He should not be saying these romantic things to me.
I am already writing our wedding vows.
He steps away and suddenly, I can breathe again. My god, this man is walking sexual tension. He emits it like a pheromone.
“Fine. Go shower and then let’s watch a movie. What do you like?”
“How about one of those true-crime dramas?” I say, a little too giddy over the prospect. Nothing makes me twist and turn in bed like wondering if the Night Stalker is outside my window trying to get in.
Maybe if I get really scared, I can sneak into Dean’s bed and convince him to hold me. One can only hope.
Dean cocks his head, his hand running across his jaw. “I figured you were more of a romance kind of guy,” he says.
“I like those too, but I’m in the mood for a little murder right now.”
Dean’s hand falls from his face and he steps back. “Alright, meet me out here when you’re done.”
I take that opportunity to walk away, lest I crawl up that delicious body and scare the daylights out of him. I am mostly sure that this man would not appreciate me coming on to him.
Although, the way he looks at me sometimes…
Nope. It’s just the punch to the face. My brain is still rattled.
After showering—and jacking off for good measure, Dean’s name on my lips as I exploded all over the wall—I meet the man of my dreams in the living room. I’m back in my favorite joggers and a tight crop top, green this time.
I just like the way he looks at me when I wear this, like he’s not quite sure what to do about me. He’s probably never seen a man dress like this in his life. His son sure as fuck doesn’t. Well, I can’t wait to see what he thinks about me in a skirt.
God, his head will explode. And hopefully his cock.
All over me, of course.
I’d like that very much, please and thank you.
I’m brushing out my long hair, trying to get the tangles out, when I sit on the couch next to Dean.
“How long have you been growing out your hair?” he asks.
“Hmm, maybe like five years or so?”
“It’s real pretty. Want me to braid it?” he asks. I’m so shocked by his compliment and his question that the brush tumbles from my hand.
“Excuse me?” I ask, meeting his stare.
“Want me to braid your hair? I’m a little rusty, but I can.”
My mouth just hangs open and I can’t quite find the words.
“I’m sorry, you braid hair?”
“I said what I said.”
A laugh escapes me, and I shrug. “Fine, Dean, show me your skills.”
He spreads his thick thighs and I settle on the floor between them, handing him my brush and hair tie. My hair is one of the things I’m most proud of. It’s thick and long and lush. I know men like grabbing it when they fuck into me.
I mean, how could you not? It’s so grabbable.
Dean runs the brush through the damp strands, his fingers brushing the back of my neck as he does, and my entire body lights up.
