Getting Played (Getting Some Book 2)

by Emma Chase

  “How was your night?” he asks, walking into the bathroom to brush his teeth, wearing navy boxer briefs that make my mouth water, because he looks so hot, and big and already semi-hard—and tonight’s the night I do something about it.

  When he emerges a minute later, I rise up on my knees and move toward the edge of the bed. I feel ungainly and awkward but the heat that spikes in Dean’s eyes and the hunger that tightens his jaw makes me think I must look pretty damn seductive.

  I can feel how much he wants me. I always could. And just like every time before—Dean wants me a hell of a lot.

  I rest my arms on his shoulders and look into his ocean-blue eyes.

  “Kelly Simmons stopped by the house today. She told me and Jason that she kissed you and you turned her down.” I run my fingers through the silky hair at the nape of his neck. “But I’d already decided that I believed you, before she came. I was going to tell you when you got home. It’s important to me that you know I believed you. Do you?”

  He breathes out a sigh and tugs me closer. “Yeah, I do, Lainey.”

  “And I’ve missed you.”

  Dean runs his hands along my arms, up my neck, through my hair—just touching me.

  “I’ve missed you too. So goddamn much.”

  He holds my face and kisses my lips and it’s like my entire body goes slack with the relief of being close to him again. The stroke of his tongue makes my hips swivel and my muscles clench. And though there’s nothing to be done about it on my end—I’m going to take care of him. I want to show him—with my hands, my mouth, my tongue—how much I want him, how much he means to me.

  I trail kisses along his collar bone and down his chest. I lick the water droplets from his skin and moan at the taste of him.

  I maneuver my body so I’m on all fours and trace Dean’s abs with the tip of my tongue. His hand slides through my hair, occasionally clenching like he just can’t help himself and that shaky control turns me on even more.

  Dean’s cock is a hard, thick outline beneath the navy cotton of his briefs. I mouth him over the thin fabric, letting him feel the heat of my mouth and the stroke of my tongue.

  His head lolls back on his neck as I slip the boxers down his hips. His voice sounds strangled, like he may have swallowed his tongue.

  And swallowing is my job.

  “Lainey . . .”

  “I want this, Dean. I want to touch you—taste you—I want it so much.” I look up at him, meeting his eyes. “Do you want me to?”

  His hand fists in my hair again, tugging harsher.

  “Christ, yes.”

  And I smile—right before I pump him in my hand, and lick around the smooth, hot head of his dick. I don’t tease him—he’s waited long enough. I take the hard shaft between my lips and slide on the way down—until he’s balls-deep in my mouth.

  And it’s so good. He tastes so fucking good—I moan around him. I withdraw slowly, stroking the underside of his shaft, then push back down until I feel his thickness nudge the back of my throat. Then I do it again and again—faster, wetter—sucking hard.

  And it’s not just for Dean—this is for both of us. Because he makes me so happy and I love making him feel good.

  My hands grasp his hips and I urge him forward and back—giving him permission to pump into my mouth.

  “Jesus fuck.”

  His breaths are gasping and his voice is a growl. He holds my shoulders and thrusts in quick, shallow strokes.

  “Lainey,” he groans. “Coming…”

  And then he does—hot and thick in my mouth—and it is glorious. I swallow him down and a simmer of naughty satisfaction races through me when Dean collapses, face-first, like dead weight on the bed beside me.

  I pepper kisses all over his back, his arms—then I lean over and sink my teeth into his fabulous, firm ass.

  He rolls over, laughing, and reaching up to nip at my neck.

  “I’m keeping track—and you can bet your bitable ass I’m going to pay you back orgasm for orgasm and bite for bite, just as soon as the doctor gives us the okay.”

  He shifts up to the pillows and tucks me in against him.

  “Is that a promise?” I ask, going in for another kiss.

  He smiles against my lips.

