‧₊˚♪ ೃ࿔𖤝miu🀥𝄞₊˚⊹

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

You were here solely because your friend knew one of the guys fighting - otherwise this event was pretty hush-hush, being hosted in some warehouse that you nearly got lost on the way to. For being a secret fight though, the turnout was pretty decent. But that? That was irrelevant. In all honesty, you only cared about one person being in attendance; Max Cooperman. And you had eyes on him at that very moment. He was standing in the ring, microphone in hand. 

You couldn't believe you were seeing him up close and personal and couldn’t control the butterflies that fluttered in your tummy. You’d gotten a front row standing spot, so you could get your fill of him. His boyish dark blonde curls, dark brown eyes, utterly kissable lips… You'd only ever seen him at parties, mingling with whatever girl was the choice of the night - which, regrettably, was never you. But, to be fair, you never put yourself on the market. He was the cutest guy you'd seen in high school, then college, and as the college parties continued, the obsession with him grew stronger and stronger.

As Max spoke, jovially announcing the fighters, you bit down on the pillowy cushion of your bottom lip, your eyes locked on his face. He was clearly in his element, feeling like the center of attention, and the confidence oozed from his pores. You were like putty in his hands, and he hadn't even said a word to you yet. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, and intentionally exposing your cleavage to him. Out of the corner of his eye, the tantalizing flash of flesh pulled his attention away from the crowd.

His brown eyes flitted to your breasts, away and then immediately flashed up to your face. You were still biting down on your lip, which, all things considered, probably looked very suggestive to him. Max grinned and that dorky smile sent a bolt of arousal straight to your cunt. You let out a little mewl, and crossed your legs, bringing his gaze to your crotch, where they lingered for just a second before darting away, finishing his spiel. 

"Any questions?" 

"Yeah!" You cupped your hands around your mouth, amplifying your voice. "I have a question for you, Max!"

His attention turned back to you for the second time, a knowing look plastered on his face. You were up to something, and he felt it. For a moment, he was worried you were going to embarrass him. Inside, the butterflies beat ruthlessly in his stomach. 

"Are you single?!" You shouted up at him, jerking your chin up once to emphasize the question. Members of the small crowd began jeering at him, hollering in response. Flustered, his soft cheeks were flushed, dark eyes flitting between you and the rest of the crowd. You mouthed, 'You're hot' and flashed him a bright, confident smile. 

You could immediately tell that he was flustered. Nervously, he brought the mic back to his lips and muttered, "Y-yeah! Alright uhh -- let's go! And don't forget to subscribe to our YouTube channel! We livestream all the fights there and announce events. So... do that!" 

"Hey..." 

"Hey," you replied, looking deep into his eyes. They were so dark, yet so warm and inviting.

With one hand, you shoved him back against the wall. He stumbled slightly, looking surprised by your sudden motion. "Hoh' shit..." Max looked down at your hand as it trailed down his chest.

"I want you, baby." With that, you smashed your lips against his neck, sucking the salty flesh into your mouth. Max gave way immediately, tilting his head to the side to expose more of his neck to you. Brows knitting together, he whimpered, hands blindly feeling for your jean-clad hips. Once he found them, he gripped them hard, pulling himself against you. He was already getting hard? You sniggered against his neck. 

"What!?" He hissed.

Leaning away at the chest, you looked at him, quirking a brow. "You've already got a boner..." 

Max bumped his head against the wall, scrunching up in his face in embarrassment. After a moment, he opened his eyes and found yours, looking hard into them. "Well, yeah, I mean to be fair, I've got a hot babe - a knockout - in front of me, sucking on my neck like Nosferatu or something." 

You nodded, sucking in the corner of your bottom lip. "A knockout? Really?" That was cheesy. You were being purposefully coy and you both knew it. You pressed your body back against his, 'hmm'ing' into his neck before picking back up with the kisses. Your hand found his crotch, rubbing at the stiff bulge that met it. Max ground his hips against your palm, forcing friction and more pressure. He was so whiny, whimpering like a little bitch underneath you -- but you loved it. It drove you forward as you teasingly stroked his cock outside his jeans. 

