We reach my room, and I fumble with the key card, hands shaking, and finally get the door open.
I turn to say goodnight, but Dean steps closer and backs me against the door.
"Someone might see us, Liz. We should probably do a proper goodnight … for appearances, pretend I'm about to sneak into your room. Your mom thinks I won't be sleeping in mine."
There's no one here. The hallway stretches empty in both directions. But there could be someone. Anyone could step off the elevator, walk down this hall, see us.
"For appearances," I whisper.
"Yeah." Dean braces one hand against the doorframe above my head, and the other holds my face. "Just in case. For safety's sake."
His mouth slants over mine, and this isn't the kiss from the dance floor.
That one was for show.
This is?—
God.
He doesn't kiss me. He devours me, coaxing my mouth to open for him, and when I do, he plunges his tongue in and tangles it with mine. I arch into him because close isn't close enough, arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer.
Dean groans against my mouth, and his hand slides from my face to my throat. His thumb strokes my pulse point, and I shake and tremble against him. His other hand drops from the doorframe to my waist, yanking me against his length.
I can feel him. All of him. Still hard from earlier, maybe harder, and that knowledge short-circuits whatever was left of my brain … because he's thick and girthy.
Dean's fingers tighten in my hair, and I make sounds I've never made before, desperate wanting sounds that should embarrass me but don't because I can't think past the taste of him and the feel of his hands and the way he's pressing me against the door.
The elevator dings down the hall, and it's like a bucket of ice-cold water over us.
Dean steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and, taking a sudden interest in the carpet pattern, refuses to meet my eyes.
"I should—" He clears his throat. "Goodnight, Liz."
"Goodnight."
He walks away without looking back.
I make it three steps into my room before my knees give out. I sink onto the bed and touch my lips.
That kiss.
Those kisses.
Dean kissed me. Twice tonight. And I kissed him back like I've been starving for it.
Because I have been.
I've been in love with Dean since college.
Not the cute kind of love. Not the manageable kind. The devastating, all-consuming, ruins-you-for-anyone-else kind.
The kind where every guy I've dated felt like a placeholder. Where I could tell you the exact moment—March 14th, 2 AM, he brought me coffee and my favorite snacks—that I realized.
The kind where I've spent years pretending to be fine, being his best friend while hearing him date other women (he only evertellsme ... I haven't met any of them) and wishing they were me.
And now?
Now, I'm fake-engaged to him with his grandmother's ring on my finger, and the taste of him still on my lips, forced to pretend this doesn't mean anything.
