"This wasn't about me." His voice was firm, certain. "This was about you. About showing you how much I want you, how beautiful you are."
She searched his face, seeing the truth there alongside the barely leashed desire. He really meant it. He'd focused entirely on her pleasure, asking for nothing in return.
"You don't have to take care of me, Fi," he continued, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. "I wanted to take care of you. That's all I wanted."
The selflessness of it made her chest tight. This was the man she knew. This was the man she’d thought she was married to.
"But I want to," she whispered, surprised by how true it was. She wanted to touch him, to make him feel as worshipped as he'd made her feel.
Something flickered in his eyes—hope, maybe, or desperation. His hands trembled slightly against her skin.
"You're in charge," he said quietly, his voice rough with need and restraint. "Whatever you want, Fi. It's your choice."
Fiona looked down at him for a long moment, this man who was giving her complete control, complete choice. The powerof it was intoxicating—not just that he wanted her, but that he trusted her enough to be vulnerable with her again.
"I want to touch you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Dean's breath hitched. "Okay."
She started slowly, her hands working at the buttons of his shirt. He lay perfectly still beneath her, letting her set the pace, but she could feel the tension in his body, the way he was fighting to stay controlled.
When she pushed the fabric aside and ran her palms over his chest, he groaned softly, his eyes falling closed.
"I missed this," she murmured, tracing patterns across his skin. "Missed touching you."
"God, Fi," he breathed when she leaned down to press her lips to his collarbone. "You're killing me."
She smiled against his skin, feeling powerful and desired and completely in control. This was what she'd been missing—not just being wanted, but being the one doing the wanting. Being the one in charge of pleasure.
Her hands moved lower, and when she reached for his belt, his hips lifted to help her. He was beautiful—flushed and desperate and completely hers in this moment.
When she finally touched him the way she wanted to, the sound he made was broken and reverent and her name all at once.
"Fiona," he gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets. "You're so good, baby—so fucking good. I don’t deserve this, don’t deserve you, but God, I’ll take every second you’ll give me.”
The buzzof her phone cut through the silence. Fiona stirred against Dean's chest, momentarily disoriented. His arm tightened around her protectively, and she remembered—everything. The fight, his desperation, the way they'd come together like they'd never been apart.
Her phone buzzed again, insistent.
"Emma" flashed across the screen, and panic shot through her. She'd been supposed to be back hours ago.
"Shit," she whispered, scrambling to reach for the phone without fully extricating herself from Dean's arms.
"Hey," she answered, trying to sound normal and awake.
"Fi? Where are you? I thought you were just grabbing your certification thing."
Fiona glanced at Dean, who was watching her with alert eyes. He'd already been awake, she realized. Holding her while she slept.
"I'm... still at the apartment," she said carefully.
"Still? It's almost seven. Are you okay?"
Seven. They'd been here for hours. Time had dissolved completely while they'd been wrapped up in each other, and now reality was crashing back in.
"I'm fine," Fiona said, very aware of Dean's thumb tracing gentle circles on her bare shoulder. "Just... taking longer than expected."
There was a pause. Emma knew her too well.