Max abruptly took hold of your shoulders, panting heavily. He searched your mischievous expression, looking for permission. Your gaze was lust-blown and woozy, but you managed to smile at your handiwork; his neck was covered in little crimson spots. By tomorrow, there'd be no hiding them. He wavered, looking back towards the clearing; the fight was underway, and he never missed a fight, but.... his cock ached. So bad. He wasn't going to kill the vibe and turn you down. No way. 

"C'mon. In here." Max opened a door to his right, and tugged you inside. It was a small bathroom, just a toilet and a sink. Bare bones, but you'd expect nothing less from a warehouse restroom. Besides, interior decor wasn't the focus -- getting Max Cooperman to put his hands all over you was. 

For a minute, he just stared at you, his back against the door, looking stupid and confused at what he should do. You couldn’t help but laugh, an airy giggle tumbling off your lips. 

“What, don’t know how to take a girl flirting with you? Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen often…” 

Max shrugged boyishly, looking sheepish. “Usually, I’m not the focus but uh… that’s not to say that I don’t get ass… I do…”

“Uh-huh,” you teased. “Sure.” 

“No, really, I do.” 

“Well, you’re gonna’ get some right now.” 

Without another word, you sank to your knees, your hands on the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers nimbly undid the buttons and zip, letting his pants fall to his ankles. The outline of his cock in his briefs was a sight to behold; the little spot of precum that had darkened the fabric was an even better one. 

“Already leaking, huh? He wants to fuck…” 

At your words, Max whined with an open mouth, bumping his head against the back of the door, his fists clenched at his side. You smiled, and peeled his briefs down slowly. His cock sprang free in your face, heavy and flushed. You were delighted by the sight, and pressed your lips against the velvet soft head. The slick glossed your lips, and the boy above you was already writhing, adjusting his legs and thrusting his hips closer to your mouth. 

Pulling away, you let out another little giggle through closed lips. “You like that? You want me to suck your dick, Max?” 

Breathlessly, he looked down at you and nodded, begging you with his dark brown eyes and open mouth. You gazed up at his face and inched towards his cock, tongue out like a landing strip. The head hit your tongue first, sliding back against the wetness. His precum was salty, but you craved the taste of it and began bobbing your head back and forth, allowing his cock to hit the back of your throat. It flexed on the tip of it, sending a shockwave through Max’s body. He started moving with you, dumbly thrusting his hips into your mouth. Max watched as your throat took his cock masterfully, clenching around it every time it hit the back. 

“Fuck, oh my god…. Oh my god.” One of his hands found the back of your hand, fingers entangling in your hair. He pulled slightly, guiding you back and forth at a speed that he wanted. The muscles in his abdomen flexed, chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. His cock ached bad, and the way your tongue massaged the vein underneath had him quivering against the door. Sweat streamed down from his hairline, dampening his curly locks. 

Watching this erotic visual above you, the corners of your mouth turned upwards and you took hold of his dick with one hand, pumping at the base, milking him onto your tongue. You slurped and sucked at his cock, pulling desperate whines from his throat. After a few moments, sticky with precum, you pulled away and swallowed. Max could hardly hold himself up at that point, and shakily lifted his head to look down at you. 

“Wh-wha, why’d you stop? Don’t stop…” 

You smiled, wiping the corner of your mouth with your middle finger. “You wanna’ fuck me?” 

Max hesitated, his brain foggy with lust. You reached for his hand, pulling it towards your jean skirt. Standing on your tiptoes, you walked your legs out just enough to allow his hand between them, and pressed his fingertips against your wet, throbbing cunt. The fabric of your underwear was saturated, and immediately, his fingers began moving, stroking your slit with an instinctive hunger. 

“Oh fuck, you’re so…” 

“Wet? Yeah. So, do you wanna’ do it? C’mon, quickly.” You snapped your fingers in front of your face. The sound seemed to pull him away from his pussy-touching trance and he nodded, slowly at first. He kept nodding, faster as you walked over to the sink. 

You bent over the sink, exposing your ass cheeks to him. Your skirt was short enough that all Max had to do was pull your frilly pink thong to the side, and slip in. Which he did, holding his cock with one hand and your hips with the other. He lined up, breached your entrance with his squishy, hot tip, and sank all the way in, letting out a husky groan as he did. 

