must have the fucking core muscles of a Greek God.” Dean laughed as she helped him to his feet. “That shit is impossible.”

You bite your lip and roll your eyes, looking down at your phone.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 💕

The second it delivers, his gaze drops to the screen, the light glowing against his face. His mouth curves, that cute little dimple popping in his cheek.

He runs a hand through his hair before typing something, thinking better of it, then typing again when he just can’t let it go.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍? 😂

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

The lights flicker and dim, and the next act begins. You look up through the curtains again and catch him leaning forward in his seat, forearms braced against his knees.

The rest of the hockey boys are laughing about something beside him, but Dean doesn’t even glance over. His eyes stay fixed on the stage for another second before he finally looks down at his phone.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚢?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

The after party rages around you and every time someone leans too close—every time a drunk college boy makes a comment to him about how good you look, he winds up a little tighter until his hand catches your wrist.

“Let’s go. Now.”

Dean wastes no time pushing you into the backstage room, shutting the door with a slam, pressing your back against it. His fingers tilt your chin up, his grip a little rough as his eyes burn into yours.

“You kidding me with this?” He murmurs.

“You don’t like it—”

“I love it,” he stops you before you can even start. His hand skims down your body, over the fabric stretched across your waist and ass, gathering the material in his big hands. “Me and every other guy here.”

“You seem jealous.”

“I am jealous,” he corrects you before his mouth crashes against yours, starved and desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers twisting and tugging at his hair; gasping when he grinds his hard cock against you.

Dean squeezes your ass, dragging his rough hands up your hips before smacking the satin stretched across your skin, letting that satisfying crack fill the room.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he presses his fingers against your clit, cursing under his breath. Sure, you’re in panties, but those little shorts and fishnets are still in his way. That little gasp and a moan don’t tumble from your lips like they usually do. Easy fix.

You break for air, chuckling breathily against his lips. “What’s wrong?” You whisper.

“Can’t get to you,” he pushes out a sharp breath, tugging your shorts off your hips, yanking down your panties between rough kisses, looping his fingers around the fishnets between your thighs just enough to yank a hole.

“Dean!” You gasp and he chuckles.

“Beautiful.” A rough breath leaves him and he rolls his neck once, jaw flexing as his eyes drop to the torn fishnets stretched across your thighs. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “That was even better than I thought it was gonna be.”

His hands slide to your hips as he kisses you, your heart leaping when he flips you, your hands slapping quickly against the wall.

His lips brush along the side of your neck, chuckling deeply against your skin, pressing wet kisses as his fingers work open the bow of the corset.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans when he feels your ass press back into him, his fingers working at the ribbon faster and faster when it refuses to cooperate. “M’getting—Holy shit,” he mutters. “How do I get you out of this?” His words come out clipped with frustration.

You hear him rummaging through the clutter beside you long enough to snag a pair of scissors. He grabs your hip, huffing out a laugh when you giggle, arching your back to get a better view before—snip!

“Dean!”

“Spare me,” he rasps.

The sound of the blades snapping together makes you gasp as he cuts the ribbon crisscrossed up your back.

He tugs the top ribbon away with a satisfying slip, baring hot skin to the cool air when the corset pulls away. The scissors fall to the dressing room floor with a clatter—the zipper of his pants already down by the time he turns you, lifting you up into his arms, your bare back pressed to the cool brick wall.

Dean pushes his dick into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing a fistful of his hair while your other hand clamps over your mouth.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Pussy’s so damn good.”

Your head falls back against the wall as he stretches you wide, his big hand tightening on your ass. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.

“Lucky I’m not teasin’ you. Needed you too bad,” Dean sighs, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room. “These fuckin’ tights, huh? Buying you another pair so I can do this shit again.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as his eyes stay locked on yours. Your eyes soften as he slows down, letting gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with his arms locked around you.

“You have any idea how good this feels?” He whispers, burying himself in your neck, thrusting up into you. Your fingers twist into his shirt as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches into him, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.

He grits his teeth, not stopping until he feels your body melt in his arms, his heavy head falling to your shoulder as he breathes out a sigh of satisfaction and relief.

“I was so well behaved, you know that? I could have been so, so much worse,” he says softly, his voice breaking with pleasure as he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “Put on my sweatshirt. Let’s get out of here, huh?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.

“The after party’s not over,” you tease through a breathless giggle as his nose nuzzles against yours.

He sighs, his big body pressing you up against the wall again, his head falling back with a smirk on his lips when your nails slide through his hair.

“It is for us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He takes his turn smiling into the kiss, sending chills down your spine, cocky and desperate all at once. He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away.

“Clean sweep,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Show off,” you whisper and he lets out a low laugh against your lips.

“Cashin’ in on that bet.” His hand wraps around your waist, the other gripping your ass, pulling you off the floor, into his arms again.

Your head swims as you kiss your way to his bed; your body melting into him, legs wrapping around his waist.

Your hands come up, settling around the back of his neck, your fingers drifting into the hair at his nape. Dean lets out a quiet breath and closes his eyes for a second.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“You got any idea how pretty you are?” A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m so serious.”

“So sweet when you want to be, Di Laurentis,” you chuckle tiredly.

“Got a little crazy back there, huh, bun?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mumble. “You did.”

“You spent two hours makin' me watch Hunter Davenport touch you,” he mumbles.

“Nobody made you watch—”

“Couldn’t help it.” His gaze drops from your face, lingering for a second before making its way back up again. “You drive me insane,” he sighs before he kisses you again, your hand coming down to reach for the hem of his shirt.

Your fingers hook into the fabric, pulling upward, and he laughs softly against your mouth when he realizes what you’re doing, lifting his arms automatically so you can drag the shirt over his head.

His hands settle right back on you the second the shirt’s gone, leaning in to deepen the kiss.

“You know what the problem is?” He asks.

“What?”

