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  My oh comes out as more of a desperate plea, head falling back and eyes slipping shut as everything in me centers on his lips. He doesn’t use his teeth, just mouths and tongues my nipple, pulling as much flesh into his mouth as he can. He switches sides and tugs my arms back more, making me moan, and I understand then that this is for him, not me. Well, maybe a little of it is for me.

  Dean pulls back after a while to admire his handiwork, my reddened nipples taut and throbbing, gleaming with his saliva. “Keep your hands over your head,” he orders, releasing me. I straighten a little to relieve the pressure on my spine but keep my elbows up, silk-bound wrists resting behind my neck. With his hands free Dean unzips my bunched up skirt and pushes it down my hips, taking my soaked thong with it. He steadies me while I lift my knees and he works the items over my feet, tossing the skirt aside. The thong, however, he keeps, dangling it from a fingertip.

  “Look how wet you are,” he says softly, holding the glistening fabric in front of my face.

  I nod, a little embarrassed, and he leans in to bite the side of my neck, making me twist in his arms, though it’s hard to go anywhere when I’m half-bent over backward. I feel my stomach muscles quiver with exertion as he busies himself licking and sucking my neck, free hand lightly fondling my breast.

  He presses forward so I collapse, legs bent under me. He keeps my hands pinned behind my head so I’m completely prone, stuck beneath his massive body, feeling his chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. A shiver of alarm snakes up my spine at the vulnerable position, but it’s instantly forgotten when Dean does something completely unexpected and kisses me. He takes advantage of my gasp of surprise and plunges his tongue into my mouth, using a knee to wedge my thighs apart. I groan and he slides his free hand down my stomach and between my legs, covering my mound with his whole hand before pushing two fingers high and deep inside. I’m so wet they glide in easily, parting tender tissues and going straight for the spot on my inner wall that makes me forget my own name.

  I twist my head away, writhing in ecstasy so good it hurts. “Dean.”

  “Tell me when you’re going to come.”

  “I’m going to come.”

  He laughs. “Not yet you’re not.” He pulls out his fingers and slaps my inner thigh, hard. I cry out at the sting and he slaps the other thigh in response. My eyes fly open to find him watching me, staring into my eyes as he pushes three fingers into my sopping folds, tormenting that same spot. I want to look away but I can’t. He’s waited ten years for this show and he’s determined to get it. I’m aware of how this must look, me completely naked with the exception of the shirt wrapped around my wrists, Dean completely clothed, as ever, controlling my every action.

  “Oh God,” I groan as the orgasm nears. “Don’t stop.”

  “You coming?”

  My stomach tightens. “Yes.”

  He pulls out his fingers with a soft squelching sound. “Not yet.”

  “Dean!”

  “Remember what I wanted last week?”

  I wince and shake my head.

  “I told you to sit on the pool table—”

  “Stop.”

  He kisses me softly. “It’s just a good height for me, Rachel.”

  I look at him, trying to decide if he’s serious. He is.

  “Sure,” he continues, “I’ll like the visual aid of you sitting up there with your legs spread. But mostly it’d just be easier.”

  “Do you fuck everyone on your pool table?”

  He kisses me again. “I’ve never fucked anyone on a pool table. But I haven’t thought of much else since the last time you were here. You going to make me repeat myself?”

  I sigh and give in, shaking my head.

  Dean whistles in mock appreciation. “So you can do something without arguing.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  He chuckles and stands, helping me up, letting the shirt fall away so my hands are free. I stretch out my abused muscles, biting my lip as the blood flow achingly restores itself.

  “Let’s go,” Dean insists, swatting my ass. “Get over there.”

  I resist the urge to argue and tentatively approach the pool table in the center of the living room. Even my sex-drugged brain notes that this is the farthest I’ve ever been inside Dean’s apartment.

  I’ve only played pool a handful of times in my life, and I’ve never sat on the table. It’s a few inches above my ass and I turn around, balancing my palms on the smooth wooden edges and boosting myself up as Dean watches from a few feet away.

  If you’d asked me two weeks ago if I could imagine myself sitting naked on Dean Barclay’s pool table, desperate for him to touch me, I’d have laughed until I cried. But now here I am, leaning back on my hands so I can stretch out my legs, placing one heel in each of the end pockets, fully exposing my swollen sex to his heated gaze.

  Maybe it’s the vulnerable nature of the position, but he looks impossibly huge right now. He’s wearing a white T-shirt beneath the hoodie, and it’s pulled tight across his muscled torso. In the dim light I can see that it’s splotchy with rain or sweat or a combination of both, and I almost come when Dean yanks it over his head and tosses it on the floor before striding toward me, his face hard and set with determination and arousal. His bare chest and abs are a work of art, chiseled and tan, flecked with a few tiny white scars but no tattoos or piercings.

  “Yes,” he utters on a growl, flicking my clit with his thumb, just to hear me cry out. “Watch,” he orders, tugging out his furious erection and sheathing himself with a condom I didn’t see him collect. Then, with both our gazes locked between us, he fits himself to me and begins to push inside.