Your walls clenched around him, heat enveloping his cock as he pumped in and out a few times, watching intently. Your cunt was drenched, and the slick coated him, providing no friction as he fucked you. No longer needing to hold onto his cock, his hands found the curve of your shoulders to use as leverage for his thrusts. Behind you, Max whined, rutting his strong hips against you. 

Moaning loud as you bounced on his cock, you tilted your head back, hair falling in his face. Max inhaled your scent, addicted to the sweet floral scent of your shampoo. Never thinking that he’d be fucking in the bathroom of the warehouse, Max’s tummy was in knots, tightening further with each thrust. 

“I’m gonna’...” 

You forced him to bottom out, wiggling your ass against his groin. The action made his breath hitch in his throat, looking down at the fullness of your ass cheeks as they swept across his skin. You were so hot, and it drove him crazy. 

“Fuck, FUCK!” Without warning, Max exploded, his cock twitching inside you, painting your walls with white heat. 

“Finger me,” you said, chest heaving. Your orgasm was close, you needed just a little more. 

Max withdrew his cock, and turned you around, so that your ass was resting on the edge of the sink. He replaced his cock with two of his fingers, and leaned forward to kiss you. Your mouths connected in a sloppy, wet kiss as his digits pumped into your cunt fast, curling upwards to hit the spongy flesh of your G-spot. You sucked in a breath, and exhaled expletives into his mouth as you came around his fingers, leaking out onto his hand. 

“Fuck yeah, fuck yeah oh my god…..” 

“Holy shit,” Max said, watching you. As your cunt clenched around his digits, you rolled your hips against his hand, pushing his fingers in as far as they could go. After a few moments, he pulled out, and in the mirror, you saw him bring his middle and ring fingers – the ones that had just been embedded in your pussy – to his mouth. He sucked them clean. 

“That was fucking hot…” You whispered, laughing. 

“Yeah, no kiddin’.” 

“Guess you should get back to your fight, huh? See who won?”

“Shit… yeah, I guess so.” 

Max left the bathroom first, while you cleaned up. You smiled to yourself in the mirror, pleased with what had just transpired. Mission accomplished. 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

You walked steadily, the only sound you could perceive was the grass being crushed by your low heel pumps. The birds’ faint chirp rang in your ears, accompanied by your anxious breathing. You were walking in the dark both because your sunnies made everything cloudy and because you had no idea where your destination was.

“Where you goin’, beautiful?” was what all drivers asked while slowing their cars as they saw an objectively young woman alone in the middle of a desert land. They also all drove off after hearing your response. Why would such an adorable creature be led in a freakshow?

If only they knew. You kept wandering around, your hands clutching tightly to the handle of your bag, and your heart clinging onto the hope. And then, you felt like your prayers had been listened to once a car stopped and actually offered you a ride. You had nothing to lose, especially because they said they were going to the freakshow too. You hopped in the backseat of their car, adjusting your glasses in the awkward silence.

“So uhm…what brings you to the freakshow?” You cleared your throat after asking.

The couple chuckled and turned to you. Only then you realized that the woman had three breasts, and the man had, well…one heck of a bicep. A toothy smile made its way on your face, you had already made some friends.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Time passed while your eyes scanned the view from the window, and before you knew it, you had arrived. You were greeted by a giant entrance shaped as a wicked…devil? Whatever that thing was, it made you shiver. You wished good luck to the couple as they walked towards Elsa’s tent, you decided to prepare yourself before ‘auditioning’. You settled your bag onto the grass, and began searching for your cards, when suddenly a misshapen geek ran towards you with…a little flower?

“Flower!” She babbled with a crooked grin.

You, who had fallen onto the ground after that thing scared the hell out of you, quickly got up taking a few steps back.

“Pepper, c’mere.” A young man walked towards who you assumed was pepper.

He had brown locks falling onto his face, deep brown eyes gazing at you and your figure, and a boyish smile plastered on his face. He was wearing a simple white tank, and as your gaze traveled down, you noticed that his hands were…deformed.

“Excuse her, she’s just got a lil’ excited. S’not everyday a beautiful lady like ya comes around.” He winked.

“Oh…that’s okay. Thank you for the flower.” You smiled at Pepper, who got all giddy as you took her flower.

“A ride on the carousel’s one nickel, doll. Want me to show ya the way?” He kept checking you out.