“I don’t even care if you wanna be casual or not,” he mutters half-serious, half-laughing against your mouth.

“Dean—”

“M’serious,” he hums, the zipper of your jeans gliding down slowly beneath his fingers. “Just wanna end as many nights as I can exactly like this. Don’t even care if you make me place stupid bets and I gotta dust his ass every goddamn weekend. I’m in.”

“You’re in?”

“Mhmm.”

“Funny. Took Hunter Davenport talking to me to figure that out.”

“Damn,” he mutters, letting out a weak laugh like those words actually stung. “That’s what you think, huh?”

Your lips draw to the side, eyebrow arching, challenging him to give you a response instead of a question, and he nods like he’s accepting the challenge.

“You’re right… Shoulda told you a while ago. I deserved everything I got tonight.”

“You did,” you remind him.

Dean shakes his head and laughs under his breath. “Yeah. I did.”

He peels your shirt over your head next, leaving you in nothing but soft mesh, and whatever he was about to say disappears completely. His chin drops as he blows out a heavy breath. “What did I do to deserve you—”

“Just fucking kiss me,” you giggle and he lifts you easily off the floor, tossing you back onto the bed.

Your body bounces against the mattress, and before you can settle he’s helping you the rest of the way out of your jeans, tugging them down your thighs impatiently.

By the time you try to prop yourself up on your elbows, he’s already climbing over you, bracing his weight above you while his hands catch your wrists and press them into the mattress on either side of your head.

He looks down at you with a tilted smile, hair falling into his eyes, his chest still rising a little harder than normal.

His shoulders flex every time he shifts closer, his tanned skin warm against yours, his chain dangling off his neck, landing cool against your hot skin.

“Playin’ after you agreed to come up here was impossible?”

“You were winning.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a second, your lips barely brushing. “Still would’ve rather been up here.”

You keep lifting your head off the pillow to follow him when he pulls back even slightly, leaving you chasing his mouth. Each time you do it he lets out the faintest laugh against your lips, the sound making a steady pulse beat between your thighs.

His hands slide up your arms, gathering your wrists above your head in one hand. His body grinds at the same time, the rough denim of his jeans dragging against your panties.

The chill of his belt buckle brushes against your skin, pulling a quiet breath out of you. Your back arches instinctively, fingers tightening into fists, his fingers curling a little tighter to keep you in place.

His stomach tightens, abs going hard every time his hips rock, every little movement making you react.

His free hand drops between you to work at his belt as you kiss him through it, smiling against his lips when he finally manages to shove his jeans down far enough to give himself room to kick them off.

The whole time he keeps finding you again between breaths, refusing to lose you for longer than he has to.

You moan against his mouth when his hand cups your pussy, clicking his tongue like he knew this is exactly how he’d find you—soaking wet. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Thinkin’ about this all night?”

“Maybe,” you whisper.

“Too wet for maybe’s, bunny,” he mumbles.

You giggle, bratty and breathless, before his tongue slips into your mouth, rolling slowly as his fingers do the same, rubbing tight circles on your clit.

“Laughin’ at me, huh?” He asks. “Still think this shit’s funny?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper then gasp against his lips as he pinches your clit between his fingers, his lips sucking and biting down on your bottom lip just enough to pinch.

“Brat,” he mumbles, not sounding bothered by it in the slightest. A grin pulls at his mouth when your hips betray you, bucking into his hand.

Dean slowly rises up onto his knees above you, his eyes never leaving your face as he pulls down his boxers, his cock slapping against his bare skin with a snap. His eyes drop from your face, lingering for a second before making their way back up again.

“So fucking pretty for me.”

Your hands shift instinctively and he catches the movement, snatching your wrists again to push them into the bed with a little more muscle.

“Keep your hands where they are,” he whispers against your lips.

The mesh fabric between your thighs is already clinging to your skin, practically opaque from how wet you already are. He exhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head as he takes his dick in his fist.

“Pink?” He mutters under his breath, tapping the wet fabric with his tip, the precum gathered on his hard skin mixed with your arousal on the slick material separating the two of you. “You wore my favorite color.”

“Is it?” You ask—but you did.

“You wore this for me, huh?” He breathes. “Could’ve told me before I started throwing shit, huh?”

“Unfortunately that was hot,” you whisper.

Dean’s head drops immediately.

“I knew you’d like that shit, bun,” he chuckles. “Damn, we’re a fucking problem, huh?” He laughs against your lips as he traces his dick along your slit. The fabric drags against his sensitive skin, rubbing along you with every slow pass.

He thrusts his hips forward, the tip pressing there, and warmth spreads through your body despite the thin barrier still between you.

The pressure alone is enough to pull a moan from both of you. You bite down on your lip, both of your hands clawing into the sheets beside your head, twisting the fabric between your fingers as his cock rubs over your clit again and again.

Your eyes roll back as he spits on the place where the two of you meet, his hard cock slicking through the wetness, stroking in a rough, steady rhythm.

Your tongue runs along your bottom lip and the knot in your stomach tightens. Your pleasure builds, the sight of his strong body rolling into you without penetration doing nothing but teasing just how deep his cock would go, pre cum dripping off his tip as it drags across your skin.

“Yeah?” He pants. “C’mon, bunny—”

“Shit,” you whimper, matching his movements with a swivel of your hips.

Dean keeps talking you through it, his voice low and warm as the praise slips out between sharp breaths. “Fightin’ so fuckin’ hard,” he tells you, looking up at your hands as you white-knuckle the bedsheets; looking down at your thighs to watch them quake. “You gonna cum for me? I know you want to,” He grunts and you whimper a ‘yes’.

You cum with his name on your lips and your pussy pulsing around nothing as he continues to stroke. Your eyes pinch shut and your hands reach for him quickly, grabbing him by the hair and the neck to pull him to your lips.

He swallows your moans, not letting up his movement until you're melting underneath him, your mind doing the same.

