#jlo

Dean Di Laurentis x Female reader

Summary: Summary: It’s your first week in college when Hannah drags you to the Kappa Chi house party when you are playing truth or dare you are dared to kiss Dean.When you are on the way to your dorm you received a message from who can it be and what will happen next?

Notes: MDNI (18+) write me for requests!!

The bass from the Kappa Chi house vibrated through the soles of your heels as you and Hannah walked up the front steps. The porch was cluttered with red cups and laughing bodies, and the humid October air smelled like cheap beer, perfume, and smoke. You smoothed the hem of your black dress—the one you’d bought in secret last week, the one that dipped low in the back and clung to your hips like it was made for you.

Hannah grabbed your wrist, pulling you to a stop. She was dressed in a burgundy crop top and ripped jeans, her blonde hair curled perfectly, but her eyes were fixed on you.

“You look insane,” she said, voice low and serious. “Like, actually insane. Every guy in there is going to lose his mind.”

You flushed, shaking your head. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a weapon,” she corrected, grinning. “Now come on. I need a drink, and you need to be seen.”

She pushed open the door, and the noise hit you like a wave. The living room was packed—sweaty bodies grinding to a thumping beat, a beer pong table on the far side where guys were shouting, girls perched on couches and armrests. Lights strobed red and blue. You felt exposed and electric at the same time.

Hannah led you to the kitchen, grabbing two cups and filling them from a keg. She handed you one. “Drink. Loosen up. You’re too stiff.”

You took a sip. It was warm and bitter, but the burn in your throat helped. You leaned against the counter, scanning the crowd. And then you saw him.

Dean Di Laurentis stood near the staircase, talking to two other guys—Garrett and John, you recognized from campus. He was leaning against the wall, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a red cup. His dark hair was slightly messy, stubble shadowing his jaw. He laughed at something Garrett said, head tilted back, throat exposed. Then his eyes swept the room.

They landed on you.

And stopped.

The laughter faded from his face. His gaze traveled down your body—slow, deliberate, like he was tasting you with his eyes. He didn’t look away when your eyes met. Instead, he raised his cup slightly, acknowledging you. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

Your stomach plummeted. Heat crawled up your neck.

Hannah noticed. “Oh my god. Dean Di Laurentis is staring at you.”

“He’s not—“

“He is. Don’t look. Actually, do look. Smile. No, not like that—“

“Hannah, stop.”

But your heart was pounding. You forced yourself to look away, taking a long gulp of your beer. The night stretched ahead, and you felt his gaze like a brand on your skin.

An hour later, you were three beers deep and actually dancing. Hannah had dragged you into the living room, and you let the music take over—hips swaying, arms above your head. You weren’t the best dancer, but in this crowd, no one cared. You closed your eyes and let the bass move through you.

When you opened them, Dean was across the room, watching. He wasn’t dancing. He was just leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you. His jaw was tight.

You felt a thrill—something dangerous and exciting. You held his gaze as you moved, letting your body roll to the beat. His pupils dilated. He didn’t blink.

Then Hannah grabbed your arm again. “Truth or dare room. They’re setting it up in the den. You have to come.”

“I’m not—“

“You are. It’s your first college party. You need the full experience.” She was already pulling you through the crowd, weaving between bodies. You glanced back, but Dean had disappeared.

The den was smaller, cozier—a worn leather couch, a few beanbags, and a circle of people on the floor. A bottle of cheap whiskey sat in the middle. Hannah pushed you down onto a cushion and sat beside you.

The game started slow. A freshman guy had to serenade the girl next to him. A girl admitted she’d hooked up with her roommate’s brother. The bottle spun. Laughter. Gasps. The alcohol was making everything hazy and warm.

Then the bottle pointed at you.

The girl spinning it—a redhead with a wicked grin—looked at you. “Truth or dare, new girl?”

“Dare,” you said without thinking. Hannah squeezed your knee.

The redhead’s grin widened. “I dare you to go find Dean Di Laurentis, walk up to him, and kiss him. Not a peck. A real kiss. Tongue. We’ll know if you wimp out.”

Your heart stopped. The circle erupted in cheers and hoots. Hannah was laughing, but her eyes were wide. “You asked for it,” she whispered.

Your throat was dry. Every cell in your body screamed no, but something else—something reckless and bold—pushed you to your feet.

“Fine,” you said.

The room went quiet. You walked out of the den, down the hallway, your heels clicking. You found him back in the living room, now leaning against the staircase banister, talking to Garrett. He saw you coming and straightened.

Garrett noticed you too. “Uh, Dean—“

“I know,” Dean said softly. He didn’t move.

You stopped in front of him. The party noise faded to a dull hum. His dark eyes searched yours, curious, amused, hungry.

“Truth or dare,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “They dared me to kiss you.”

“Is that so?” His lips curled. “And you chose to do it?”

“I always do what I’m dared.”

He stepped closer. A whisper of space between you. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

You reached up, your hand sliding along his jaw. His skin was warm, rough with stubble. You pulled his face down to yours and pressed your lips to his.

