Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Brooke
The walk back to our suite feels longer tonight, each step weighted with the unspoken words between us. Dean moves ahead of me, his shoulders a rigid line under his suit jacket, hands shoved in his pockets like he's afraid of what they might do if left free. The wedding reception was a blur of champagne and forced smiles, of watching Dean talk with Chase like they were old friends, of the strange possessive heat that bloomed in my chest at the sight. I've spent two years convincing myself I was better off without Dean McAllister. Two years building a life that doesn't include him. And now, after less than a week in Hawaii, that carefully constructed fiction is crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide.
I fumble with the key card at our door, hyper-aware of Dean's presence behind me, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with the saltwater breeze drifting through the hallway. When the door finally opens, I step inside, immediately kicking off my heels with a sigh of relief. Dean follows, loosening his tie as he closes the door with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
"You wanted to talk," he says, not a question but a statement as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over a chair.
I turn to face him, suddenly unsure where to begin despite rehearsing this conversation in my head throughout the reception. "Yes," I manage, then stop, distracted by the way he's rolling up his sleeves, exposing tanned forearms marked with the faint scars of ranch work.
"I'm listening." He leans against the dresser, arms crossed, expression guarded.
I take a deep breath, searching for the right words. "I saw you with Chase tonight."
Dean's eyebrows rise slightly. "And? I thought we covered this earlier, Brooke.”
"You looked…friendly."
"We were being civil. Is that a problem?"
There's a challenge in his tone that sparks something defiant in me. "No, of course not. It was just surprising, given how you felt about him earlier this week." I don’t know why I’m pushing this thing with Chase, and it’s clear Dean doesn’t either. I think I’m just stalling for time.
"People change," he says with a casual shrug that feels anything but casual. "Perspectives shift."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I realized he's not the one I should be worried about."
The statement hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not sure I want to explore. "I wasn't aware you were worried about anyone."
Dean's laugh is short and bitter. "Right. Because this is all just pretend for you, isn't it? Just playing a part."
"That's not fair," I protest, heat rising in my cheeks. "You know it's more complicated than that."
"Is it?" He pushes off from the dresser, taking a step toward me. "Because from where I stand, it's pretty simple. I told you I never stopped loving you, and you reminded me this is all fake."
The hurt in his eyes makes my chest ache, guilt and confusion warring inside me. "I was scared," I admit quietly. "I still am."
"Of what, Brooke? Of me? Of us?"
"Of falling back into something we can't sustain!" The words burst out of me, louder than intended. "Of having to choose between my career and you all over again."
"So instead you're what—moving on? Finding someone who fits better into your New York life?" There's an edge to his voice now, something raw and wounded. "Someone like Chase, maybe?"
The suggestion is so absurd I actually laugh. "Chase? You think I'm interested in Chase?"
"I think you're looking for reasons to push me away." Dean runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Looking for an escape route before things get too real."
"That's not—" I start, then stop, uncertain if I can honestly deny it. "I saw you talking to him, looking so comfortable, and I thought maybe you were..."
"I was what?"
"Moving on," I finish, the words small and vulnerable in the space between us.
Dean stares at me for a long moment, disbelief clear in his expression. Then he laughs again, the sound harsher than before. "Moving on? I never moved on from you. But you sure as hell did."
The accusation stings, all the more painful because it's not entirely true. "That's not fair," I say, taking a step toward him. "I tried to move on. I dated. I built a life in New York. But it wasn't—" I swallow hard, struggling to articulate the emptiness I've never quite been able to fill. "It wasn't the same."
"What do you want from me, Brooke?" Dean asks, his voice dropping to something rough and low that sends shivers across my skin. "Because I can't keep doing this dance. Can't keep touching you and wanting you and loving you without knowing if I'm just setting myself up for another heartbreak."
The raw honesty in his words breaks something open inside me—a dam I've built to hold back the truth I've been denying since I first saw him in the airport. "I want you," I whisper, taking another step toward him. "I've always wanted you."
For a heartbeat, he doesn't move, his eyes searching mine for any sign of insincerity. Then his control snaps. He closes the distance between us in two strides, one hand tangling in my hair as his mouth claims mine in a kiss that's nothing like the gentle ones we've shared before. This is demanding, possessive, an assertion of everything he's been holding back.
I respond with equal fervor, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. There's anger in this kiss, and hurt, and two years of longing compressed into a single point of contact. When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, I moan, pressing myself closer, needing to eliminate any space between us.
Dean breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, nipping at the sensitive spot below my ear that he remembers with devastating accuracy. "Tell me again," he demands against my skin. "Tell me what you want."
"You," I gasp as his teeth graze my collarbone. "I want you, Dean."
His hands find the zipper of my bridesmaid dress, dragging it down with more force than necessary. The dress falls to the floor in a puddle of pale blue fabric, leaving me in just my underwear and the pearl necklace Taylor gave all her bridesmaids. Dean steps back slightly, his eyes roaming over me with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Always so damn beautiful."
I reach for him, impatient with the barrier of his clothes. He allows me to unbutton his shirt, to push it from his shoulders, but when I move to his belt, he captures my wrists in one large hand.
"Not yet," he says, backing me toward the bed. "First, I want to hear you say it again. That you want me. That this isn't just convenient or temporary or part of some game you're playing."
The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I sink down onto it, looking up at him standing over me. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, his expression is a complex mix of desire and wariness, need and restraint.
"This isn't a game," I tell him, holding his gaze. "I want you. Not just tonight. Not just this week."