He grips you firmly and shifts your body in one smooth motion, guiding you forward and turning you until you are on your hands and knees, his big body pressing flush behind you, hard cock swinging between your thighs.

Dean’s hands settle on your hips first, sliding a little higher until his palms are full, squeezing and kneading your ass in his hands. His thumbs drag slow circles over your skin while you glance back over your shoulder at him, and the smugness painted all over his face starts to bleed out of him.

“Probably shouldn’t have told me you liked that,” he murmurs quietly, his thumbs tracing along the hem of your panties like he’s deciding whether to move them aside or make you wait, choosing the latter, snapping the fabric against your skin with a smirk. “Gave me way too much information, sweetheart.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “And what information did I give you, Di Laurentis?” You mumble as his hand leaves your body and his fingers curl beneath your chin.

He guides you back toward him so your spine arches and your shoulders dip, bringing your mouth close enough that he can lean forward and kiss you over your shoulder.

“That you like me jealous. That you like me losin’ my mind over you. Were you trying to make me jealous, baby?” He murmurs against your lips.

You smile softly at that, catching his mouth for a second, sucking and tugging before you pull away. “I’d never,” you whisper and he laughs against your lips.

“I don’t share real well.” He smiles playfully, spanking your thigh, making you press your ass into him further. His eyes lock onto yours. “And then you’re gonna tell me that's what turned you on?”

“Doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” you mumble and he just smiles, still toying with you.

“Bullshit.” The words come out through a tight laugh as his hands return to your hips, sliding lower again as he shifts behind you. His palms spread over you while he adjusts his position slightly.

Every inch of his body gives him away—you can see it all over his face, feel how painfully hard he is when he slaps his dick against your ass but still he resists.

You reach down instinctively, your fingers brushing the edge of your panties as you start to shift them aside.

“Hands on the bed, bunny.”

“Dean,” you scold, but all he does is snicker, his hand cupped below your lips for spit.

“Put that mouth to good use—been causin’ enough problems with it all night,” he taunts as you spit in his hand. “Knew you were enjoyin’ yourself.”

He rubs the spit over his stiff cock, eyes unwavering on your body. His hands settle on your ass, thumbs spreading you apart as he glides his dick through the narrow space between them.

Stroke after stroke, tease after tease, his heavy balls slap against your clit with each push of his hips, making the muscles in your body jump with sensitivity.

You look over your shoulder with a pout. A quiet chuckle slips out of him. “You think poutin’ is gonna help?” He murmurs, his voice softer now. “Like I’m gonna feel bad for you?”

“Maybe,” you breathe.

A laugh slips out of him. “S’fuckin’ adorable,” he breathes and just when you think you won, he grips your panties and thrusts, his thick dick tracing between your ass, tip pushing against the rough mesh of your panties, still not giving you what you want.

“So damn wet,” he groans as his balls finally slap against your pussy, skin against skin, the wet smack filling the room along with his moans as you whimper and whine. “Shit, I could probably get off just like this—”

You scoff through a sharp breath, feeling yourself getting closer and closer from the smacking of his balls against your clit alone, but you want more.

“Where the fuck are you goin’?” He laughs, catching you as you crawl forward like you've finally had enough, yanking you back, grabbing your panties in his fist, just to wrap them around the base of his cock, binding you together before he pushes deep in your pussy.

Your moans blend together, your head falling forward and his throwing back as he bottoms out completely.

“Oh—Oh shit, baby,” he groans, stalling out for a moment as your wet warmth surrounds him, your body squeezing him tight. So wet he’s pinching his eyes shut, thinking about anything else but the moment to keep from cumming on the spot.

His hips draw back, the panties tightening around his cock the farther he pulls away. The delicate stitching strains with it, sounding like it might snap.

He presses forward slow, watching his dick dip deep. The panties wrapped around him make his cock redder, the veins mapping each inch standing higher—until his body is flush with your ass.

“Fuck, Dean,” you moan, rolling your hips a little, his blunt fingernails digging into your ass at the feeling.

The air knocks out of your chest as he pounds into you, the wet mess that he made squelching through the room, both of you sure you aren’t going to last much longer like this.

“Feels so damn good,” he grits out, one hand landing against your shoulder before dragging down your arm, searching for your hand. His fingers wrap tightly around yours, pinned against your back, your face coming down to press against the mattress as he cracks you at the perfect angle.

You whimper that you’re close, the words barely making it out of your mouth. “Fuck, I’m cumming,” Dean stammers, and his grip tightens around your hand, your pleasure enough for him to break, jaw tightening, brows furrowing, filling you up but refusing to stop until you finish.

You follow close behind him, pussy fluttering around his cock as it throbs inside you, leaving him sucking in a breath as you milk him dry.

Dean’s grip is still locked with yours when he finally shifts. The room around you is heavy with heat and sex, but the weight that had been sitting on your shoulders all night is gone.

He pulls you back against his chest, the two of you still on your knees, his skin damp and his heart thundering against your back as you both try to catch your breaths. He presses a soft kiss against your shoulder and then another against the side of your neck, adrenaline leaving his lips trembling against your hot skin.

His arms wrap around you a little tighter, nuzzling into your neck like he can’t help himself.

“Good thing you wore these for me,” he mutters. “M’sorry, pretty. I’ll buy you a new pair, yeah?” You whimper as he pulls out, the loose panties tumbling uselessly off your hips.

Dean grabs for you, rolling you on top of him. Your hands rest on his chest while his big arms wrap around your body, keeping you close.

He looks up at you and sighs, brushing your hair out of your face, amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before he speaks.

“Fuck, that was incredible”—ding!

Your phone lights up in the pocket of your jeans half-hanging off the mattress. You blow out a shaky breath, muscles trembling, reaching over for it.

“A deal’s a deal,” he murmurs, warm against your skin, chuckling through the exhaustion. You pull your phone out and look back at it, a message telling you to come find him later, despite knowing full well where you are and who you’re with.