  “Baby, it’s a guarantee.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Dean

  The morning after Lainey tells me she believes me about what went down with Kelly, that we can put it behind us—and then gave me the blow job of a lifetime—I wake up with this new, different sense of confidence settled in my chest. It’s invigorating and peaceful at the same time. The closest I can come to describing it is when you’re just steps from the end-zone, inches from the finish line—when the peak of the mountain is right there in your sight.

  And you know—you know—you’re going to make it. That everything is going to be all right. Better than all right. That life is about to get real joyous, real quick and chock-fucking-full of amazing.

  Just around the time I’m thinking the day can’t get much better, it does. While I’m in the nursery, putting the crib together. And Jason walks in the room, looking at me in a way he hasn’t looked at me in weeks—like I’m not an asshole, not an enemy. His hazel eyes, the same shade as his Mom’s, are soft and open and a little hesitant.

  “Hey.” He lifts his chin, hands shoved in his pockets.

  “Hey.” I greet him back from the floor, with a wrench in my hand.

  “What’s going on?” Jay asks.

  “Nothing. What’s going on with you?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing much.”

  He points at the pieces of cream, wooden crib sprawled across the floor. “Do you, um, want some help with that? We could do it together . . . if you want.”

  My throat squeezes and the backs of my eyes go hot. Because it’s a simple question—but it means so much more than what the words say. We’re guys—we don’t need to talk and analyze every detail and emotion. Shit happened, and it sucked, but now Jason wants to move on. Let it go. He wants us to be friends again.

  “I, ah . . .” I clear my throat. “I’d love that, Jay.”

  “Cool.”

  He sits down next to me and reads over the instruction manual. After a few minutes of tightening bolts, Jason says, “So, I was thinking about asking Quinn to junior prom. Do you think it’s too early?”

  “It’s never too early to lock down a date for prom.”

  Jay nods thoughtfully.

  “Are you asking her as a friend or more than a friend?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

  “The latter,” Jay confirms. “But I’m not sure if I should tell her that part. I don’t want to lose her as a friend, you know?”

  It feels every bit as cool as I imagined talking to Jason like this. Passing on my vast knowledge and skills to such a worthy pupil.

  “Would you not want to be friends with her anymore if she’s not into you?” I ask.

  “No—I’d still want to be Quinn’s friend.”

  I stand and line up the last side of the crib as Jason holds the other piece.

  “Quinn doesn’t seem like the type to ditch you because you have feelings for her,” I point out. “Even if she doesn’t return them.”

  Jason’s forehead crinkles as he takes this in. “No, she wouldn’t do that.”

  I tighten the last bolt, and put my hand on Jay’s shoulder.

  “Then go for it. Be bold.” I wink. “Girls dig bravery.”

  Jason smiles, happy and sure, and that mixture of contentment and exhilaration slams into me again, even stronger than before. And I know without a doubt, we’re going to be okay.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lainey

  Spring comes early to Lakeside. I film and post videos on spring cleaning tricks and Dean carries me outside, where I sit in my overalls, in the dirt of the flower beds, and with him and Jaybird plant tulips and hyacinths, daffodils and peonies that are bursting with color all around the ho
use. The cherry blossom trees bloom and scatter the backyard in a shower of soft pink petals every time the wind blows. Grams and the Gray Army refinish the dock—making for some hilarious videos that the Lifers absolutely love. Dean and Garrett build a brick firepit off the back patio—working shirtless—which the Lifers love even more. By the end of March, I have double the subscribers to Life with Lainey than I did when I first signed the contracts with Facebook.

  It’s a magical time for me and Dean and Jason—for our family. A peaceful, beautiful time.

  At the thirty-eight week mark in my pregnancy, I have an appointment with my OBGYN, and—blessed be—she takes me off bed rest! Off all restrictions. It feels like Christmas and my birthday and the 4th of July all rolled into one. Not that I plan on doing anything too wild and crazy—because I’m gigantic—but just knowing I’ll be able to stand and walk, dance and yes, skip again is more exciting than I can describe.

