The orgasm is soft and long, rolling over me in drowning waves that steal my breath. Dean’s tongue and fingers never cease, though their ministrations lighten as the contractions ebb, claiming every last ounce of my resentful pleasure.
My head falls back, sweat beading at my hairline, and I drag in air in greedy gulps, trying to make sense of what just happened. How could I let Dean touch me after what he said? And why would he bother?
I fumble to shove my skirt back into place, freezing when I bump Dean’s wrist, his hand still buried between my thighs. My eyes fly to his and I instantly wish I’d looked anywhere but. He watches me for a moment then turns his dark gaze to my pussy and uses one hand to gather up my skirt.
His fingers feel huge, rasping sensitive tissues as they slide out, slick and shiny. His heated eyes flicker between his hand and my face, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. I wait for him to say something crude, to do something awful, but he just grabs the tissue I’d left on the console and cleans his hand. The act somehow manages to feel even more intimate than the one just completed.
Finally his arms relax and he helps me sit up and slide back over the armrest into the passenger seat. The car smells like sex and sweat, and if it wasn’t already so damn hot outside, I’m sure the windows would be fogged, advertising our filthy secrets.
“All right?” he asks eventually.
I know he’s looking at me but I pretend to be busy adjusting my clothing and buckling my seat belt. “Let’s go,” I say, glancing around. We’re still alone, but who knows for how long.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out, but starts the car without saying another word.
* * *
I wake up slowly, hot and dizzy and very confused. I glance out the car window to see a brick wall and a quiet street lined with squat industrial-looking buildings. Then it hits me: we’re in Camden. I turn my head to stare at Dean as he shuts off the car and takes the keys from the ignition.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. The clock on the dash tells me it’s just after five o’clock in the afternoon; I’d slept through the two-hour return trip.
“Get out.” He follows his own edict and climbs out, closing the door behind him. I watch, unimpressed, as he drops the car keys into his pocket and tugs out another set, presumably for his apartment. He rounds the car and pauses at the entrance to his building.
I get out of the car, instinctively smoothing my rumpled clothing, and hold out a hand. “Give me the keys.”
“You going somewhere?”
I feel like it should be obvious. “I’m going home.”
Dean shrugs and turns to unlock the door to the building. “Your call.”
“Give me the keys!”
He steps inside and walks to the elevators as the door drifts closed behind him. I snag the handle and glare in. “Dean. Give me the car keys.”
“Come and get them.”
The elevator arrives and he gets on, one big hand holding the door for me. I’m fuming. “I don’t want to go to your apartment.”
“I know.”
“So give me the keys.”
He releases the door and tucks his hands in his pockets. For a split second I naively believe that he’ll actually give me the keys, but that hope is quickly squashed when he leaves his hands where they are.
I curse and lunge forward to catch the doors as they slide closed. “Hand them over.”
Now he does remove a hand, fisting the front of my shirt and tugging me inside. “Later.”
“No. I want—” I glance over my shoulder as the doors shut quietly and the elevator starts to move. I twist out of Dean’s grip, backing into the wall. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I didn’t feel like taking three buses home.”
“You’re here now. Give me the keys.”
We reach the fourth floor and Dean shoves past me, down the hall to his apartment, unlocking the door and heading inside. I blow out a frustrated breath before stalking after him, coming to a halt when I spot him tugging his shirt over his head as he disappears down the hall to his room. Does he seriously think we’re going to have sex? Forget what just happened—I’d rather walk home than give him the impression that his twisted revenge fantasies are going to come true.
I’m still contemplating my next move when Dean returns, wearing only a pair of loose blue boxers. I hate myself for wanting to freeze time just so I can stare at that perfect, muscled body. The one hiding the heart of a man who knows how to hold a grudge but not how to let go. He stands at the kitchen sink and washes his hands, and while he doesn’t look at me or say anything, we both know what he’s doing. What he’s reminding me of.
“Where are the keys?”
“Probably still in my pocket.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m going to lie down. I worked the night shift and I’m fucking tired, Rachel. You’re done too. Get some sleep and then you can go.”
“I’m not debating this with you, it’s creepy.”
“No one’s forcing you to stay.”
“Give me the keys!”
“I told you—come get them.”
I glower for a second, then storm down the hall to the bedroom, snatching up Dean’s discarded jeans from the floor and feeling in both pockets for the keys. But they’re not there. I turn as he comes in. He polishes off a bottle of water and climbs onto the bed from the bottom, stretching out on top of the covers on his stomach.
I take a deep breath and try to sound reasonable. “Dean.”
“Lie down,” he says, patting the bed beside him. His voice is muffled by the pillow. “I’m too tired to bother you.”
“You’re bothering me right now.”
He covers his mouth as he yawns. “What are you going to do when you get home?”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I try to think of something but my mind is blank. All I can see is the wide, muscled expanse of his back. And then my eyes foolishly drift to the empty half of the king-size bed, the pillow I know to be soft and welcoming, the sheets that smell like fabric softener.
“I have stuff to do,” I finally hedge, unconvincing.
“Do it later. Lie down. You’re wiped.”
“Because of you!”