His palm rests solid on your hip, tracing slow circles over your skin absentmindedly.

Dean rolls his eyes and takes the phone from your hand, jaw tightening for half a second before he drops it onto the mattress.

“I don’t give a shit,” he murmurs quietly.

“You don’t care?” you whisper, and a little panic sets in. You can see it on his face. He cups your cheeks in his hands, guiding your gaze to him.

“Woah, bun. Just—no. ‘Bout you? Absolutely. About him? No. I don’t give a fuck. I mean, look at where I am, huh?” He mumbles, pulling you down into a kiss.

You let out a little sigh against his lips, relief and satisfaction mellowing you out.

You melt into him as his rough fingers trace lower, moving down your spine and back up. He smiles up at you before pulling you down into another kiss.

“I’m in,” you breathe and he hums out a satisfied groan that buzzes all the way to your toes. His grip on you tightens and you gasp when he rolls you beneath him.

“You serious?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. Dean stares at you for a second before dropping his head with a laugh, chain swinging loosely off his neck.

“Thank God.”

“What?” You ask curiously as your hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his messy hair.

“Would’ve been real fuckin’ awkward if I went downstairs and lost that bet to Logan.”

Your lips fall open in disgust, nose scrunching up. “You were betting on me?” And again, his eyes go wide as he scrambles to explain himself.

“Bunny—Baby, c’mon now,” he chuckles, his voice raspy and deep. “On us, alright?” He corrects himself. “And I’m just kiddin’, alright?”

You roll your eyes away and he grabs your cheeks with a single hand, turning your face back toward him.

“Besides,” he murmurs, his thumb dragging slowly across your cheek.

“Besides what?”

“Shit wasn’t exactly a fair competition.”

“Why not?”

Your hand drifts down his arm, fingers tracing over the hard curve of his bicep before settling on his skin, squeezing and feeling the muscle tighten underneath when he leans closer.

The corner of his mouth lifts as his lips brush softly against yours.

“Hunter never stood a chance.”

Garrett smiles, catching his girl by the waist next, kissing her deep enough to have the cheering room break into whistles and catcalls.

“Get a room,” Beau calls. Garrett points at him, smiling like Beau just suggested something that was already decided—and it was.

“What the fuck, bro? We won. The fuck are you goin’?” Logan shouts, but Garrett and his girlfriend are already halfway up the steps. “You gotta stay—”

“Can’t,” Garrett answers simply.

“The hell you mean can’t?” Logan scoffs, but Graham’s as good as gone, leaving Logan staring after him in disbelief. “Unbelievable—Dean!” Logan points across the living room, calling him instead. “You’re up.”

Dean glances up from the lip of his beer—uninterested in anything happening around him but you.

“What?”

“Pong,” Logan yells.

Dean opens his mouth to turn him down, but then he looks across the room, right at you, and you don’t notice. And Dean Di Laurentis can have none of that.

You’re too busy laughing at something one of your friends says, drink balanced in your hand. Dean exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he says before taking another sip of his beer. “I’m down.”

“Let’s fucking go,” Logan smiles.

Dean stands up, stepping toward the table. You’re still deep in conversation when he reaches for one of the pong balls floating in a cup, flicking off the water before he rolls it between his big fingers.

You still haven’t looked over.

He glances away, catching himself staring before he remembers he’s supposed to be pretending he doesn’t do that. He swallows hard, jaw tightening; his entire demeanor shifting in a moment when he looks back.

“Ah, fuck no,” he breathes out a bitter sigh, bouncing the pong ball against the table.

“What?” Logan asks, following his gaze when Dean doesn’t answer. The look on Dean’s face says enough as Hunter Davenport makes his way directly toward you.

The one person on his team Dean has absolutely no fucking patience for. Hate is an understatement. And if Hunter had two working eyes and two brain cells left to rub together, he would’ve noticed Dean’s attention hadn’t left you once all night.

Within seconds the entire group is finding reasons to step away and give you two some space.

“Traitors,” he mumbles.

Dean pinches the pong ball between his fingers, spinning it against the edge of the table as he tries to look unbothered.

Hunter says something and your smile widens. He leans down closer, and Dean straightens immediately. “Need another team over here,” Dean calls out.

It has the intended effect for exactly half a second. Hunter glances toward the table. So do you.

Then he says something else and your attention goes right back to him. “Fucking prick,” Dean mutters under his breath.

“What are you on about?” Logan asks, elbowing him with a laugh, but Dean ignores him.

You laugh again and Dean’s face goes sour instantly.

“He’s not fuckin’ funny,” he huffs, and Logan looks back at him wide-eyed.

“Are you okay?” He laughs.

“Perfect, why?”

“I mean, I have so many questions,” he teases him, “but we can start with why the fuck are you losin’ your shit?”

“Am not,” Dean laughs like it’s beneath him, lifting his drink to drain the rest.

Logan claps a hand on his back, chuckling breathily. “Totally normal reaction, bud. My bad.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles as a few underclasses from the hockey team step up to the table. He waves them away, desperate to get you across from him somehow—shit. Dean reaches out fast, grabbing your friend's arm as she walks past.

“You trying to play? Get a friend,” he gestures in your direction just as Hunter’s hand rests on your lower back.

“I think she wants to play with Hunter,” your friend says, tapping Dean on the chest with a look that says she’s figured him out completely.

Davenport nods over to the pong table with a smile, already two steps ahead.

“Good thing you’re not bothered by this, huh?” Logan mumbles against the rim of his drink, watching as the two of you walk closer.

“You tryin’ to play, pretty?” Dean asks with his gaze set on you.

“That okay, boys?” Hunter asks with a smile, cutting in with a response.

“For her, of course. For you, fuck off,” Dean smiles, pointing at Beau instead, waving him over lazily. “You don’t gotta play with him, sweetheart.” The words leave his lips like the punchline to a joke.