It was soft at first—tentative, testing. But his hand found your waist, fingers splaying across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Your lips parted. His tongue brushed yours, slow and deliberate. A low sound rumbled in his chest, and he deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head back. You melted into him, your fingers gripping his shoulder. The world tilted. Your knees went weak.

He broke the kiss slowly, dragging his mouth away just an inch, breathing against your lips. “That,” he said, voice rough, “was not a dare. That was a promise.”

Garrett let out a low whistle behind him. “Damn, Di Laurentis.”

But Dean didn’t look at him. He just kept his eyes on you, dark and burning. “I’ll find you later,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, barely able to speak. Then you turned and walked back to the den, legs shaking. Hanna grabbed you as soon as you sat down, squealing. “Oh my god, oh my god, that was intense.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. But your skin tingled, and your phone buzzed in your clutch an hour later.

Unknown: You’re not going home tonight.

You saved his number with trembling fingers. You didn’t reply. But you didn’t leave the party either.

You stayed, dancing, laughing with Hannah, feeling his gaze on you from across the room. Every time you turned, he was there. Watching. Waiting.

At midnight, Hannah found you on the back porch, looking up at the stars. “You’re going to his place, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

She hugged you tight. “Be safe. Text me. And tell me everything tomorrow.”

You hugged her back. “I will.”

Then you slipped out the back gate, phone in hand. The address he’d sent glowed on the screen. A ten-minute walk.

You didn’t run. You made yourself walk slow, savoring the cool air, the anticipation pooling low in your belly. His apartment building was old brick, a light on in the second-floor window. You climbed the stairs, knocked.

He opened the door before you could lower your hand. He’d changed into a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair damp, barefoot. His eyes were dark and soft.

“You came,” he said.

“I told you. I always do what I’m dared.”

He reached for you, pulling you inside. The door clicked shut. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “That kiss,” he said slowly, “has been on my mind every second since. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t talk to anyone. I just kept tasting you.”

Your breath hitched. “Then taste me again.”

He did.

He kissed you gently this time—slow, exploring, like he had all the time in the world. His lips traced yours, nibbled your lower lip, licked into your mouth as if savoring. His hands slid down your back, over the curve of your ass, pressing you against his hips. You felt him hard through his sweatpants, and you moaned into his mouth.

He pulled back, breathing ragged. “I want this to last,” he said. “I want to take my time with you.”

“Then take it.”

He smiled, a flash of teeth in the dim light. He took your hand and led you to his room.

It was simple—a bed with dark sheets, a lamp casting warm amber light, a stack of textbooks on the desk. He sat you on the edge of the bed and knelt before you, looking up. “I’ve been fantasizing about you all night. That dress. The way you moved when you danced. The way you kissed me like you meant it.”

He reached for your heel, unstrapped it, slid it off. Then the other. He pressed his lips to your ankle, kissing up your calf. Your skin prickled. You watched his dark head bend, his lips trailing a slow path to your knee, then to your inner thigh.

“Dean,” you whispered.

“Shh,” he murmured against your skin. “Let me worship you.”

He pushed the hem of your dress up, baring your thighs. He kissed higher, teeth grazing your panties. You gasped. His fingers hooked the lace and pulled them down, slowly. He pressed a kiss to the very top of your slit through the fabric, then eased them off entirely.

He sat back, looking at you—exposed, wet, trembling. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Then he leaned in, his mouth on you. And he took his time.

He kissed your inner thighs, your hip bones, the soft curve of your belly. He teased you until you were squirming, hands fisting in the sheets. His tongue finally—finally—found your clit, and you cried out. And then he licked you, slow and steady, like he was savoring every drop.

He brought you close, then pulled away. He’d slide a finger inside you, curl it, then stop. You begged. He made you wait, made you ask, made you feel every second of the tension.

By the time he finally stood, shucking his shirt and letting his sweats drop, you were a trembling mess. His cock was thick, hard, the head glistening. He rolled on a condom with deliberate slowness, watching you watch him.

He crawled over you, caging you with his arms. “You ready?”

“Yes. Please.”

He entered you inch by inch, his eyes locked on yours. Your back arched, your mouth falling open. He filled you completely, then stilled, letting you adjust. His forehead pressed to yours.

“Look at me,” he breathed. “I want to see you fall apart.”

And then he moved—deep, slow, dragging against your walls. He built a rhythm that was almost torturous, pulling out until only the tip remained, then pushing back in with agonizing care. You clawed at his back, gasping his name. He kissed you, swallowing your moans, his hips never stopping.

He brought you to the edge four times—teetering, clinging, begging—before he finally let you fall. And when you did, he followed, burying his face in your neck, shuddering.

Afterward, he lay beside you, pulling you into his arms. His hand stroked your hair. “You’re not just a hookup,” he said quietly. “I need you to know that.”

You looked up at him, heart aching. “I know.”

He kissed your forehead. Then he reached for his phone and, with a smirk, started typing.

Later, you found out he’d texted Garrett and John:

1:12 AM - Dean: She’s different.

1:47 AM - Dean: I think I’m in trouble.

2:03 AM - Dean: Don’t text me tomorrow. I’m busy.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a key in the lock. Hanna’s voice rang out from the living room: “Dean Di Laurentis, if you don’t tell me where she is, I will burn this apartment down.”