Something shifts in his eyes, hope warring with disbelief. "Prove it," he challenges.
I rise to my knees on the bed, bringing us eye to eye. Slowly, deliberately, I remove my necklace, then reach behind to unhook my bra, letting it fall away. Dean's breath catches audibly, his gaze dropping to my bare breasts, but he doesn't move to touch me.
"I was jealous," I confess, the words easier now in the charged atmosphere between us. "Thinking you might be interested in someone else, that you might have moved on."
"Never," he says fiercely, his hands finally coming to rest on my waist. "There's only been you, Brooke. Even when I tried, even when I dated other women, it was always you I wanted."
The admission sends a thrill through me that's equal parts satisfaction and remorse. My hands move to his belt again, and this time he doesn't stop me as I unbuckle it, then unbutton his pants.
"I was afraid," I continue, pushing his pants down his hips until he steps out of them. "Afraid of wanting you too much. Of losing myself in us. But I think what I've really been afraid of is admitting how much I still love you."
The words hang in the air between us, a truth finally spoken aloud after two years of denial. Dean goes still, his eyes searching mine as if he can't quite believe what he's heard.
"Say that again," he demands, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I love you." The admission breaks free, as inevitable as the tide returning to shore. "I never stopped loving you, Dean. Not for one day since I left."
With a groan that sounds almost like pain, he pushes me back onto the bed, covering my body with his. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's both triumphant and tender, his hands roaming my skin like he's rediscovering territory long missed.
"Mine," he murmurs against my lips, my neck, my breasts. "You're mine, Brooke. Always have been."
"Yours," I agree, arching beneath him as his mouth closes around a nipple, tongue teasing the sensitive peak until I'm gasping his name.
There's an urgency to our movements now, a desperate need to reclaim what we've both been denying. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me wet and ready for him, and I cry out as his fingers stroke with a precision that proves how well he knows my body.
"Dean," I plead, reaching between us to wrap my hand around him, feeling him hard and hot against my palm. "Please. I need you inside me."
He groans at my touch, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. "Protection," he manages, his voice strained.
I shake my head, beyond caution now. "I'm on the pill. I'm clean. I haven't been with anyone since you.”
His eyes meet mine, searching. “You sure?”
"I'm sure." I guide him to my entrance, wrapping my legs around his waist. "I want to feel you. All of you."
With one powerful thrust, he enters me, and we both moan at the sensation of nothing between us. It's reckless, perhaps, but it feels right—a physical manifestation of the emotional barriers finally breaking down.
“I haven’t been with anyone else either, baby. I couldn’t. Couldn’t imagine being inside anyone else like this,” he groans, his voice full of a vulnerability that grips at something in my heart.
Dean sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deeper than the last, his hands gripping my hips with enough force that I know I'll have marks tomorrow. I welcome it, meeting him movement for movement, my nails scoring his back as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable intensity.
"Mine," he growls again, the word a guttural claim as his movements become more erratic. "Say it, Brooke. Tell me you're mine."
"Yours," I gasp, feeling the first tremors of release building. "I'm yours, Dean. Always yours."
My orgasm crashes over me without warning, a tidal wave of sensation that has me crying out his name, my body clenching around him. Dean follows moments later, his face buried in my neck as he pulses inside me, my name a prayer on his lips.
For long minutes afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, hearts gradually slowing to a more normal rhythm. Dean's weight is a comfort on top of me, grounding me in the reality of what just happened, what we just admitted to each other.
Eventually, he shifts to his side, one arm still draped possessively across my waist, his expression more open than I've seen it since we arrived in Hawaii.
"I meant what I said," I whisper, needing him to know this isn't post-coital euphoria speaking. "I love you. I never stopped."
Dean's fingers trace idle patterns on my hip, his gaze thoughtful. "I love you too," he says simply. "But love was never our problem."
The truth of this statement settles between us, a reminder that declarations alone won't solve the fundamental challenge we've always faced.
"So what happens now?" I ask, forcing myself to voice the question neither of us has been brave enough to tackle. "After the wedding. After Hawaii."
Dean is quiet for a long moment, his hand still moving in gentle circles on my skin. "That depends," he finally says. "On whether you're ready to actually build something together. To compromise. To stop running every time things get hard or scary."
There's a challenge in his words, but also vulnerability—the fear that even after everything, I might still choose to walk away.
"I want to try," I tell him, placing my hand over his heart, feeling its steady beat beneath my palm. "I want to find a way forward together. I just don't know exactly what that looks like yet."
He nods, accepting this as a start if not a complete answer. Then his expression grows more serious, an edge of determination in his eyes. "I need you to know something, Brooke. I don't think I can do fake anymore."
The words land with the weight of ultimatum, though his tone remains gentle. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this has to be real. All in. No more pretending, no more running, no more choosing career over us like they're mutually exclusive." His gaze holds mine, unwavering. "I'll compromise. I'll meet you halfway. But I need to know you're in this with me, completely."
The intensity of his declaration both thrills and terrifies me. All in. No safety net, no escape route, no carefully maintained distance. Just us, together, facing whatever comes.
"I'm scared," I admit, the confession easier now in the intimacy we've created. "But I'm more scared of losing you again."
Dean's expression softens slightly, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "That's a start," he says quietly. "That's enough for tonight."
As he pulls me against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, I wonder if it really is enough. If love and fear and desire can overcome the practical challenges we still haven't addressed. If we can find a way to merge our separate lives into something stronger than what we had before.
I don't have the answers yet. But for the first time in two years, I'm willing to stay and look for them instead of running away.