“Don’t worry about him,” Hunter bites, his hand settling at your waist, guiding you the rest of the way. “He’s just worried I’m gonna dust his ass.”

Dean just lets out a short laugh as he reaches for a pong ball. He dips it into the cup of water beside him without even looking up.

“Keep talkin’,” he says.

A little smile curls on your lips as you grab the cups in front of you, making a little triangle, avoiding Dean’s gaze for now.

You can’t even remember the last party where some girl wasn’t practically hanging off his arm or finding an excuse to talk to him. Usually he’s the one smiling politely while somebody works way too hard for his attention.

When your eyes lift, Dean's already there, waiting for you. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. His blue eyes fall down your body for the moment as Hunter's hand wraps around your waist, talking strategy, but honestly the contact is more than enough to get in Dean’s head.

Dean sinks a shot, and you answer with one of your own. “Let’s go, princess,” Hunter laughs, bumping his shoulder into yours.

“You good?” Logan asks, his eyes sliding over to Dean.

“M’fine,” Dean answers too fast.

“Well, man who’s fine, everyone’s waitin’ for you to shoot—”

“Fuck off,” Dean mutters, wetting the ball before he shoots, sending the little ball ricocheting into the crowd.

“M’gonna need you to lock the fuck in,” Logan scolds, turning his chest to Dean, the two of them locked up in a staring contest for a few seconds.

Dean sucks his teeth and forces himself to focus again. It lasts all of five seconds. The second his eyes find you across the table, Hunter’s arm is draped lazily across your shoulders while he points at one of the remaining cups with his free hand, getting your opinion on which shot he should take.

You study the cups for a second before lifting a hand and pointing toward the one on the far side of the table, making your choice with a small shrug.

Hunter nods like you’ve just handed him the answer key.

Water sloshes as Hunter sinks it just seconds later. Before the crowd can even react, his arm is around your waist, hauling you clean off your feet in celebration.

Dean rolls his eyes so hard Logan catches it from beside him.

Logan plants both hands on the edge of the table and lets out a slow breath. At this point he’s not sure whether he’s playing against you and Hunter or dragging Dean across the finish line.

Hunter leans down again, saying something you can’t quite hear over the music, you turn into him a little more because of it, your hand landing against his arm as he grins down at you.

Across the table, Dean watches the whole thing and Logan follows his line of sight. “Handle your shit later,” he warns, and Dean doesn’t answer.

You laugh again and ZIP—the ball leaves Dean’s hand a second later.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Hunter laughs, jerking back when the ball catches him in the shoulder.

Logan slowly turns toward Dean, equal parts baffled and disgusted. He waits a beat, clearly expecting Dean to explain whatever the hell that was.

“He threw that at me,” Hunter says, rubbing his shoulder.

“I missed,” Dean answers, arms crossing over his broad chest while Logan continues staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “Hand slipped.”

“You threw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball at his fuckin’ chest.” Logan stares at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Shoulder,” Dean corrects him. “I was goin’ for his forehead.”

“Disappointed in you,” he scolds.

“Just—Just throw the ball, alright?” Dean blurts, gesturing toward the four scattered cups at the other end of the table and the nearly hopeless situation.

Logan lofts the ball and it swirls around the rim of the cup. You think fast, dipping down and blowing hard. The ball pops back out before it can drop.

“Goddamn,” Hunter praises, looking down at you before snatching the ball off the table. He dunks it into the water cup and lifts it toward your mouth.

You laugh but lean forward anyway, blowing the excess water from the ball.

“Atta girl.”

Hunter snaps the last few drops off with a flick of his wrist, tongue poked out in concentration as he lines up the shot—and splash!

The crowd explodes and Hunter’s arms wrap around your waist, turning into you as the cups are cleared off the table.

People crowd around the table again, drinks sloshing as somebody sinks a cup and a fresh round of yelling breaks out around the game.

Hunter stays planted beside you anyway. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and hands it to you. “Here. Your number?” He hums, and you look up at him. “Before we get caught up in another win.”

Your nose scrunches, giving him a little smile, nodding and punching in the numbers against your better judgment.

Dean’s staring from across the room as the stupid smirk spreads across Hunter’s face.

And suddenly his phone feels very heavy in his pocket.

“Dean,” Logan warns the second Dean pulls his phone from his pocket. “Leave that woman alone.”

“I’m texting—”

“No shit.” Logan snorts. “You’re also jealous. And you’re making an ass out of yourself.”

“I’m not making an ass out of myself,” Dean mumbles, thumbing through your text conversation from last night.

“You tried to hit him in the head with a pong ball.”

“Yeah, and I missed.”

“That’s somehow worse,” Logan whispers, rubbing his back. “You should have seen the way she was looking at you, alright? They’ll lose. Then, you can talk to her. Just put… the phone… away—”

“I’m working over here,” Dean snaps, jerking the phone away as Logan tries to manually disarm his device before he pulls the trigger and says something he’ll regret. “You don’t get her like I do, okay?”

“Fine,” Logan throws his hands up in surrender. “No more throwin’ shit at people.”

“No promises,” Dean mumbles, thumbs tapping against the screen as a little smile tilts on his lips.

Across the room, your phone buzzes against the table beside your drink. You don’t notice, too busy teasing Hunter about a shot he should’ve made.

Whoosh. The text tone sounds and Logan hangs his head, laughing at Dean. “Tell me what you say, at least?”

Dean shrugs, giving Logan a side-eye. “Nah, you don’t believe in me. You don’t get to see greatness.”

“You fucked it up, didn’t you?” Logan asks, cracking open another beer.

“Shut up,” Dean scoffs, sitting up a little straighter when he sees you unlock your phone.

The first text makes you smile. By the second one, you’re laughing. The third one has your eyes lifting to his, the dimple in his cheek popping as he secures even the smallest win.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙰 𝚋𝚎𝚝?