“Oh uh…I’m not here for that.” You chuckled apologetically.

“Oh. Looking for another typa ride?” He flexed his arms and hands.

“What? N-no.” You felt the heat rising to your cheeks.

“I’m here to…join.” You added, almost bashfully.

“Join what? The carnival?” He raised an eyebrow as he peeked at your bag.

You nodded, which earned a scoff from him.

“Ya know ya actually have to be a freak to join? Or ya got a surprise under yer dress?” He chuckled.

“Uh no…I am a freak too, though.” You slid your sunglasses over your head, revealing your heterochromia. One of your eyes was light, the other was dark. His eyes widened a little at the sight, then he burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” You frowned, a wave of insecurity washing over you.

“Ya think yer a freak jus’ because ya got different colored eyes? That’s an insult to us, real freaks.” He spat.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” You narrowed your eyes as your annoyance grew.

“I don’t think ya got the right to call yerself a freak. Look at me, look at my hands, I could never be considered normal with these. But you? Ya could be a heck of a model. Yer quirk doesn’t make ya disgusting to look at. So you better leave, little girl, before you actually see what the real freaks are like.” He replied bitterly.

Suddenly you were a kid again, all the other normal children playing around you while you were sitting in the corner of the class eating your jam sandwich.

“My mom said she came from the devil’s womb…” Little Kimberly whispered.

“Really? My dad says she’s a witch…” Young Sebastian muttered.

And now, this lobster boy came up to you to tell you that you didn’t suffer enough to consider yourself an actual freak? How rude.

“You don’t know a single thing about me, I’ve been an outcast my whole life, I know for sure what I can call myself and I know even better that I belong here. I thought I wouldn’t get judged if I was among people like me. But apparently, I was wrong.” You raised your voice.

“You’ll never be like us. And what can ya even do? Sing? Dance?” He chuckled, smirking.

“I read tarots.” You crossed your arms.

“Oh well, good luck with that. Elsa doesn’t believe in that crap.” He spoke harshly before walking away.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

You ended up joining the circus. Something that you said brought up memories in Elsa's mind, convincing her. You even had your own little stand where sometimes people would stop by. Some were suspicious, some were faithful. In the end, they all left your stand with a new set of hopes. The other freaks weren’t so bad, in fact, they welcomed you with open arms. Ethel, the bearded woman, was one of your favorites. She was always sweet with you, and you felt so…safe with her. You couldn’t quite understand how such a wonderful woman gave birth to such a rude creature. Jimmy, her son, was in fact her complete opposite. Always making fun of your profession, with that stupid grin that he loved to flash, especially to the ladies. This is why at her funeral you were sobbing your eyes out. She was like a mother to you, the accepting one that you never had. And if her weird death managed to hit you that badly, it was even worse for Jimmy. He was really close to his mother, so her death completely destroyed him, making him a drunk mess and an even more annoying bastard.

After the burial, you walked to your stand, organizing it for the next day. You were putting the cards away, when suddenly a voice behind you made you jump.

“Ya got a minute?” Jimmy spoke with a broken voice, leaning against the entrance.

He was soaking wet, so you assumed he stayed next to his mother’s grave in the rain. You had to admit, the sight made your heart ache. He looked so heartbroken, a miserable expression on his face, his deep brown eyes dull, visibly lost.

“O-of course…What do you need?” You frowned as he sat down in front of you, dismissing your help with a wave of his claws. He sniffled, pointing to your cards.

“Do these actually work?” He looked up at you, brows creased.

“Uh…I mean…technically it’s all based on universe belief-” You were interrupted by him.

“Do these fucking work?” He repeated, his voice rough and angry, although you could see a hint of desperation in his eyes. You didn’t know how to answer his question, so you simply nodded, hoping that was what he wanted to hear. You sat down and shuffled the cards.

“Pull three cards.” You spread the cards over the table.

He pulled three, then turned them to face the surface.

DEATH, THE DEVIL, JUDGEMENT.

His gaze hardened and he quickly stood up.

“Are ya messing with me?!” He slammed his claws on the table, some cards falling down.

“What? No! Why would I?” You raised your voice in defense.

“Yer doing this on purpose!” He growled, then turned around and punched the tent out of anger. He buried his face in his hands, and to your surprise, he started crying. You immediately hurried to him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, rubbing your thumb in soothing circles.