  There’s also another fantastic benefit. . . one that Dean and I put to immediate use the minute we walk into the kitchen and see a note from Jason that he’ll be out for the rest of the day with Quinn.

  I look up into Dean’s turbulent, hungry eyes—and I know he sees the same need in mine—because great, and insatiable minds think alike.

  He takes the note from my hands, balls it up and throws it over his shoulder.

  And then we’re kissing—hot and hard, wild and wet. I moan into his mouth as he sweeps me into his arms and carries me up to the bedroom. I suck on his tongue and tug on his hair. My muscles clench and my clothes feel rough on my heated skin—because I want them off and I want him inside me. In the bedroom, Dean plants me on my feet without taking his mouth from mine, and strips my leggings down my legs. I yank his shirt off and lick and nibble the taut, warm skin of his gorgeous chest.

  Dean cups my cheek in his palm and breathes out hard.

  “Lainey, are you sure you’re okay with this? You want this?”

  “Why are you asking?” I ask. “Because I’m a thousand weeks pregnant?”

  Dean presses a kiss to my temple. “Yeah. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  “No, I’m good.” I nod. “Unless . . .” I look down at the belly-button-popping, immensely round stomach wedged between us. “Unless you don’t want to?”

  A raspy scoff scrapes up Dean’s throat—like I just said something ridiculous.

  Gently, slowly and deliberately, he skims my cotton maternity dress up over my head, then he unclasps my bra and peels it down my arms. And then he takes his time looking at me—dragging those ocean-blue eyes across my bare body with the same simmering intensity as the first night we met.

  I twist my fingers together. “I know I’m—”

  “Beautiful,” he whispers, with raw, reverent, sincerity. “You’re really fucking beautiful.”

  And I don’t just hear the words—I feel them, under my skin and in my heart.

  A smile tugs at my lips as Dean steps in close and takes my mouth in a kiss that makes my head light and my world spin. I slide my hand down his stomach, unbuttoning his jeans, so I can touch him, stroking him where he’s so thick and hard.

  Then he picks me up in those strong arms and carries me to the bed.

  ~ ~ ~

  What started off as fevered, desperate, wild sex ended up being intense, slow, deep lovemaking. Dean refused to let go until he gave me my third orgasm—he said he still has dozens to give until we’re even—and then with a long groan into my hair and his fingers clasping my thigh, he went over the edge with me.

  Now we’re laying entwined and boneless in the bed. And I love this—the feel of his chest under my cheek, his arms around me, every inch of him so warm and solid. This spot, in Dean’s arms is my most happy place.

  My eyes wander around the almost finished master suite—at the texture painted deep blue walls and the romantic faux-fur throw rug over the cherrywood floors, the one of a kind, hand-finished furniture.

  And I sigh long and low.

  Dean’s hand, that was combing through my hair, pauses.

  “That’s not a happy sigh.”

  I lift my head, resting my chin on his chest, and smile.

  “You know my sighs?”

  “I have them all mentally categorized. You have a happy sigh, a frustrated sigh, a horny sigh—incidentally that one’s my favorite—and a sad sigh. That last one was a saddy. What’s up with that?”

  I draw little circles on his chest with my finger.

  “I called the bank yesterday to check on the reappraised value of the house . . .”

  Technically, the bank still owns this house—the Miller Street house. Facebook only leased it for the year, at a low rate, with the agreement that they would cover the cost of all the repairs and upgrades that were done during the filming of Life with Lainey. And in the end, the bank would have a more valuable property than they started with.

  And oh boy, do they ever.

  “And?” Dean asks.

  “And it’s ludicrously out of my budget.”

  A sympathetic hum rumbles through Dean’s chest. His fingers slide lazily up and down my spine.

  “Well, you always planned to find another place at the end of your contract.”

  He and I have talked about it—how we’ll find a place in town together, or Jay and the baby and I will move in to Grams’s house until we do.