You ask him the question, and the three dots barely have time to appear before another message pops onto the screen.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰 𝚋𝚎𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎. 𝙽𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍.

You stare at the message, thinking of what to say next. Hunter leans in again, whispering strategy. You smile and nod, half-turned toward him as you type back.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙴𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 💕

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚐𝚘.

“Your turn, princess,” Hunter drawls, passing you the pong ball. You slide your phone in your pocket for the moment and Dean blows out an impatient sigh.

Logan pouts sympathetically, squeezing Dean’s shoulder for support.

“Told you so—”

“Fuck you,” he scoffs, shoving him away with a laugh. “It’s fine—I’m… I didn’t fuck it up. She smiled. Did she not?”

“She did,” Logan chuckles.

“She laughed, am I correct?” Dean states his case.

“Yes, I believe she did.”

“She wants me. Period.” His phone buzzes, and he fumbles it, glancing away from you just long enough for you to have sent something back.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚗?

“Oh shit,” Dean breathes. Logan leans over his shoulder before he can protest, reading through the thread.

“Damn,” he says, surprised by Dean’s game after all that pageantry earlier, curious where he was gonna take this next.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚗, 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍…

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

You look up from your phone as that text comes through, and he’s still watching—still holding your gaze from across the room. And for the first time all night, he looks completely serious.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢????

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙 😂

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗’ 𝚋𝚞𝚗.

Across the room, Hunter Davenport has your number. He just won a game with you and spent the last hour glued to your side, but suddenly Dean doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by it. Every time your phone lights up, you’re smiling down at the screen, and Dean’s grin gets a little harder to hide.

You sink the final cup to win the round and catch his eye from across the room. The corner of your mouth lifts and that’s apparently all the encouragement Dean needs because he’s already crossing the room.

“Fuck, she wants me,” Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Pleasantly surprised by you tonight, Di Laurentis,” Logan tells him.

Dean looks over at him with a grin, rolling the arm he’d nearly separated trying to take Davenport’s out with a pong ball earlier.

You roll your eyes and bite down on your lip to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work.

A pair of freshmen are already hovering around the pong table by the time Dean gets there, the same ones he waved off before you and Hunter stepped up.

“We can wait,” Logan calls after him.

“No we can’t.”

Dean keeps walking.

He claps one of them on the back, then the other, smiling the entire time as he grabs fistfuls of their shirts and physically steers them out of the way.

“Appreciate it, boys.”

The freshmen laugh as they stumble aside.

“Captain of the year, everybody,” Logan announces, throwing an arm toward Dean. “Some real morale-building leadership.”

Dean doesn’t even bother acknowledging him.

Hunter grabs the balls out of the cups, lazily bouncing them to the guys. “Better luck this time, boys,” Hunter says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

Dean watches his arm settle there for a second, jaw tightening, before taking the ball from Logan.

“Shoot.”

Logan aims and sinks the first cup, and without missing a beat the second one disappears too. Both balls get tossed back, and Dean tries his best to keep the celebrations in check for a moment, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he watches you lift your cup and take a drink.

After that, every cup came with commentary. Every shot came with a smirk. By the third shot Dean landed in a row, it was looking like a clean sweep.

“That’s tough,” Dean mutters, looking at the state of affairs. You and Hunter didn’t even get a chance to shoot yet.

“We are on a heater, buddy,” Logan smiles. “Six cups back to back. Are you kidding?”

“Sounds like a lot when you say it out loud,” Dean chuckles, winking at you from across the table.

“Just shoot the fucking ball,” Hunter says.

“You know, if I was a betting man, I should have bet… I don’t know. Something,” Dean mumbles, and you fight to keep a straight face.

Logan throws the ball and it hits the rim of the cup, hopping into the other.

By then people were crowding around the table three rows deep, drinks lifted overhead as everyone tried to get a look. Dean rolls the final ball between his fingers and looked across the table at you.

“Not sinking this shit until I get an answer from you, bun,” he chuckles as he lines up the shot. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t break my fuckin’ heart, huh?”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Hunter snaps from across the table, and Dean blows out a raspberry like Hunter is the last person to know.

Dean lets out a breath through his nose. “That sounds a whole lot of none of your fuckin’ business, Davenport.”

Dean’s eyes slide over to you and he gives you the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. “Don’t make me beg, baby. Not here. I’m not above it.”

“Deal,” you chuckle, and with that word he throws the ball, sending it clean into the final cup. And, just like Hunter, Dean doesn’t even wait for the cups to get pulled or the crowd to lose their minds before he’s already stepping out from behind the table, walking toward you.

You barely have time to laugh before his hands find your hips, lifting you off your feet.

His arm tightens beneath your legs as he heads for the stairs without even pretending to care what anybody else thinks.

“You are such an ass,” you laugh, trying unsuccessfully to hide your smile.

“What the fuck?” Hunter calls over the party as he takes the first step.

“What?”

“You can’t just leave.”

“—We absolutely can.”

“Congrats, Di Laurentis. You’ve been waiting all night for this.”

“No shit,” Dean answers honestly. “That’s all you got, Davenport? Cryin’ about her leaving and a half-ass congrats? Waste more time, please—”

“Fuck you.”

“Huh?”

“FUCK YOU!”

“What was that now?” Dean asks, amusement stretching across his lips as he holds a hand to his ear, taking another step up. “You’re gonna need to be a little louder than that, Hunter. Say it with your chest.”

“I’ll be down here, sweetheart.”

The corner of your mouth curls as you bite back a smile.

“You are so fucked, bun,” Dean laughs.

“Me?” You giggle.

“Absolutely you. I—”

“I’ll call you. How does that sound?” Hunter shouts, almost out of earshot, and that stops Dean mid-sentence.

“And I’ll block you,” he calls back. “Everybody wins—”

“Enough,” you breathe, grabbing his face in your hands and turning his attention back to you as he takes the last few steps.

