Chapter 8
Dean
She's humming.
She does that when she thinks no one's watching – quiet little melodies while she works on her laptop, unconscious movements that match the rhythm.
Right now she's curled up in my armchair, wearing one of my old flannel shirts over her jeans because she was cold this morning.
She hasn't noticed it slipping off one shoulder, doesn't realize what the sight of her in my clothes is doing to my sanity.
It’s been over a week since I kissed her by the fire, and I'm losing my mind.
"Oh!" She startles when she finally notices me in the doorway. A blush creeps up her neck. "How long have you been standing there?"
Too long. Not long enough. "Just checking if you wanted coffee."
"Thanks, but Boris and I already had our morning chat."
I hide my smile. She's taken to talking to the coffee maker every morning, telling it her writing plans for the day. It should be ridiculous. Instead, it's endearing as hell.
"How's the book coming?"
"Slowly." She tucks her hair behind her ear – a nervous habit I'm learning to read. "I keep getting... distracted."
The way she says it, soft and shy, sends heat through my veins. She glances up at me through her lashes, then quickly back to her screen.
"Distractions can be good," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "For creativity."
Her blush deepens. "Maybe. Or maybe they just make it hard to focus on anything else."
Fuck . She has no idea what she does to me, sitting there in my shirt, looking all soft and rumpled and tempting. No idea that every innocent glance, every accidental touch, every goddamn time she bites her lip like that – it's torture.
"I should get back to work," I manage.
"Oh. Right. Of course."
Is it my imagination, or does she sound disappointed?
"I was thinking of making cookies later, if that's okay? To thank you for letting me stay so long."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I want to." She smiles, small and sweet. "Besides, I need to prove I can actually bake something without burning down your kitchen."
The memory of her first attempt at muffins – and the smoke alarm incident that followed – makes me laugh. "As long as you don't let Emma give you any more 'foolproof' recipes."
"That was one time!" But she's laughing too, relaxed again. Then she stretches, the shirt riding up to show a strip of skin above her jeans, and all my humor evaporates into raw want.
I need to leave. Now. Before I do something stupid like cross the room and show her exactly what she does to me.
"Dean?"
I'm already at the door. "Yeah?"
"I..." She hesitates, fiddling with her sleeve. My sleeve. "Thank you. For everything."
The shy sincerity in her voice hits me like a physical blow. Because it would be easier if this was just attraction – just the maddening need to touch her, taste her, make her say my name in that breathy way she did when I kissed her.
But it's more than that. It's the way she talks to my coffee maker and burns muffins and fills my silent house with humming. The way she's carved out a place here without even trying.
The way I'm starting to need her here, like air.
"I'll be in the workshop," I say roughly, before I can do something unforgivable like tell her exactly how much she means to me. How she's gotten under my skin, into my blood, making me want things I swore I'd never want.
I spend the next hour destroying a perfectly good piece of maple, unable to focus on anything but the memory of her in my shirt, the way she sighs when she's writing, the small sounds she made when I kissed her over a week ago.
The scent of cookies drifts in, followed by a muffled curse and the clatter of a dropped pan. Before I can think better of it, I'm heading for the kitchen.
She's bent over, retrieving scattered cookies from the floor, still wearing my damn shirt. "I swear these are actually edible this time, just a little... floor-adjacent."
"Harper."
She looks up, flour on her cheek, hair escaping its messy bun, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
"I can make more," she says quickly. "I didn't burn anything, I promise. Though maybe we should institute a three-strikes rule for kitchen disasters—"
I cross the kitchen in two strides, haul her up against me, and kiss her like I've been dying to all week.
She makes a startled sound that turns into a soft moan, melting into me. Her hands flutter uncertainly before settling on my chest, gentle and hesitant in a way that makes me want to devour her.
When I finally pull back, she's wide-eyed and breathless. "Oh."
"I shouldn't have."
"No, it's..." She touches her lips, dazed. "That was... um."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." It comes out as a whisper. "I've been wanting... I mean, I thought maybe you didn't..."
"Didn't what?"
"Want to. Again. After the other night." Her cheeks flame. "You've been so careful, keeping your distance, and I thought..."
Jesus. She thought I wasn't interested? When every moment I'm fighting not to pin her against the nearest surface and show her exactly how much I want her?
"Harper." I rest my forehead against hers, trying to steady my breathing. "I've been keeping my distance because if I don't, I might do something we're not ready for."
"Oh." Her breath hitches. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"That's... good to know." She's playing with the buttons of my shirt, a nervous habit that's going to kill me. "For research purposes."
I can't help laughing. Even now, she's trying to lighten the moment, ease the tension. "Research?"
"Mhm. Very important plot points. Though my editor might suggest this scene needs more..."
I kiss her again, softer this time. When I pull back, she looks dazed in a way that makes me want to see how else I can make her lose her train of thought.
"The cookies," she manages.
"Let them burn."
"But—"
"Harper." I trace her bottom lip with my thumb. "Stop talking about cookies."
Her smile is shy but warm. "Make me."