“I-I swear…it’s all casual…I didn’t mean to-” You spoke, almost ashamed, before being cut off. He grabbed your shoulders, lifting you up and slamming your body against the tend. He held you up like that, his face a few inches away from yours, you could actually feel his breath on his face. He smelled like alcohol.

“Casual, huh? I come up to ya out of pure desperation, hoping that those little fairytales you tell to yer customers will at least distract me, to let there be light…and what do ya fucking show me? Death, judgement and the fucking devil?” He spoke cruelly, his grip on your shoulders tightening.

“Y-you’re drunk, Jimmy…please…” You breathed out, scared of what his next possible move could be.

“Yer so fucking annoying!” He grunted to your face, his gaze severe as it traveled down to your lips, where a sudden change of expression crept on his face. He took a deep breath.

“but so damn addicting...” He muttered under his breath, hurriedly smashing his lips against yours. His kiss was harsh, crude, driven by a primal instinct. You were confused, yes, and you were pretty sure he wasn’t completely lucid. Yet, you leaned into the kiss, your lips moving in sync against his. He hummed as he felt you reciprocate, and roughly grabbed the back of your thighs, pulling them up and sliding between them, so that your legs were wrapped around his torso, and his hips were pressing against yours. You yelped at the sudden change of position, your arms reaching to drape around his neck. Now that you were securely clinging onto him, he grabbed your waist, his face nuzzling in the crook of your neck.

“Fucking angel…whatcha do to me…” He mumbled while sliding his lips on your neck, making you shiver. He started kissing and sucking your skin until he left a red mark. You tried to bite back a groan.

“Lemme hear ya…” He sunk his teeth onto the skin of your neck, being careful not to draw blood. That caused an almost instant moan from you and you felt him smile while he trailed kisses down your chest, against the fabric of your dress. He groaned in frustration as the thin fabric represented a barrier between you two that he had to get rid of as soon as possible. He reached to the zipper on your back, brutally pulling it down along with your dress. His eyes traveled on your almost naked figure, causing a subtle blush on your cheeks. He buried his face between your breasts, one of his big hands unclasping your bra and groping your tits. His mouth worked wonders on your nipples, and pretty much all of the skin around. You couldn’t help but groan, especially when his claws made their way on your heat, sliding your panties aside. His fused fingers brushed a few times against your clit before immediately dipping in your slick entrance.

“Ohh…! f-fuck Jimmy…” You moaned, your hands reaching to grip his curls. He grinned and pumped his fingers steadily, increasing progressively the pace. Your moans kept growing louder and louder, as you felt that knot in your tummy tighten.

“Jus’ like that, doll…takin’ it so well…” He murmured in your ears, occasionally biting your earlobe. You felt your back slide against the tent wall, in sync with the rhythm of his fingers.

“S-shit…I’m gonna- ah!- cum…” You whined.

“Let go…let go f’me, sunshine…” He groaned, his tongue sliding down to tease your collarbone. With a few more pumps, you reached the edge, coming on his fingers. Your moans were so loud you were sure that everyone outside heard you.

“There ya go, doll…so good…” He smirked, letting you catch your breath. He looked at his fingers, wet with your release. He brought them to his mouth, sucking your cum off of them. The sight drove you crazy, so in return, you sank to your knees, your hands urgently working on the buttons of his pants. He let out a small gasp of surprise.

“Uh…whatcha doin’, angel?” He breathed out, almost shyly, as you pulled his pants along with his boxers down.

“Returning the favor..” You batted your lashes at him, innocently and naughtily at the same time.

“O-oh…alright…I’m not used to uh…usually girls are all over my fingers, they don’t really pay attention to my-” He cut himself off with a moan, caused by your lips suddenly wrapping around his tip. You were surprised by his size, he was average in length, although he was…girthy. You started sucking gently, slowly and teasingly.

“Ah…like that…” He groaned and tried to fight the urge of grabbing your head and fucking your face. You smiled as you tasted his pre-cum, finally deciding to take more of him in your mouth. Once you adjusted to his bigness, you started bobbing your head up and down.