  My position on the table means my thighs are spread as wide as they’ll go, and the additional pressure makes my head flop back so I’m staring up at the ductwork on the ceiling, sweat gathering between my breasts as I struggle to remain conscious.

  “I said watch,” Dean repeats, fisting a hand in my loosened hair and lifting my head.

  I bite my inner cheek and do as he’s ordered, watching my body strain to accommodate his cock, welcoming him with greedy pulls.

  “You want it,” Dean says.

  “I want it.”

  When he’s halfway in he grips my ass in both hands and rams forward, burying himself to the hilt. This time when I cry out and my head falls back, he doesn’t force me to keep watching, just begins fucking me, deep and hard. He’s battering my thighs with his broad hips, knocking the breath out of me with each thrust. My arms give out and I fall back, lying flat on the green felt, hearing the balls racked on the other end rattle with every brutal lunge.

  I tug one heel out of the pocket and wrap it around Dean’s back, hoping to control him somewhat, but he snags my ankle and draws it up over his chest, resting my foot against his shoulder. The sight of my pale skin contrasting with his tan, rippling flesh pushes me over.

  “You like that,” Dean mutters, almost to himself.

  Through half-closed eyes I see him glide a hand down my extended leg, stopping at the juncture of my parted thighs and pressing on my clit, letting the power of his thrusts and my own clenching body torture the swollen nub. The orgasm ratchets up another notch and I grip either side of the pool table as though that will help me, back arching, eyes squeezed tight as unbearable waves of pleasure rack my body. Dean continues to thrust right through it, grunting and cursing as he forces his cock past contracting muscles to bottom out every time.

  “Dean,” I moan when I can’t take any more. I try to swat his hand away from my too-sensitive clit but he pins it down at my side and hunches over, sweat dripping from his temples onto my breasts. He hammers into me, leg still pressed over his shoulder, my body as wide open as he could possibly need.

  I reach up a weak arm and wrap it around his neck, spreading my fingers over his skull like I used to do when he had long hair. Now I feel the coarse rasp of his buzz cut on my palm and look up just in time to catch the second he starts to come, ey
es locked on mine, unguarded. It only lasts a moment, a split second of weakness in his impenetrable coat of armor, then he drops his head and groans, pounding into me with his vicious release.

  Chapter Nine

  A minute or two later Dean finally moves, propping himself over me as he pries apart our sweat-slicked skin. I try to hide a smile as I see him look down, watching his glistening cock slide out. I glance down too, smile fading as I take in how truly big he is and remember how sore I’d been the two days following our...reunion.

  “You doing all right?”

  My eyes flicker up to see Dean watching my face now, reading my concern. “Fine,” I tell him.

  “Sore?”

  I shake my head.

  “Liar. Even I’m hurting and I didn’t just get pounded into a pool table.”

  I watch the muscles in his back ripple as he walks away, more than a little smug as he heads around the kitchen island to dispose of the condom and wash his hands. I sit up, self-conscious and very much aware that he’s still wearing his sweats while I’ve got nothing but felt burns on my ass. I look around for my clothes, but they’re all in the entrance hall and it would only make things weirder if I suddenly put my suit back on.

  “You want a drink?”

  I glance over to see Dean silhouetted in the light of the fridge, watching me over his shoulder.

  “Um, sure.”

  “Here.” He tosses me a bottle of grape-flavored energy drink and I fleetingly recall teenage Dean’s love affair with all things grape. His mother, Camila, used to buy a dozen packets of powdered purple mix every week to keep him satisfied.

  “Do you still love grape?”

  His smile is fleeting. “Not as much.”

  I flush when I realize that he’s now propped against the counter, staring openly. I lift my arm to block the view of my breasts, using the guise of opening the bottle for cover. Then I sip very slowly.

  When I next glance over at Dean he’s polishing off his drink, head tipped back, eyes still on my excruciatingly naked form.

  “You want to take a shower or anything?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Wouldn’t ask if I did. This way.” He tips his head toward the hallway I’d seen on my first visit and steps out of the kitchen toward it, waiting for me to go first. I cringe inwardly as I approach him, trying desperately to appear confident. My inner thighs brush together, slick and sticky, as though reminding me that he’s seen everything already and there’s no need to be uncomfortable. But common sense has no hold on me now—or ever, where Dean is concerned—and I’m sure my cheeks are flaming red as he gestures for me to walk ahead and follows me the short distance to the bathroom.

  There are three doors off the hall, one on either side and one at the end. The bathroom is first and Dean stops me with a hand on my elbow, reaching in to flip on the light. The bathroom is as new and polished as the rest of the apartment, with gleaming fixtures and minimal personal items except for a single toothbrush, a bar of soap and a towel. There’s no tub, instead the shower is a huge glassed-in rectangle, large enough for two men of Dean’s size. It’s probably why he chose the place.

  “Go ahead. I’ll bring you a towel.”

  He leaves and I scurry into the shower stall, closing the glass door as though it offers any real privacy. I turn the tap and water pours down from a large showerhead in the center of the stall. Steam surrounds me and I unpin my hair, groaning out loud as the pounding water soothes my aching shoulders. I’m surprised to find full bottles of salon-quality shampoo and conditioner, frowning as I lather up my hair, trying to figure out why a man with no hair would have either of these items. Does he still use them? Is there a woman who comes by regularly enough that she leaves them here? Or does he keep them for the stampede of female guests who need to wash up after a round of rough sex?