Dean’s grip tightens beneath your thighs. His gaze drops to yours.

“Now,” he says, voice lowering as he leans closer, “where were we?”

A - Aftercare and adrenaline: Dean might come across as the ultimate cocky fuckboy who’d roll over and smirk after wrecking you but he’s surprisingly attentive once the high fades. He pulls your trembling body flush against his sweaty chest, big hockey-player arms wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. His voice is low and rough as he murmurs against your hair, “You good, baby? Fuck, you took my cock so deep…such a perfect girl for me.” 

Post-game adrenaline turns him feral, after a win he’ll still be buzzing, scooping you up in his suit jacket or half-dressed, carrying you straight to the shower where he fucks you slow and deep against the tiles, water cascading over your bodies while he praises how hot you looked screaming his name from the stands.

B - Bondage and teasing: Dean loves restraining you with his hockey tape or expensive silk ties, stretching your arms above your head and tying you to the headboard so you’re completely at his mercy. He steps back, slowly stroking his thick cock while his eyes devour every squirming inch of you. “Look at you, all tied up and dripping for me. So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.” 

He teases you mercilessly with his fingers and tongue, circling your clit and dipping inside your soaked pussy without giving you what you need until you’re begging with tears pricking your eyes. Only then does he finally sink into you, groaning at how tightly you clench around him as he fucks you hard and deep, using your bound body exactly how he wants.

C - Creampies and breeding kink: Dean is absolutely addicted to filling you up. He loves pounding you until he’s buried to the hilt, then holding himself deep as he cums hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your pussy while he growls filthy breeding talk right against your ear.

“Gonna knock you up, baby. Want this tight cunt full of me until it takes.” He’s obsessed with watching his cum leak out of your stretched hole, pushing it back in with two thick fingers while kissing you messily. The thought of you swollen with his kid makes him feral, he’ll fuck you for hours, spilling multiple loads deep inside, keeping you plugged with his cock afterward so nothing escapes.

D - Dirty talk: That smooth, cocky voice gets low and filthy the second your clothes come off. “Fuck, listen to how wet this greedy pussy is for me,” he groans while thrusting deep, the wet sounds of your bodies echoing. “This tight little hole was made to take my cock, wasn’t it? My perfect dirty girl.” He mixes praise and degradation effortlessly, calling you his good girl when you’re clenching around him and his filthy little cumslut when you’re begging. He keeps eye contact the whole time, watching your face as he tells you exactly how good you feel squeezing his dick and how he’s going to ruin you for anyone else.

E - Edging and overstimulation: With his insane hockey stamina, Dean can edge you for hours. He’ll work your clit with his tongue in slow, teasing circles, bringing you right to the edge before pulling away with a wicked smirk. “Not yet, baby. I want to hear you fucking beg for it.” 

When he finally lets you cum, he doesn’t stop, he fucks you through it with deep, punishing strokes, then keeps going until you’re shaking, oversensitive and sobbing his name. He loves the way your thighs tremble around his head and how your pussy flutters desperately around his cock as he wrings every last orgasm out of you.

F - Frat house / Fast and rough: Dean thrives on risky, spontaneous fucks around the hockey house. When the team’s out, he’ll bend you over the kitchen counter or the couch, yanking your panties aside and slamming into you from behind without warning. If they’re home, one big hand covers your mouth to muffle your screams while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. “Shhh, baby. Don’t want the boys hearing how loud you moan for my cock.” He fucks you fast and rough, the thrill of possibly getting caught making him even harder as he fills you up and leaves you dripping.

G - Goon and guided sex: Dean loves when you ride him but he’s still very much in control from below. He grips your hips with strong hands, guiding you up and down his thick length while watching your tits bounce. “That’s it, just like that…fuck yourself on my cock, baby. Look at you using me so well.” He thrusts up hard to meet you, turning it into a sweaty, filthy battle. When you start getting tired he takes over completely, flipping you onto your back and driving into you with powerful strokes until you’re creaming all over him.

H - Hickeys and hair pulling: He marks you up like he owns you, with dark and possessive hickeys on your neck, breasts and inner thighs that he traces with his tongue the next morning. He loves when you pull his hair while he’s devouring your pussy and he returns the favor by fisting your hair tightly, guiding your mouth down on his cock until your nose presses against his pelvis. “Fuck yes…Choke on it, baby,” he groans, hips twitching as saliva drips down your chin.

I - Impromptu and intense: Spontaneous sex is Dean’s addiction. In the locker room after practice, in a bathroom at a party or in the back of his luxury car with tinted windows, he takes you whenever the mood strikes. He’ll push you against the nearest surface, drop to his knees to eat you out like a starving man, then stand up and fuck you senseless, whispering how he couldn’t wait another second to be inside you.

J - Jealousy and possessiveness: Dean pretends he’s chill but seeing someone flirt with you makes him snap. He drags you to the nearest private spot, bathroom, alley or empty room and pins you against the wall and fucks you hard and claiming. “You’re mine,” he growls between deep thrusts, biting your shoulder. “This pussy belongs to me. Say it while I fuck you stupid.” The sex is rough, apologetic and intense, ending with him filling you while murmuring how sorry he is for losing control.

K - Kinky games: Everything becomes a game with Dean. Strip poker that ends with you on your knees sucking him off or betting how many orgasms he can pull from you before the movie ends. Loser gets spanked with his big, rough hands, leaving perfect sore prints on your ass while he laughs and teases you for being so easy to beat.

L - Lingerie and lap dances: Dean goes feral when you wear expensive lingerie just for him. He leans back on the couch, legs spread, palming his hard cock through his pants while you give him a slow, teasing lap dance. “C’mere, baby. Let me feel how soaked that pretty set is.” He eventually pushes the lace aside, burying his face between your thighs and eating you out until your legs shake before pulling you down onto his cock.