  “I know. It’s just that every project I finish is bittersweet now.” I sigh again—and the melancholy weighs down my words. “I love this place so much. Not just because I’ve put my heart and soul into decorating it, or how half the town has helped us finish it—it’s all the memories we’ve made here. It’s so much more than a house now . . . it’s our home. Yours and mine and Jason’s.”

  Dean sweeps his fingers tenderly across my cheek.

  “We’ll make more memories, Lainey—good ones, happy ones . . .” he wiggles his eyebrows “. . . dirty ones.”

  That pulls a laugh out of me—and I press a kiss to the center of his palm. “I know. I just . . . I can’t imagine any other place feeling like home the way this one does.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The next afternoon, Callie Daniels goes into labor, and by that night she and Garrett welcome their newest addition—a sweet baby girl they name Charlotte. A few days later, when they’re home from the hospital and settled, we stop by to visit. Little Will bouncily shows off his baby sister like she’s the best new toy he’s ever gotten, and he kisses her cheek whenever she’s in reach.

  Dean told me when Will was first born, he was too nervous to hold someone so tiny—but this time around, he needs the practice. So Garrett talks him through the various holding techniques before passing Charlotte to his best friend.

  “There’s the shoulder hold which allows for burping and ass-patting, you just have to be sure the baby can breathe and their head doesn’t flop around. The two-arm cradle is always a safe bet—just make sure to support the neck. Then there’s the one-handed hold, with the baby tucked against your side, her body along your forearm and her head in your hand.”

  Dean smiles confidently, as Charlotte sleeps soundly in the one-handed hold. “It’s just like holding a football.”

  Garrett nods. “Yep, exactly.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I finish the last decorating project in the house—the den—the second week in April. Which turns out to be perfect timing, because that night I wake up with the urgent need to pee. I’m four days from my due date—this is not an unusual thing.

  The house is dark and still and the clock on the night table says two in the morning. After I take care of business and wash my hands—a surging, building kind of pressure suddenly expands in my lower abdomen, making me hunch over and hold my stomach.

  The pressure dissipates as quickly as it came . . . right after my water breaks all over the bathroom floor.

  “Huh.” I look down at the wet floor, reaching for a towel. And then I look at my stomach. “Okay, kiddo. Message received.”


  And I open the door.

  “Dean!”

  A few seconds later, he appears in the doorway, squinting in the bright light and yawning, his thick blond hair sticking up in several directions.

  “What’s up?”

  Then he spots the sopping wet towel between my feet and the water still on the bathroom floor.

  “Holy shit. Is that because of this afternoon? Did we pop something loose in there?”

  “No.” I rub my tightening belly. “My water broke. It’s time.”

  And he’s suddenly wide-awake.

  “It’s time . . . wow . . . okay . . . it’s time.” Dean grabs a dry towel and wipes up the rest of the floor. Then he guides me back to the bedroom, sits me down on the cushioned corner chair, and helps me change into a dry pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to wake up Jay. Then I’ll call Grams. Tell her we’re on the way over.”

  Jason’s old enough to stay here alone—I know—but I’ll feel better knowing he’s with someone, instead of waking up by himself to a note that we’ve gone to the hospital to deliver his sibling.

  And since I grew a whole new human in the last few months—that’s a call I get to make.

  “Okay.”

  Dean takes two steps toward his phone on the nightstand, but then he stops and turns back around. He leans over and presses his lips slowly and softly against mine.

  And then the corner of his mouth hooks up into my favorite smile—warming me all over. “We’re going to have a baby today, Lainey.”

  “Yeah, we really are.” I laugh. “Are you freaking out?”

  He takes a second to think it over.

  “Nope, I’m good. You?”

  I search my feelings—there’s a thrum of excitement, a pinch of trepidation because labor doesn’t tickle . . . and an engulfing sense of centeredness, of being protected and cared for . . . and loved. Because Dean is with me, and he’s going to be with me every step of the way.