“Oh! f-fuck…so fucking good…like that…atta girl…” His eyes shut down in pleasure, his mouth opening in an “o” form. He couldn’t resist anymore, he grasped the back of your head and started fucking your face at a faster pace. The impact was harsh, and it caused you to gag a little, your eyes watering.

“Sorry doll…ya jus’...feel so fucking good…” He moaned, bobbing your head up and down even faster, catching his orgasm. He groaned, releasing hot strings of cum in your mouth. He quickly pulled out, helping you up on your feet and watching you swallow with a proud grin. He helped you put on your clothes again, and picked you up like a princess, as if you weighed nothing. He pressed some kisses to the side of your face.

“Yer my light, dollface.” He smiled, all mushy.

“Let’s go get some rest in my caravan…I’ll get ya ice cream later, yea?” He chuckled.

You had never seen him happier.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

a/n: hiiii!!! ughhhh this took sooo long, I'm so full of exams!!! BTW, I tried to write a more interesting plot, bcs I know that Jimmy is very underrated and not many people read fics of him!! poor little lobster boy. Anyways, hope you like it!!❤️❤️

taglist: @cxndiedvi0lets @marchsfreakshow @fear-is-truth @doll3tt33 @angeldollw @newwavesylviaplath @evpeters87 @dont-look-behind @brightanshiny

Your feet kicked water up towards the dry sand as you walked, hand in hand with The Lobster Boy. Outside of the circus tent, he was as normal as every other guy. Better, in fact, than most of the guys you'd tried to go steady with. From his manners to his looks, he had you wrapped around one of his conjoined fingers. And he'd done it in only a day. To be fair, you knew that he likely did this with every girl he met in every town he travelled in, but he was sure making you feel special.

Butterflies still flapped their excited little wings in your stomach from you and Jimmy's closeness in the ocean. You two had gone out just far enough, the tips of your toes still hitting sand. He had hoisted you up out of the water each time a big wave came, gripping you firmly at the waist with his big hands. You couldn't help but laugh each time, holding on tight to the curve of his shoulders. At one point, he'd pulled you in for a kiss and wrapped both arms around you, his hands just grazing the top of your ass. You shivered and blamed the cold water.

Jimmy dropped down to the blanket, lounging happily. You towelled yourself off delicately, wicking away the crystalline drops that dotted your skin. His hair was only damp at the nape of his neck, but Jimmy didn't seem to mind his body being wet. You didn't mind it either - not after seeing the way the water glistened on his abdomen. After taking your hair out of the swimcap, you shook your head lightly, your lush curls bouncing with the motion. Thankfully, your style had maintained itself. Finally, you joined him on the blanket, stretching your legs out over the edge to dip your toes into the warm sand.

A seagull sang its shrill song above you, and you watched through squinted eyes as it flew towards the horizon, gliding over the breeze. With the sand between your red-tipped toes, the briny sea air tousling your locks, and a handsome guy by your side, you were in heaven. Everything about this felt like a movie, from the cute little picnic basket he'd brought, to the way that the sun glittered, reflecting off the waves as they crashed onto the shore. You looked over, watching Jimmy Darling as he lazily watched the sea, propping himself up on his elbows. He was still shirtless and wore a pair of yellow Catalina swim trunks that complimented the tanness of his skin beautifully. His muscles were on display for you to ogle, which you did willingly. He really was handsome; an All-American Boy with his chocolatey eyes and sugar-sweet smile.

Noticing that your attention was on him, he immediately sat up, reaching for the picnic basket. "You want a sandwich or somethin'? A soda? What can I getcha', doll?"

He was so attentive to your needs – butterflies fluttered again in your stomach at the thought. With a demure, red-lipped smile, you shook your head and with the back of your hand, brushed away the strand of hair that had blown across your face. 

"No, nothing, Jimmy. I was just looking at you..." Your voice was soft, sweet, and to Jimmy, had a hint of that Southern California accent. 

"Oh yea?" He asks, shifting his weight to lean closer to you. His eyes darted to your lips and with a cheeky grin, his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, wanting to taste you. 

"Yeah!" you said back, playfully stern. You pivoted your body to face his, daring him to counter you. And... He did, by dipping his head down to plant a quick kiss on your waiting lips. You tittered, delighted, licking the remnants of him off your lips. 

"Mmh," he hummed, kissing you again. And again. "Mmmh! Baby! You taste like a.. like a cupcake or somethin', you know that?" 