M - Manhandling and mirror sex: Those strong defenseman arms make manhandling effortless. He flips and lifts you like you weigh nothing, fucking you against walls or tossing you onto the bed. His favorite is mirror sex, bending you over in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom so you both watch as his thick cock stretches your pussy. “Eyes on the mirror, baby. Watch how well you take every inch of me.”

N - Nipple play and neck kisses: He’s obsessed with your tits, sucking, biting and pinching your nipples while he fucks you slow and deep. His mouth on your neck leaves dark marks as he grinds against you, whispering filthy praise that makes you clench around him.

O - Oral (giving and receiving): Dean eats pussy like it’s his favorite meal. He throws your legs over his broad shoulders and devours you, moaning against your clit and tongue-fucking you until you’re grinding on his face. When you suck him off, he’s loud and filthy, groaning your name, praising how good your throat feels and gently fucking your mouth while his hand tangles in your hair.

P - Praise and public teasing: “Such a good girl taking my cock,” and “Fuck, you’re so perfect for me.” He’s generous with praise but loves teasing you in public by sliding his hand up your thigh under the table at team dinners and whispering exactly what he’s going to do to you later until you’re squirming and soaked.

Q - Quickies and quality: Even his quickies are intense. A hard, fast fuck in the stairwell or his car where he still makes sure you cum hard, often twice before pumping you full. He makes every minute count.

R - Rough sex: When the mood hits, Dean fucks like he plays, hard, fast and relentless. He pins your wrists above your head, delivers deep powerful thrusts and lightly chokes you while feeling your pulse race, and growls filthy things in your ear. He always checks in afterward, making sure you’re okay before going for round two.

S - Stamina and sweaty sex: Hockey conditioning means he can fuck for hours. Expect sweaty, loud, bed-breaking sex where the sheets end up soaked. He loves the slide of your slick bodies, the way your skin sticks to his as he drives into you over and over, both of you panting and moaning.

T - Toys and teasing: Dean’s adventurous with toys. He loves using a remote vibrator on you during team events, controlling the intensity from across the room while watching you try to stay composed. He’ll edge you with dildos and plugs before finally giving you his cock.

U - Uniform kink: The hockey gear is a huge turn-on. He’ll fuck you with his jersey still on (on your or him), pads half-off in the locker room, the scent of sweat and ice on his skin driving you crazy. You love riding him while he’s still in parts of his uniform, gripping the fabric as you cum.

V - Voyeurism and risk: Dean loves the thrill of almost getting caught. Balcony sex, fingering you under the table or fucking you against the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment where anyone could see. The risk makes him fuck you harder and deeper, hoping to make it worth the potential trouble.

W - Worship: He worships your body like a trophy by kissing, licking and praising every inch while buried inside you. You return it just as eagerly, tracing his abs, scars and cock with your tongue until he’s groaning your name like a prayer.

X - eXhibitionist tendencies: He’s shameless. He’ll let you ride him in the hot tub at a party or record you sucking his cock so he can rewatch it later and get hard again. The danger of being seen only turns him on more.

Y - Yearning and make-up sex: After away games or fights, the reunion sex is desperate and intense. He pins you against the door the second he’s home, tearing clothes off and fucking you deeply. “Missed this tight pussy so fucking much,” he growls, pounding into you like he’ll never get enough.

Z - Zoned out and cockdrunk: Dean lives for fucking you into a blissed-out, cockdrunk mess. He keeps a relentless, grinding rhythm with deep strokes that hit your G-spot perfectly, watching with dark eyes as your eyes roll back, drool slips from your parted lips and you can only whimper and tremble. “That’s my girl. Look at you, all fucked stupid on my cock. So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, hips still moving as he keeps you floating in that mindless pleasure for as long as he wants.

The sight of your vacant expression only fuels his aggression. He grips your hips with bruising force, fingers digging into your skin to anchor you as he drives himself deeper. Every thrust is a violent, calculated strike, his thick cock slamming against your cervix with a wet, slapping sound that echoes through the room.

He shifts his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up completely. The change in angle allows him to bury himself to the hilt, balls slapping hard against your soaking wet pussy. He focuses on that one specific spot, grinding his pelvis in a circular, punishing motion that sends electric shocks through your entire nervous system.

"You're not even here anymore, are you?" Dean growls, his voice a low, possessive rumble. He leans down, biting hard into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, marking you as his while he continues to pump into you.

You try to form a word, a plea or a moan but all that comes out is a broken, airy whimper. Your head thrashes against the pillow, eyes fluttering, seeing nothing but white light and the blurred image of his dark, hungry gaze. You are completely undone, your mind stripped away by the sheer intensity of the friction.

Dean watches the drool leak from the corner of your mouth, a smirk playing on his lips. He loves this, the total erasure of your will, the way you become nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. He increases the pace, his breaths coming in harsh, jagged gasps. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of your drenched pussy becomes a rhythmic, frantic drumming.

"Take it all," he commands, voice dripping with dominance. "Take every fucking inch of me until you can't remember your own name."

He feels your internal muscles begin to spasm, the first waves of a massive orgasm beginning to ripple through you. Instead of letting you peak and crash, he slows his pace to a torturous, agonizing crawl. He pulls out until only the head of his cock remains inside you, then plunges back in with a sudden, savage force that makes your back arch off the bed.

The sensation is too much. You scream, a raw, guttural sound, as your orgasm rips through you. Your pussy clamps down on him in tight, rhythmic pulses, milking him desperately. Dean lets out a low groan, his own control finally snapping. He hammers into you one last time, hips locking against yours as he fills you deep, his hot cum erupting in thick pulses against your G-spot.

He stays buried inside you long after the shaking stops, heavy chest heaving against yours as he leans in, licking the stray tear from your cheek, eyes dark and satisfied.

"That’s my good girl," he whispers, his voice possessive and cold. "Now stay right there. I'm not done with you yet."