“So let me fix it.” The words are starting to slur; he’s actually falling asleep. He’s holding me hostage and taking a nap.
“Dean.”
“Rachel.” There’s a note of finality to his tone; he’s done arguing. “If you wanted to go, you’d be gone. But you’re here. Now get in the fucking bed.”
I stifle a cry of rage and sit primly on the far side of the mattress, facing away from Dean. It dips slightly, as though in invitation. I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away a headache, trying to wake myself up so I can come to a sensible conclusion. I’m still groggy from the car ride, still drained from the events of the day. Damn Dean and his...everything.
If I call a cab I’ll still be responsible for getting the car back in the morning, or paying for the rental until Dean bothers to return it. I could turn the place upside down searching for the keys, but he probably stuck them under his side of the mattress and there’s no way I can move five hundred pounds of unwilling man. Hell, I can barely budge him when he is willing.
Plus I’m really tired.
I lie back stiffly, putting a good foot of space between us. “Don’t touch me.”
Dean doesn’t respond. I look at him, lips parted slightly in sleep, breath wheezing softly in and out. For a second he doesn’t look like the ex-convict who’s holding me pseudoprisoner in his unlocked apartment; he looks like a tired man, who, if he’s to be believed, worked all night then showed up to take an ex-girlfriend to visit her mother’s grave. Then confessed to wanting to ass-rape her and, lacking the nerve to go through with it, settled for forcing her to confront a ghost from the past.
He’s a conflicted barrel of monkeys, that one. A loner who insis
ts I keep him company; a fighter who sleeps through the fight. A man who runs hot and cold, alternates between hard and soft, cruel and considerate.
For the second time today I fall asleep next to Dean Barclay, knowing it’s the wrong thing to do, and, as always where he’s concerned, doing it anyway.
* * *
The room is warm and dark when I wake up. I’m curled on my side, hands folded under my cheek, facing away from Dean. I hear his steady breathing behind me and do my best not to wake him as I stand up and squint at my watch. Almost ten thirty. I slept for five hours? Jesus.
I glance down at Dean, who, true to his word, was too tired to bother me. It doesn’t look as though he’s moved at all: he’s still on his stomach, arms folded over his head, fast asleep, looking deceptively harmless. I pick up my sandals and tiptoe out of the room, ducking into the bathroom and closing the door before flipping on the lights.
I twist the cold tap so icy water drizzles out, filling my cupped palms to splash my face. My eyes are puffy and ringed with smudged mascara; my hair is bunched and straggly. I tidy up as best I can, frowning at myself in the mirror, then freeze as I spot the car keys hanging on the hook behind the door. That ass. If I’d had to pee sooner, I could have been home by now.
I clutch the keys tightly so they don’t jingle, turn off the light and creep down the hall to the front door. A faint glow filters in from the streetlights two stories below, but Dean’s apartment is so sparsely furnished that there’s little risk of bumping into anything.
I make it all the way to the elevator before my conscience catches up to me. Am I really going to leave Dean in the middle of the night—again? Even today’s confession alluded to him being pissed when I’d taken off with hardly a word after our first—and what was supposed to be only—time together.
I roll my eyes and scurry back inside, careful not to make a sound as I return to the bedroom. Dean hasn’t moved. I see the muscles of his back bunch and relax as he exhales softly. He must have worked all night, stopped at home to change, then caught three buses into the city in order to be at my apartment on time. Who makes an effort to do something so kind, then promptly undoes it with such a cruel confession?
How would you feel if I told you how I’d spent years fantasizing about humiliating and debasing you?
I think I’d get over it if you realized you couldn’t go through with it.
Was that true? Did he not have the stomach to go through with his plan to hurt me, or was he simply working up to it? Which part of that was his unflinching, imperfect truth?
Even as my head tells me that anyone with the nerve to utter those threats has the capacity to carry them out, my heart knows differently. One look at our tangled, tormented history paints Dean as the victim, the man who wants revenge he can’t carry out, the one who gives—as best he can—and me, the one who takes. If today’s misguided trip down memory lane has taught me anything, it’s that you can only find closure when you know what you’re looking for. And as pathetic as it makes me feel, I want Dean to forgive me for breaking his heart. He may have given a lot of thought to how best to hurt me, but I’m the one who inflicted the wounds that brought us here. He’s the one who’s nursed them for ten long years.
I watch his fingers twitch on the pillow, the same ones he’d had inside me hours earlier. The damnable, expert fingers that send all intelligent thoughts scattering when they touch me. I can’t imagine finding anyone else who makes me feel what Dean has these past few weeks, but that may be for the best.
I sigh and bend down to press a kiss to his temple, his skin almost feverishly hot against my lips. “Bye,” I mumble, vaguely guilty, but technically not repeating my past sins.
I garble out a stunned “Oh!” as one of Dean’s huge arms reaches out to trap my thighs, yanking me forward onto the bed. He rolls over so I land on the mattress, then falls back down, pinning me. One of his big hands snares my wrists and holds them over my head as the other shoves my skirt out of the way. He works his knees between my legs, thrusting them apart, and the next thing I feel is the unrelenting pressure of his cock at my entrance, forging its way inside.