His big, strong hands roamed your body, starting at your thighs and moving up and around to the small of your back. His touch was feverish and hungry, and you watched them as they moved. He heard your breath hitch and redirected his kisses to your collarbone, suddenly hungrier. He sucked at the skin, surely leaving hickeys in his path.

"Jimmy– Jimmy!" You bowed your head, almost ducking away from him.

"Sorry, baby, I just can't keep my hands off of ya'."

"...drives me insane..." you whispered, before turning your eyes to the horizon. You were getting too turned on to think clearly, and the knot in your stomach wound tighter around itself. You wanted him. Bad.

Your eyes lifted, looking sheepishly up at the other beachy patrons as they passed, their feet leaving imprints on the sand in front of you. Some of them watched as Jimmy nuzzled into your neck, smearing hungry kisses along your skin. His hands were wrapped around you and hiding behind your back, so to most, you assumed you looked like a normal couple, happily canoodling by the seaside. You felt the sting of disapproval from some older onlookers, but the way that Jimmy was kissing and sucking on the nape of your neck was too distracting -- you couldn't find it in you to care enough to stop him a second time.

Jimmy – now Jimmy was on cloud nine. The sun was warm on his shoulders, the breeze fluffing his caramel locks, and a pretty girl was in his arms. Nothin' better in his mind. As soon as the troupe had pulled into Santa Monica, parking their caravans and setting up in an empty lot near the beach, Jimmy's radar was up. He'd heard rumours of how pretty the West Coast girls were, and after spending so much time on the East Coast, he'd been hankering to taste their sunkissed, salty skin. When he'd spotted you in line with your perfect red pout and shimmering locks, he'd made a beeline for you, schmoozing and talking about how much you were gonna' enjoy the show. He, of course, wasn't wrong and it might've been because he paid special attention to you during his musical number. Whatever the reason was, he'd asked you out on a picnic date, and much to his delight, you accepted (although perhaps a little too quickly for your liking).

"Baby," he murmured into your skin, just below your ear. The closeness sent a shiver down your spine. "Whaddya' say we go back in one of those tents and have a little fun, huh?"

You looked behind him, following his gaze. There was a row of striped changing tents near the top of the beach, some of which were unoccupied. You couldn't help but cover your mouth as a gasp escaped; what he was proposing seemed so naughty. In public? You'd never... oh, but with him? You would. You'd do anything in the world with him and all he had to do was ask.

"You promise we won't get caught?"

"I promise."

Jimmy got up first, hand extended towards you to lift you up. You took it without another thought, and after being hoisted up, he took off, running giddily towards the tents. Giggling, you followed behind Jimmy as he ran, his hands wrapped firmly around your wrist, practically dragging you up the bank.

Once you made it to the tents, you popped your head in, taking a curious peek. The rest of your body followed shortly after. There was a small stool inside, intended for people to sit on while they changed. It wouldn't be utilized for that purpose, you thought.

Jimmy stood outside the tent, casually rocking back and forth on his heels, his fingers locked behind his back. He even whistled a happy little tune until no one would suspect that he was going to pop inside with you. To any passerbys, it just looked like he was waiting for his girlfriend to exit the tent. No funny business happening there. Heck no. 

When Jimmy finally ducked into the tent, he had a starved glimmer in his eyes and headed straight for you, his hands connecting to your hips. Your mouths collided, tongues wrestling each other for dominance like two horny teenagers. He took fistfuls of your breasts through the fabric of your swim top, kneading them hungrily. Abruptly, he dug underneath the elastic and tweaked your nipple, rubbing at it with his thumb. You broke the kiss to glance down. Smiled coyly. Jimmy's yellow shorts weren't doing much to hide his erection; the thin fabric had a clear outline of his quickly hardening cock, and a wet spot grew at the tip.

The sun shone through the red and white striped fabric, casting a warm, ruddy glow on Jimmy's face. You wondered if he felt at home in this miniature circus tent. "Hang on a sec, wait..." you whispered, as you reached around his back, tying the panels of fabric shut.

"You're that worried, huh?" Jimmy's hand slipped from your top.

"I don't know what kinda' freaky stuff you're into, but I don't want anyone walking in."

With a hushed tone, he replied: ,"Nobody is gonna' walk in, dollface."

