Page 45 of The Equation of Us
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered,” I say.
“Okay,” he says again, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smile.
“Nora,” he interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. “Tell me what you really want right now.”
The question cuts through my carefully constructed defenses. What do I want? Not to talk about rules or boundaries or complications. Not to worry about Daphne or consequences or what might happen tomorrow.
What I want is much simpler. And much more frightening.
“You,” I admit quietly. “I want you.”
His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “Then let’s start there.”
He reaches out, his hand cupping my face with a gentleness that contrasts with the intensity in his eyes. His thumb brushes across my lower lip, a light touch that sends electricity racing down my spine.
“We can talk about rules later,” he says. “But right now, I’ve been thinking about you all day. About all the things I want to do to you. With you.”
The sheet of paper falls to the floor, forgotten. “Like what?”
A slow smile curves his mouth.
He takes my hand and leads me toward his bedroom. I follow, the list of boundaries already fading from my mind.
Some rules, it seems, are made to be broken.
Chapter Sixteen
Controlled Surrender
Nora
Dean’s bedroom is different from what I expected.
Where the rest of his apartment is minimal and almost impersonal, this space feels more lived-in. The king-size bed dominates the room, neatly made with charcoal gray bedding. One wall features a large, abstract painting in shades of blue and silver—the only real art I’ve seen in his place. Bookshelves line another wall, filled with engineering texts, hockey trophies, and unexpectedly, a collection of worn paperback novels.
What catches my attention most, though, is the large window with a small seating area beneath it—a cushioned bench piled with pillows, overlooking the lights of the town below. It’s oddly cozy, almost romantic, at odds with the disciplined image Dean projects.
“This isn’t what I pictured,” I admit as he closes the door behind us.
“What did you picture?” He moves closer, stopping just behind me.
“Something more… austere, I guess. Military corners on the bed. Nothing personal.”
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through me. “I’m disciplined, Nora. Not a robot.”
His hands settle lightly on my shoulders, warm even through the fabric of my blouse. I can feel the heat of his body behind me, not quite touching except for those hands.
“The rules,” I say, remembering why I wanted to talk in the first place. “We should—”
“Turn around,” he interrupts, his voice quiet but firm.
I hesitate, then do as he says, turning to face him. He’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“We can talk about rules,” he says, his gaze intent on mine. “But first, I need to know something. Why are you really here tonight?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
