45. Fiona
Fiona
Fiona froze.
Dean sat on the edge of the bed— their bed—flushed, guilty, his hand in front of himself.
The air between them pulsed, thick and charged. Her mouth went dry. Her brain did the math fast and wrong.
Was there a woman here?
The thought hit like a slap. The bed was mussed. His hair was a mess, and his shirt was wrinkled, and—oh God.
Her stomach flipped.
Of course. He was attractive, still technically married but practically not. Tall, successful, cleaned-up in that devastatingly casual way. Women probably lined up for scraps of his attention. Beautiful, sophisticated women who didn’t cry in public or get mocked on the internet.
Was he seriously taking the afternoon off work to have sex with someone? Here? In this bed?
It was none of her business. She had no right to feel anything. And yet?—
"Sorry," she said stiffly, stepping back like the doorway was on fire. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your… date."
Dean’s head snapped up. “What?”
She shook her head, the heat rising fast in her cheeks, shame cresting like a wave. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me an explanation. I just need my certification form. I’ll grab it and go.”
She tried to move past him, eyes fixed on the floor, praying for the earth to swallow her whole.
“Fiona, stop.”
His voice was low, sharp. She froze again.
“There’s no one else here.”
She glanced up, skeptical, wounded. “Dean, you don’t have to lie.”
He stood now, moving toward her, still visibly hard, which only made everything worse. “Are you crazy?” He sounded angry.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“There’s no woman here. I wasn’t with anyone. I wasn’t thinking about anyone else.”
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—to defend her retreat, but he cut her off, stepping closer, desperate and raw.
“I was lying in our bed, thinking about you .”
Her breath hitched.
“It’s always you. I was remembering the way you used to wake up with your hair everywhere and your feet tangled in the sheets. The way you used to press into me in the mornings and laugh when I kissed your shoulder. I was remembering how much I miss you. How much I want you.”
“Dean—”
“I haven’t touched another woman since I first saw you,” he said, voice rough. “Do you understand? There’s no one else. There won’t ever be anyone else.”
Fiona stared at him, overwhelmed. Her brain stuttered, caught between humiliation and the sharp ache of still wanting to believe him. Her eyes kept drifting down despite her best efforts, drawn to the evidence of his desire that he wasn't even trying to hide.
He took one more step, close enough to touch but not daring to. “You think I could ever want anyone else in this bed?” He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
Her eyes dropped again to the mattress, to the rumpled sheet, to the ghost of memory still warm in the air.
“You’re not only the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, you’re the sexiest, Fiona.”
Fiona blinked, her heart stuttering.
She knew what she looked like. She wasn’t the kind of woman who stopped traffic. Her thighs touched, her teeth weren’t perfectly straight, and her skin always broke out when she was stressed. She’d spent most of her life quietly understanding that she was ordinary—pleasant, maybe, but forgettable.
But under Dean’s gaze, she didn’t feel forgettable.
She felt seen . Wanted. Like beauty was something she became in his eyes.
Fiona stood in the doorway, every cell in her body screaming in different directions. But her voice, when it came, was hard. How dare he lie to her again.
“I know I’m not… there are sexier women, Dean.”
“ No .” He sounded almost angry. “Not to me.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he kept going.
"You don't get it," Dean said, his voice breaking with frustration. "You think I could want anyone else?"
He ran his hands through his hair. "Do you know what you do to me? Just standing there in that fucking cardigan that's too big for you, with your hair falling out of that bun? Do you have any idea?"
Fiona's breath caught. "Dean?—"
"No, let me finish." His eyes were wild, desperate. “It drives me insane. The way you bite your lip when you're thinking. The way you hum when you grade papers. The way you used to stretch in the morning, all sleepy and warm and mine."
"Dean, stop?—"
"I can't stop." His voice was raw. "Do you know how many times I've jerked off thinking about the way you used to look at me?"
Fiona felt heat flood her cheeks, her body. This was insane. He was talking to her like she was still his, like she still belonged to him.
"You want to know what's sexy?" He was close enough now that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes.
"It's the way you care about your students like they're your own kids.
It's the way you left notes in my lunch.
It's the way you still believe the world can be good even after everything I did to you. "
"I'm not—" she started weakly.
"You are." His voice was fierce. "You're everything. You're sunshine and kindness. You made me stupid, Fiona. You still make me stupid."
She was trembling now, caught between wanting to run and wanting to step closer. "This doesn't change anything."
"I know." His voice broke. "I know I lost you. I know I don't deserve you. But God, Fiona, let me show you. Let me show you how much I want you. How much I've always wanted you."
He reached for her hand, slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, his fingers intertwined with hers.
"Please," he whispered. "Let me touch you. Let me show you.”
"Dean," she whispered, and it sounded like surrender.
His hand was warm in hers, familiar in a way that made her chest ache. She looked at him—really looked—and saw the man she'd fallen in love with. Not the polished version he performed for the world, but the one who used to hold her like she was precious.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "Because if you're not?—"
"I'm sure." And she was. Not because her body was betraying her rational mind, but because her rational mind had finally caught up to what her heart had been trying to tell her. She wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to feel desired and beautiful and whole again.
She’d once believed she could never be naked in front of him again—not after what he did. But her body wasn’t braced against betrayal. She trusted him with this, at least. With her body, if not her heart.
He lifted their joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "I've missed you so much."
"So show me," she said, surprising herself with how steady her voice sounded.
Dean's eyes darkened. He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to cup her face with a reverence that made her breath catch. His thumb traced along her cheekbone like he was memorizing her all over again.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "So fucking beautiful, Fiona."
When he kissed her, it was soft at first—a question more than a demand. She answered by leaning into him, by parting her lips under his, by letting herself melt into the familiar warmth of his touch.
His hands framed her face, then slipped into her hair, scattering the pins that had been holding her bun in place.
"I love your hair," he murmured against her lips. "The way it curls when it's humid. The way it smells like sunshine.”
His words sent heat pooling low in her belly.
"Dean," she breathed as he kissed along her jaw, down her throat. Her cardigan was suddenly too warm, too confining.
As if reading her mind, his hands found the edges of it, pausing. "Can I?"
She nodded, and he pushed it off her shoulders with careful hands. It pooled at her feet, and she stood there in her simple blouse and jeans, feeling more exposed than if she'd been naked.
"Perfect," he said, and the way he looked at her—like she was everything he'd ever wanted—made her believe it might be true.
He walked her backward toward the bed, his hands never leaving her, always touching. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she sat down heavily, looking up at him.
"This is about you," he said, dropping to his knees in front of her. "Let me take care of you. Please.”
Fiona's heart hammered as his fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse. He carefully undid each one. When the last button gave, he eased the fabric off her shoulders, letting it fall away, leaving her in just her bra and jeans.
"God," he breathed, his hands skimming along her sides. "Look at you."
She didn't feel frumpy anymore. Didn't feel ordinary or forgettable. Under his gaze, under his touch, she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.
And when he leaned forward to press his lips to the soft skin of her stomach, murmuring words of appreciation against her skin, she felt cherished.