He wrapped one arm around your back, pulling you tight to his hip and kissed you again. Jimmy's other hand trailed down your bare stomach until he came to the hem of your ruched shorts, where the tips of his fingers delved behind the elastic, creeping closer and closer to your folds. Once he found your slit, he slipped in between and immediately applied pressure to your clit, teasing you. You gasped, your breath hitching in your throat. Shortly after, he started drawing small circles around the bundle of nerves, hot and swelling with each passing second. Everything he did felt so good.

Feeling confident, Jimmy teased your entrance with his fingers. His deformity certainly hadn't inhibited him from gaining experience in pleasuring women. In fact, Jimmy swore up and down it made him better. Women across the US craved his conjoined fingers with all their girth and length, moaning desperately as they hit all the right spots when he fingered them.

In fear of making you scream his name, Jimmy couldn't give you the full Lobster Boy treatment - not here. He inserted just the tips of his fingers, up to the first knuckles, pumping slowly in and out. His thumb massaged your clit still, the dual stimulation sending to the skies and back again. At this rate, it wouldn't be long before you came. You were wetter than the ocean, and he loved it. Jimmy's tongue ran along his bottom lip, watching you as you writhed in his grip.

"Feel good?"

Breathlessly, you nodded. Jimmy withdrew his slick fingers from your cunt, his weighted gaze on you. He hummed in satisfaction. The dirty, wanton look in your eyes made his cock twitch.

"Baby, you wanna'....?" His eyes scanned over your pretty red lips before dropping to his groin. With one hand, Jimmy tugged his shorts down, letting out a breathy groan as his heavy cock bobbed in front of your tummy. Velvet heat pressed into your flesh, the pre-cum that oozed from the slit sliding against your stomach as he breathed. You knew what he was asking.

You sunk to your knees, settling into the shade-cooled sand. With Jimmy's cock in front of your face, you swallowed, wetting your throat. His conjoined digits wrapped around the base of it, squeezing it tightly. Your lips parted and Jimmy smiled, ready for what came next. You leaned forward, extending your tongue over your bottom lip and carefully, Jimmy slapped the tip of his dick against it. As your fingers wrapped around the shaft, he let out a throaty groan, jerking his head back. You worked it with your hand, and closed your lips around the tip of it, sucking gently. Looking up at him with those big, bright eyes, you watched Jimmy's breaths go from even to haphazard, his chest rising and falling quickly. Your tongue massaged at the underside of his cock, taking it deeper into your mouth.

You gagged softly, quietly and Jimmy clenched his teeth, feeling your throat close around his dick. It was hot and wet and strong – he swallowed again, watching you as worked. The urges were getting too strong, and the tension in his abdomen wound tighter. Without a word, Jimmy bent down and pulled you to your feet, his cock slipping wetly from your mouth. With a grunt, he yanked your shorts down just enough to expose your cunt. 

"Sorry, I just... I gotta'..."

"We can't go all the way here, are you –"

"No-no, baby, we're not gonna', I just gotta' be closer to you, I'm gonna' –"

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. With his cock still wet from your mouth, Jimmy began jerking it, right into your folds. Pre-cum dripped from the slit, providing more lubrication. The tip bumped against your puffy clit over and over again and before you could stop it, the pulsing wave rushed over you. You wrapped both arms around his neck, hanging on him as your legs quivered with the powerful orgasm that shook your core. You moaned softly into his ear, riding out the sensation by grinding against his cock. With his head filled with lewd thoughts of pushing his dick deep inside your pussy, Jimmy was fast behind you, exploding over you in hot, white ropes of ecstasy.

Finally feeling like you could stand on your own again, you rested your head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat as it slowed. Jimmy rested his chin atop your head, panting and pet the small of your back.

"See? No one caught us." He teased. You slapped at his bicep and disconnected from him, moving around him to exit the tent. Jimmy followed behind, this time, not putting any distance between the two of you. Thankfully, no one noticed. Everyone was too busy enjoying their beach day.

Everything was as you left it, except that the blanket had blown over slightly. You toed the edge of it back into place. Jimmy approached you from behind, wrapping his arms around your hips. He kissed your ear, nuzzling into you.

"You wanna' see the show again tonight, pretty baby?"