  I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later to find myself alone in the apartment. I’ve piled my hair on top of my head in a loose knot and the black T-shirt Dean left me hangs nearly to my knees.

  “Dean?” I call, just in case I’ve missed him, but there’s no answer. I walk the perimeter of the living room, taking in everything, which is very little. The large flat-screen television sits on a low, empty stand, and the couch is new, clean, with two pillows in matching fabric. There’s no art on the brick walls and, with the exception of the pool table, nothing particularly personal. Even the kitchen is sparse, the refrigerator filled with energy drinks, milk, bottled water, eggs, a half-eaten loaf of bread and a few condiments.

  The cupboards reveal little more, just some oatmeal and protein powder. Still no sign of the owner of the fancy shampoo. I’ve finished my examination of the common areas and am seriously contemplating investigating the two mystery doors when I hear keys jangle and Dean returns, looking surprised to see me.

  “I didn’t know...” I begin awkwardly.

  “You’re fast,” he says, kicking off his sneakers and joining me in the kitchen with a brown paper bag full of something that smells amazing. “I thought you’d be in there longer. You hungry?”

  “Yes.” I’m more relieved than I let on, and not just because Dean didn’t cruelly abandon me. The pizza I had earlier was meant to curb my hunger until I got back to the office and ordered something in, and now my stomach growls to remind me how little it appreciates my unexpected detour.

  Dean snatches a roll of paper towel off the counter and walks over to the couch with the bag. “Grab me a drink. A red one,” he says, taking a seat. “And whatever you want.” Then he pauses and turns to look over his shoulder. “Unless that offends you?”

  I roll my eyes, knowing he’s referring to our unsuccessful lunch date. “Ha-ha.” I retrieve a red drink and a bottle of water before joining him on the couch. I sit on the far end and tug down the hem of my shirt to cover my knees, both out of a belated attempt at modesty and a desire not to drip food on myself.

  Dean’s already opened the bag and laid out three meatball subs on the coffee table, each bundled in wax paper. He’s got one unwrapped and shoves it in my direction, clearly trying to woo me. “God,” I groan, as the smell reaches my nose. “I don’t even remember the last time I had one of these.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I lift it up to take a careful bite.

  “When was the last time you got fucked?”

  I laugh so unexpectedly that I almost blow a meatball off the sub. “Jesus, Dean!”

  “What?” He’s glancing at me sideways, mouth full of food. He’s trying to play it cool, but I know he’s trying not to laugh too.

  “If you want to know something, just ask. Don’t be coy.”

  Now he does laugh, reaching for the remote and turning on the television, flipping up to the movie channels and stopping on the original Die Hard, which is just beginning. I roll my eyes and eat my sub, struggling to reconcile sharing ‘80s movies and subs with my very limited understanding of the man next to me.

  “What’s the answer?” Dean asks two minutes later.

  “To what?”

  He’s finished his first sub and is opening the second. “When’s the last time you were with somebody?”

  “Last Wednesday.”

  “You know what I’m asking, Rachel.”

  I do not want to talk about this. I think about Todd, how it was supposed to be him last week. How if I had chosen door number two I would probably be spending tonight at the office, just as I’d planned, instead of panty-less in Camden eating meatball subs.

  I really don’t want to tell Dean about Todd because I’m pretty sure his constant references to how uptight I am and how much I need to “relax” stem from his belief that I haven’t had sex in years, when in fact it had been just a few weeks between breaking up with Todd and my Fourth of July impulsiveness.

  “No comment, Dean. Eat your sub.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Why? You think I’ll get mad?”

  “I don�
�t know.” Yes. “Maybe.”

  “Was it between last Wednesday and today?”

  “When’s the last time you had sex?”

  “Answer my last question.”

  “No.”

  “Which question are you answering?”

  “There hasn’t been anybody since Wednesday. Now you answer mine.”

  “Same answer.”

  “Fine. Conversation over.”

  “Fine.”

  We watch the movie in silence. Dean hoovers down his second sub and I give up on mine at the two-thirds mark, knowing I’ll regret it if I eat the rest. I look on, bemused, as Dean reaches over and snags the remaining meatball and polishes it off, then sighs, as contented as I’ve ever seen him. He leans back against the couch, knees spread, focused on the movie. I see him wince slightly as he adjusts, and remember.

  “What about your ribs?”

  He glances at me. “What?”

  “Reginald said you had a fractured rib. Where’s the bandage?”

  Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s just a bruise. He overreacts.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not right now.” He turns his attention back to the television, clearly uninterested in the line of questioning.

  I slide back into the cushion on my end, stretching out my bare legs to rest my feet on the coffee table next to the sandwich wrappers. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “No problem.”

  There’s a lot happening on screen, but very little happens on the couch. Dean laughs occasionally, always a very short, controlled sound, and twice he shifts in his seat, eventually resting one leg on the coffee table, as well. He doesn’t change the channel during commercials, and doesn’t say a word until the hour mark.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”