“He does?” Dean asks Rawley.
“Yeah, he says lots of good things about you,” Rawley replies.
I peek around the corner and see Rawley and Dean standing in front of the TV, Dean's hands shoved in his jean pockets, Rawley’s arms folded over his chest.
“I didn’t know you asked Jake about me,” Dean adds, and the conversation begins to make a little more sense.
Rawley meets Dean’s eyes, head held up, shoulders back. “My mom’s never dated anyone, or liked anyone, or like, moved onto someone. Like, ever.”
Dean stays quiet.
“I can tell she likes you a lot. Like, a lot,” he adds, making my cheeks flame with embarrassment. Another part of me swoons at how perceptive and conscientious my son is being. “So I asked Jake about you, because I’m the oldest, you know? I gotta look out for her. I can’t let her fall for someone who is gonna hurt her.” There’s an unspokenusin his eyes when he looks up at Dean, like he’s protecting me but himself and his brothers, too. My eyes burn with unshed tears of adoration for my sometimes difficult but always sweet son.
Dean outstretches his hand, and Rawley takes it. They shake as Dean says, “You have my word, man to man, I have nothing but good intentions for your mama.”
Mama.
It’s not the first time he’s used that term for me. Sometimes Archie calls me mama. But when Dean says it, when Dean uses that term, it lights me up. Makes me wonder how it’d sound being poured into my ear, straight from those full lips, while he hovers over me, hard, ready to sink inside.
“Alright, then,” Rawley says before turning on his heel to disappear into his room.
I quietly move through the kitchen, and meet Dean in the living room, where he’s standing next to the couch, waiting for me. His smile makes my chest tight.
“Thank you for handling that so well. I was ready to take him to the ER,” I admit, realizing my messy bun fell out in the commotion. I push hair off my face, tucking it behind my ears as I find the remote for the TV and shut it off. Darkness engulfs the room, except for the glow of moonlight from the large window on the wall. Just enough moon to highlight his profile, to see his arms outstretched for me.
I close the distance, and press myself into him, sighing with great relief when his arms wrap around me. “No problem. He’s just sore. He’s gonna be okay. The pain was just scary, because he’s never been hurt before, right?”
I nod against him, sucking up the woodsy, amber scent. “Right. Never even so much as a stitch.”
Dean’s palm skirts up my spine, then down again, coming to rest on the small of my back. His other hand finds its way there, too, and he tugs me against him casually.
He feels so good. Being against him, with him, in his arms—everything feels so good. My body hums, my pulse skips, my mouth goes dry but my pussy goes wet. My panties andthighs are damp and sticky, and the coil of desire low in my belly pulses, tightening, making me aware of how much I want Dean McAllister. How right it feels to be pressed against him, to be in the arms of a good man.
“Clara June, he’s okay,” Dean says, as I sink my nails into his shoulder blades, gripping at him like he’s trying to get away.
“I know, thank you, thank you so much,” I murmur, aware that he’s gently swaying us in the moonlight, inside my cozy little living room, my boys sleeping down the hall.
He pulls me closer, pressing his lips to my hairline, hot and sizzling. The kiss is tender and sweet, but as his muscular chest heaves against me, his large hands keeping my groin held tight to his, the conversation in the hall with Rawley rips through my mind, Dean’s hands folding the towel make an appearance too. Then his tongue sliding against mine, the way we made out for twenty minutes, breathing hard, squeezing our joined hands when things got hot because it’s all we could do—all of it rushes behind my eyes as he holds me close and reassures me that everything is okay.
And then, after years of concern that it would never happen, that I was broken and would forever be broken,it happens.
Without touch.
Without grinding.
Without friction.
Without nudity or porn.
Without moaning or kink.
My hands slide around his bulging biceps to grip at his shirt, clenching fistfuls of fabric as I crash my forehead to his sternum. “Oh my god,” I whisper, my entire body trembling as I pull my legs together, trying to absorb or slow some of the thrashing desire exploding in my veins.
“Clara June?” he questions softly, running his hands up and down my back as I gasp and choke, trying to hide my face in his chest as I come, andcome hard.
When the tail end of my orgasm has waned, and I’m able to pull my face from his chest and look up at him in the dark living room, I find his knowing eyes already watching me.
“I—” I don’t know what to say. He bends down and steals a kiss from my lips. “Goodnight, Clara June. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