I don’t know if he’s been pretending to be asleep or if this is his subconscious at work, but his mouth smothers my gasp as he kisses me voraciously. I’m soft and warm from sleep but not wet, and the penetration is slow and tight. Dean takes his time, pushing in a few inches, drawing back, thrusting in again a bit farther. I know I shouldn’t be doing this but I can’t seem to remember why I should stop. My good intentions take a backseat and let my hormones drive, wrapping my legs around Dean’s ass and holding him tight when he’s finally buried inside me.
“Least you said goodbye this time,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I’m trying.”
“You should try sticking around.”
I don’t answer, just kiss him again. He lets me tug one hand free so I can slide it between us, parting my fingers to feel Dean’s cock glide through my stretched folds. I find my clit and press gently, making myself shudder.
It doesn’t take long but Dean doesn’t rush things, either, keeping the strokes deep and steady, drawing it out. He presses an elbow into the mattress on one side of my head and trails the other down to cover my hand.
“Fuck, yeah, Rachel, touch yourself. You going to come soon?”
It’s hard to speak, so I just nod.
“Let me do it.”
He nudges my fingers out of the way, my slick hand falling to the mattress briefly before reaching up to stroke his back, feeling the taut line of his spine. Dean kisses me again, a record for him, all this kissing. He sucks my tongue into his mouth and picks up the pressure with his fingers, rubbing my clit so hard that I come before I expect it.
I cry out in surprise and he grunts his satisfaction, cock dragging in and out through the contractions. He grabs my hip and angles my body so he can grind against me, pumping out his own release, face just inches above mine. It’s too dark to see much, but I revel in the sound of his harsh breathing and strangled groans as he jerks in my arms, emptying himself.
Dean collapses, crushing me into the mattress, but I don’t mind. I can feel the overwhelming heat of his body through my thin top, the damp skin on his back gliding beneath my fingers.
“You okay?” he asks eventually.
“Uh-huh.” Okay. Satiated. Bewildered.
Suddenly Dean tenses, then I feel him shift, reaching for something. After a second the bedside light switches on. We both wince and turn away, waiting as our eyes adjust. At first I don’t know what’s going on, but then he pushes himself up over me and glances down at our joined bodies. I follow his gaze, watching as he carefully pulls out, cock gleaming in the light.
I roll my eyes at what I think is just another primitive display, then I, too, stiffen as an unexpected surge of wetness coats my inner thighs. I stare in stunned disbelief as Dean, still in caveman mode, climbs off the bed, snags one of my legs and drags me over so the light shines between my parted thighs. I’m vaguely mortified by the exposure, but I’m facing a much bigger problem at the moment.
“Shit,” he whispers to himself, staring at me.
I can’t speak as he presses a hand to my pussy, touching tentatively at first, then covering me completely. He presses two fingers inside, making my breath catch, then draws them out, slick with my juices and his come.
“You didn’t use a condom,” I say stupidly, twenty minutes too late. “Oh my God. You—We—I—” I have no idea how I’m going to finish any of those sentences. Or rather, I have too many ideas. You bastard. We’re screwed. I should have known better.
I snap my legs shut and push away his hand, sitting up on the edge of the bed, uncomfortably wet. Dean tugs his boxers back into place and sits next to me.
“You’re on the pill,” he says finally. “I’ve seen you take it.”
“So?” And thank God.
We’d had one pregnancy scare when I was sixteen, after which I’d gone to th
e doctor and gotten a prescription for the birth control I have taken religiously every day since. All I could think then was how a child would be the worst thing that could happen to me. I’d be stuck in Riverside like so many other women, all dreams for the future crushed by the deadweight of a baby.
“So you won’t get pregnant.”When I remain silent, he adds, “And you won’t get anything else, either. I’m careful. I didn’t spend eight years in prison just to walk out and sign up for a life sentence.”
I press my fingers to my mouth and nod, believing him only because he has no reason to lie. I’ll go to the doctor anyway, but I’m not afraid of the test results. I’m afraid of Dean. I’m afraid of this. I’m afraid because I’m not more afraid that the man I keep swearing I’m done with just came inside me, and he’s the only man who ever has.
“I’m sorry,” Dean says finally.
“I’m responsible too.”
“For that.” He nods at my crotch. “And earlier.”
I laugh without humor. “Which part?”
He shifts to look at me, balancing one arm on the bed as he turns. I know he’s watching but I keep my eyes on the window, the top of the moon just barely visible above the building across the street.
“About Ally.”
“The part with Ally isn’t what hurt.” At least, it’s not what hurt the most.
He sighs. “I know.”
“When you told me that story about leaving prison and not looking back, you got that that was the same thing, right?”
“As you leaving Riverside?”
“Yes.”
“I get why you left, Rachel. I don’t like it, but I get it. And I don’t want to hurt you. I thought I did, but I don’t. And I didn’t like seeing Ally do it.”
“You could have fooled me.”
The hand on his knee transfers to mine. “It won’t happen again.”
“That’s because I’m never going back to Cranston.”
“I want to keep doing this.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
I think of Jailbait Sally in the bar. “You could have sex with anybody.”
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