You smiled, stretched, and padded out in one of his shirts. Hannah saw you, her face lighting up.

“Oh my god—okay, spill.”

Hannah finally left after extracting every detail she could. The door clicked shut behind her, and the apartment fell quiet. You were still wearing Dean's shirt—gray, soft, smelling like him—and you leaned against the counter, sipping the coffee he'd made. He came up behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his hands settling on your hips.

"She's intense," he murmured against your ear.

"She's protective."

"Good." He kissed the curve of your neck, lips grazing the spot where your pulse fluttered. "I like that you have someone who cares about you."

You turned in his arms, facing him. His eyes were dark again—that same hungry look from the party, but softer now, laced with something deeper. He brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"I don't want you to leave," he said quietly. "Not yet. Not for a while."

"Then I won't."

He kissed you. Slow at first, just a warm press of lips, but it deepened quickly. His tongue slid against yours, and his hands dropped to your ass, squeezing through the shirt. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair. He walked you backward until your hips hit the counter edge.

"Round two?" he asked, breathless.

"Round two," you agreed.

He lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your thighs. The shirt rode up, exposing your bare legs, your lace panties. He looked down at you, raking his gaze over every inch.

"I want to take you in every way," he said, voice low. "I want to watch you from every angle. I want to hear you beg in different positions. And I want to make you come so many times you forget your own name."

Your breath caught. "Then show me."

He grinned—slow, wicked—and lifted you off the counter. He carried you back to the bedroom, but instead of laying you on the bed, he set you down beside it. "Turn around. Hands on the mattress."

You obeyed, bending forward, palms flat on the edge of the bed. The shirt fell forward, baring your back and the curve of your ass. He stood behind you, and you felt his hands slide up your thighs, pushing the shirt higher.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, voice rough. "Spread open. Waiting."

He knelt behind you, pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher. He pushed your panties aside and licked a slow stripe along your slit. You gasped, fingers gripping the sheets. He buried his face between your legs, his tongue circling your clit, then dipping lower, tasting you. Your legs trembled. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips.

He brought you to the edge once, twice, pulling away each time you were close. You whimpered, begging. He laughed softly, standing up. The sound of his jeans dropping, the rustle of a condom wrapper. Then the head of his cock pressed against your wet entrance.

He slid in slowly—agonizingly slowly—filling you from behind. Your back arched, a cry escaping your lips. He bottomed out, holding still for a moment, letting you feel the fullness.

"You feel incredible," he groaned. Then he began to move.

He set a deep, steady rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in. Each stroke hit deep, pressing against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His hands were on your hips, then one moved up to grip your hair, pulling your head back gently. The angle changed, and you felt him even deeper.

"Dean—fuck—"

"Yeah," he breathed. "Keep saying my name."

He quickened the pace, slapping against you with wet, obscene sounds. Your legs shook, your knuckles white on the sheets. He reached around with his free hand, finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles. The pleasure built like a scream.

"I'm close," you gasped.

"Not yet," he said, voice strained. He slowed down, almost stopping, drawing out the ache. Then he pulled out completely.

You whimpered at the emptiness.

He turned you around, guiding you onto the bed. He lay back, patting his thighs. "Come here. Ride me."

You straddled him, hovering over his cock. He was slick with your wetness, flushed and hard. You sank down onto him slowly, both of you groaning. Your hands rested on his chest, and you began to move—up and down, rolling your hips. His hands found your waist, guiding you, but he let you set the pace.

You took him deep, grinding your clit against his pubic bone with each rotation. His jaw slackened, his eyes half-lidded. "Fuck, you're so good at that. Don't stop."

You increased your rhythm, bouncing faster. The new angle let him hit differently—deeper, fuller. You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, and his mouth found your nipple. He sucked, bit lightly, while his hips thrust up to meet your descent.

Sweat slicked your skin. The room filled with the sounds of breathing, moaning, the wet noise of sex. He reached between your bodies, fingers pressing on your clit again, and that was it—the tension broke. You came with a sharp cry, your walls clenching around him. He groaned, gripping your hips, thrusting up into you as you pulsed around him.

Before you could recover, he flipped you onto your back. He pulled out, rolled you onto your stomach, and lifted your hips with a pillow beneath them. "One more," he said. "I want to feel you come on my cock again."

He entered you from behind again, but slower this time, more deliberate. His chest pressed to your back, his lips at your ear. "You're mine tonight," he whispered. "Every inch of you."

He fucked you with deep, grinding strokes, his hand sliding up to grip your hair again. The position made every nerve sing. You buried your face in the pillow, moaning. He built the rhythm—fast, then slow, then fast again—until you were a sobbing, trembling mess. He reached under you, fingers finding your clit, and within seconds you shattered again, convulsing around him.

He followed, burying his face in your shoulder, shuddering. His breath was hot on your skin. He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a warm blanket.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. Then he eased out, disposed of the condom, and pulled you into his arms. He kissed your shoulder, your cheek, your lips.

"Three positions," he murmured, smiling against your mouth. "And I still want more."

You laughed weakly. "Give me ten minutes."

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