She bites her lip. That same innocent little habit that drives me out of my mind. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to be strong, to pretend I don’t want to devour her right here in the middle of my damn kitchen.
But when she whispers, “Make me,” with that breathless smile, I break.
I don’t answer. I just kiss her again. Slow, deep, and deliberate. Her hands fist in my shirt, and I feel her soften against me, trusting me completely. That trust nearly undoes me.
She gasps as I lift her onto the kitchen counter, pushing aside the forgotten tray of cookies. My hands slide up her thighs, under the oversized flannel, finding smooth skin and warmth that makes my pulse pound.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” I murmur against her mouth. “Anytime. I mean it.”
Her only answer is to kiss me harder.
I drag my mouth down her neck, breathing her in. “You smell like sugar and heaven.”
Her laugh turns into a gasp as I kiss along her collarbone. “That’s not even a real thing.”
“It is now.”
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans. She lifts her hips, silently giving me permission. My heart hammers like I’m twenty again, like I don’t know what I’m doing, because this isn’t just sex. This is her first time. This is Harper . And I’m not going to rush a damn thing.
I tug her jeans and panties down, slow and reverent, and when I step back to look at her—legs parted, shirt slipping off one bare shoulder, cheeks flushed—I swear I forget how to breathe.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” I whisper.
She ducks her head like she doesn’t believe me, but I tip her chin up. “No. Look at me. Let me see you.”
Her eyes shine as they meet mine, and I drop to my knees.
“Dean—” Her voice is high and uncertain.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I promise, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Just want to make you feel good.”
Her breath catches as I settle between her legs, my hands anchoring her hips in place. I go slow, just teasing at first—gentle flicks of my tongue, tasting her sweetness, learning every reaction she gives me.
And damn, she’s responsive.
She whimpers my name, fingers diving into my hair, tugging just enough to make me growl. Her thighs tremble against my shoulders, and when I suck gently on that perfect little spot, her whole body arches off the counter.
“That’s it,” I murmur, mouth slick with her. “Just like that. Let go for me, Harper.”
It doesn’t take long. She’s so wound up, so new to this. Her breath stutters, thighs clamping around me, and then she falls apart in my hands—soft cries, hips shaking, clutching me like she never wants me to stop.
I press kisses to her stomach, her hipbones, her trembling thighs, until she finally looks down at me, dazed and glowing.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“Yeah.” I rise to my feet, cupping her face. “You okay?”
She nods quickly, lips parting like she wants to say something, but then she just pulls me into a kiss that tells me everything I need to know.
I scoop her into my arms before she can argue—not that she tries. She tucks her head into my neck, still breathing hard, and I carry her up the stairs like she weighs nothing.
When I reach the bed, I pause for just a second. “Last chance, Harper.”
She looks up at me, eyes soft and sure. “Don’t stop.”
I lay her down and toss the flannel shirt aside, taking a moment just to look at her. Her skin, flushed from my touch. Her breasts, rising and falling with every breath. Her hair fanned across my pillow.
Mine.
I strip quickly, and when I crawl over her, I go slow again—pressing kisses along her jaw, down her neck, across her chest. She wraps her legs around me, pulling me closer, and I hiss when I feel her bare heat against my cock.
“Dean,” she whispers, voice shaking. “I want you.”
I line myself up and press in, inch by agonizing inch, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.
“Jesus,” I groan, gripping the sheet beside her head. “You feel... fuck, Harper. You’re so tight.”
She tenses, just a little, and I freeze.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “We’ll go slow. Breathe for me, baby.”
She nods, biting her lip. I kiss her again, deep and slow, and when I move just slightly, her body adjusts around me. I feel the shift—the moment her pain turns into pleasure—and her eyes flutter open, hazy and pleading.
“More,” she breathes. “Please.”
I lose control.
I grip her hips and thrust deeper, groaning as I sink all the way into her. “Fuck. You feel so damn good. So right. ”
She gasps, clinging to me. “Don’t stop.”
“Not a chance.” My voice is rough, almost feral. “You’re mine now. You understand?” The words shouldn’t sound like that — not with her — but something in me locks into place the moment she gives herself to me.
“Yes,” she moans. “Yours.”
That one word breaks something in me. I start moving harder, faster, unable to hold back now that she’s given me everything. Her hands claw at my back, pulling me closer, and I kiss her like I need her to survive.
“Mine,” I growl again, biting at her neck, her shoulder, anywhere I can leave a mark. “You don’t know what you do to me, Harper. You undo me.”
She’s close again. I can feel it in the way her thighs start to tremble, the way her nails dig into my skin.
“Come for me,” I whisper in her ear. “Let me feel it.”
She cries out, and I feel her clamp around me, the shock of her pleasure pulling me over the edge. I thrust deep one final time and come with a ragged groan, pouring everything I am into her.
We collapse in a tangle of limbs and gasping breaths. Her skin is sticky against mine, her body soft and pliant as I pull her on top of me, holding her close.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
Then she lifts her head, hair wild, lips kiss-bruised. “So, uh… definitely going in the book.”
I laugh, low and raw as she snuggles against me.