Page 73 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he spoke over me. “I told myself a hundred times I’d keep it simple. I tried to follow your rules. But we already broke rule number one, and I’m not good at lying, so I’m just going to say it, I love you, Felicity. I love Maverick, too. In the short time I’ve known you both, you’ve somehow become…everything.”

I stood there, stunned by the simplicity and magnitude of his words. Every relationship I’d survived until now had unraveled and left me picking up the pieces. I found myself waiting for the catch, the caveat. I was already bracing for the other shoe to drop.

Despite that, I pressed my forehead to his chest. The steady beat of his heart grounded me.

“I love you too, Sunshine,” I confessed and looked up at him.

Dean smiled, that rare, unguarded smile that made his whole face look younger.

It was all I needed to fill my soul. I took his hand and led him down the hall to my bedroom. The old floorboards creaked under our feet, but Maverick didn’t stir. At my door, I hesitated, the weight of the moment settling over me.

Dean bent down, his mouth inches from my ear. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

In all the time we’d been seeing each other, we had never done anything at my house, and I hadn’t let him spend the night. I was worried about Maverick getting the wrong idea. But tonight, after hearing Dean confess he loved me, I wasn’t worried about that anymore.

Dean followed me into the room, and I turned the lock behind us before reaching for him, fingers trembling with anticipation and relief. I pressed my lips to his, slow and searching, savoring the reality of his arms around me. We took our time, as if we were both afraid the spell would break if we moved too fast.

I grinned up at him, feeling lighter than I had in years. “We’ll have to be quiet. If Mav wakes up, he’ll want to eat cereal in bed and ask you a hundred questions about cows.”

He leaned in, kissing me again, softer this time. “I’m not the one who’s loud.”

I laughed against his lips. He wasn’t wrong. More than once, he’d had to swallow my whimpers and moans with a kiss, or even put his hand over my mouth. He was the first and only person I’d ever been with who made me forget my surroundings, made me forget what I was doing. When his hands, his mouth, his tongue were on me, he transported me to another place. I completely lost myself in him.

His fingertips ran up my arms, slow, deliberate, not the frantic groping of our first time, or the passionate encounters we’d stolen since, but with the kind of care someone might use to unwrap a priceless artifact from bubble wrap. He turned me by the shoulders so my back was to him, and I caught a glimpse of us in the oval standing mirror. He was easily a foot taller than me. In the glass, we looked like a statue of opposites: my porcelain skin against his tanned arms, me all curves and chaos, him all sharp lines and control.

He eased my zipper down, taking his sweet time, as though the anticipation was half the pleasure. The fabric gave way, baring my back, and his lips pressed against my shoulder like a brand. Every time he kissed me, it was like a vow, and for once I believed every promise in that touch.

He hooked his thumbs in my straps and skimmed them over my shoulders and down my arm. The dress dropped to my ankles, pooling on the floor with a whisper, and for a split second I stood in front of him in the matching bra-and-underwear set I’d bought for myself on a rare spree at Target.

His fingers found the clasp and, with ridiculous skill, unhooked it one-handed. I almost told him it was impressive, but his hands were already moving, sliding the straps down my arms until the bra hit the carpet. Next, he gently tugged my underwear down my legs.

Once I stepped out of them, he straightened back up to a standing position. He stared at me in the reflection, and I had to admit, I felt very exposed. I was totally naked in front of him, and he was fully dressed. If it were anyone else, I would have been self-conscious. I would have tried to cover myself. But the way he looked at me, like I was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen, not only emboldened me, it turned me on.

He paused and wrapped both arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I sucked in a startled breath at the abruptness of his movements. He held me tightly, and I could feel every inch of him, solid and present, as I melted into him.

His chest was rising and falling in labored breaths as his hands glided over my hips, up my sides, and around to cup my breasts. His palms were rough from work, but his touch was soft. I closed my eyes the instant his hand slid down my stomach. It was instinct, a last defense, a way of keeping some little secret part of myself hidden, even as I stood utterly bare before him.

But Dean wasn’t having it. He pressed his mouth to the cusp of my ear, his voice a deep, hoarse whisper that vibrated through every cell in my body. “Open your eyes, Felicity.”

I obeyed, because I always obeyed him, and the sight that greeted me in the mirror was almost enough to undo me on the spot. His hands were on my body, framing me. He dragged his mouth down my neck, leaving an electric trail of heat, while his hand on my belly moved slowly, deliberately, until his restless fingers found their way between my legs. It was like all the oxygen in the room had been replaced with pure longing. I was so slippery and swollen that his fingers moved with barely any resistance, gliding up and down before he circled my clit in a lazy, teasing rhythm. I practically levitated.

“Look at yourself,” he said again, and this time he bit my earlobe, just hard enough to make me gasp. “You’re perfect. You know that, right? I wish you could see what I see.”

“I do,” I told him, my voice cracked and thin, “when you touch me.”

He responded with a low, gruff sound—almost a growl—a noise I’d never heard from him before tonight. His hand on my breast kneaded, fingers rolling my nipple between them, pinching just enough to send a bolt of electricity straight to my core. I arched against him, helpless to do anything else. The sensation of heat between my legs and the press of his body against my back was enough to scramble my brain entirely.

He didn’t rush, instead, he took his time. He just watched, patient and intent, as if he was memorizing every twitch of my face, every shiver, every stuttered breath. He then adjusted accordingly. When his finger brushed over my clit I gasped. He then began to flick it, and I was undone.

My thighs shook, knees went to jelly, and I whimpered as I attempted to stay quiet. Dean only held me tighter, his hand never faltering as he pressed the flat of his fingers against my clit, rubbing harder, faster, until the whole world narrowed to that one spot.

I came fast and hard, a bright burst of pleasure that stole my voice and my balance. My vision whited out, and I might have collapsed if he hadn’t wrapped his arm around my waist, bracing me as I trembled and shook. My head falling back onto his shoulder. I was vaguely aware of the mirror—of seeing myself come apart in his arms—but it felt like watching a stranger. I was beautiful, and I was naked, and I was his.

Dean kept working me through the aftershocks, his mouth on my neck, his other hand stroking up and down my torso as if he couldn’t get enough of the feel of me. When the quaking finally slowed, he turned me around, gentle, so gentle. I surrendered to his touch, my brain a tangled mess of relief, disbelief, and something dangerously close to pure happiness.