Page 85

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Michael

Despite the shit with Dean’s dad, it’s a good evening. We forget the drama while we eat frozen pizzas and bake some pre-formed sugar cookies Dean found on sale.

While the Florida winter and all our problems stay outside, Dean’s little apartment is full of warmth and tomato sauce and sugar cookie smells.

Through the meal though, Dean looks about to crash. He’s all sluggish with droopy eyelids and he’s barely holding his head up. But it’s Dean, so he forces himself to nod and smile and answer all the questions he can after he lets Ella know about her new school.

When I say something at the table about being tired he waves me off. He’ll always push himself to go until he drops. In the past I thought it pissed me off, but what it really does is make my heart hurt. After Dean bundles Ella into a blanket on the couch and sets her up with a show, I decide it’s time to step in.

“Ella, you hang tight here. I need to have a talk with your dad, okay?”

She doesn’t answer, already glassy-eyed and sucked into Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur.

“Come on.” I tug a reluctant Dean down the short hallway and shove him through the doorway. “You need to take a minute, baby. Get on your knees,” I command once we’re behind a locked door.

“We don’t need to do this now,” he insists even as he drops to the area rug at the foot of his bed.

Oh, but we do. I’m already sliding a hand over his stubbled jaw and then threading my fingers through his sandy curls. “You’ve been missing it, haven’t you?”

“Well, I haven’t had a nightmare in a little while. That part’s nice.”

Is that the only reason he likes to submit to me? Because it helps him forget his problems? The pizza in my stomach tumbles at the thought.

“Is that all this is about to you, Dean?”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re right I missed it. Though I haven’t minded the other stuff we’ve been doing.” He’s wobbling his head around as if trying to loosen a stiff muscle. “I like what you did to me, or, I guess, for me. When I had nightmares. But not because of them. I don’t know if I’m making any sense.” His attempt at eye contact is broken by a huge yawn.

My hand tightens in his hair, I hope covering the way my body deflates in relief. “I know what you mean. And I think you need it now. It’ll help you turn your brain off so you can get some rest.”

He gives an uneasy glance toward the door.

“She’s got a blanket, her stuffed animals, and the TV remote. The episode is twenty-two minutes, but we won’t even be that long. After, we’ll get Ella to bed, and then we’re going to call Brennan and figure out what to do about your oil stain of a father.”

“You really think we need to get our pimp involved over my dad?”

“You’re the one who always says, ‘when in doubt, it’s better to keep him updated.’”

His eyes widen as if I’ve startled him. “Right. You’re right.” Then he reaches for my zipper. “You want me to blow you?”

Fuck yes, I do. But first, there’s something else. Taking a step back, I tell him, “I want you to be a good little slut and take your clothes off for me. Then I want you to get on that bed and wait.”

There’s a hint of smile on his face as he slithers out of his shorts and shirt. Pretty gracefully for such a tall guy, aside from catching his foot on the leg of his basketball shorts.

The clothes land as they always do—in a pile on the floor. I’m a hundred percent certain that if Dean didn’t have a kid to set a good example for, his bedroom would be nothing but piles of dirty clothes and piles of less dirty clothes. Sock ball landmines everywhere.

“Look at you,” I tell him. “Such a fucking mess. Barely awake. When are you going to learn to take better care of yourself?”

He tugs his fingers through his hair the way he does when he’s nervous. Almost seems as if that’s all the time.

“Stop. Hands down.”

He puts his hands by his sides, but even exhausted he can’t keep them still. One day soon I really need to talk to him about getting evaluated for ADHD. Ella’s new school mentioned it. And if his kid has it, he probably does, too. Maybe if he had a diagnosis, he wouldn’t feel like he was just stupid.

This isn’t the time for that discussion, though. Instead, I crawl to him on the bed, slapping his hand away as it inches toward his hardening cock.

“Don’t you dare,” I tell him. “This belongs to me.”