47. Fiona
Fiona
She'd spent so long feeling ordinary, feeling like the kind of woman men settled for rather than craved. But the way Dean was looking at her now—like she was his salvation, his obsession—made her feel like the most desirable woman alive.
Her body moved instinctively, chasing the pleasure he was giving her so generously. She could feel herself getting closer, that familiar tension building low in her belly. She could see his face, could watch the way his eyes never left her, could feel how completely focused he was on her pleasure.
"Dean," she gasped, her hands bracing against the headboard as the sensation intensified.
His fingers gripped her tight, pulling her harder against his face.
She let herself fall apart above him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Through it all, his hands anchored her, his mouth worked magic, and his eyes stayed locked on hers like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
And then the pleasure became too much—too sharp, too deep—and her eyes fluttered shut as her body gave in completely.
When she finally came down, trembling and breathless, she collapsed forward, her forehead resting against the headboard. Dean's hands were immediately soothing on her back, gentle and worshipful.
"Incredible," he whispered. "You're incredible, Fiona."
She looked down at him, this man who had broken her heart and was now putting it back together with his reverence, and felt something shift inside her chest. Something that felt dangerously like hope.
Dean was looking up at her like she was something divine. His hands were reverent on her thighs, his eyes dark with worship and want.
"I missed this," she admitted quietly. "Missed feeling like this."
"Like what?"
"Beautiful. Wanted. Like I matter."
His expression grew fierce. "You do matter. You're everything, Fi. Everything."
As her breathing slowed and the aftershocks faded, Fiona became aware of Dean beneath her—still fully clothed, still hard against her thigh where she'd shifted to rest against him. The evidence of his desire was impossible to ignore, and yet he made no move to seek his own relief.
She looked down at him, taking in the flush across his cheekbones, the way his jaw was clenched with restraint. His hands were still gentle on her back, still focused entirely on her comfort.
"Dean," she said softly, her palm sliding down his chest to rest over his heart. She could feel how fast it was beating. "You're?—"
"I'm fine," he said quickly, catching her hand before it could drift lower.
"But you haven't?—"
"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 power of 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 buzz of 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.
"Fi, are you with him?"
Fiona closed her eyes. "Yeah."
Another pause, longer this time. "Are you okay?" Emma's voice was gentler now, worried.
"I don't know," Fiona admitted quietly, and Dean's hand stilled on her skin.
"Do you want me to come get you?"
Fiona looked at Dean again—at his concerned expression, at the careful way he was trying not to influence her answer. The choice was entirely hers.
"No," she said finally. "I'm okay. I just... I need to think."
"Okay. But Fi? Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
After she hung up, silence settled between them. Dean's fingers resumed their gentle movement on her shoulder.
"Regrets?" he asked quietly.
Fiona considered the question. She should have regrets. Should be panicking about what this meant, what she'd done. Instead, she felt… lost.
Fiona took a breath, steeling herself for what she had to say.
"Dean," she started quietly, not looking at him. "This doesn't change anything. Between us, I mean. The divorce, everything... this doesn't change any of that."
She felt him go completely still beneath her. When she finally looked up, his face was carefully blank, but she could see the devastation in his eyes.
"I know," he said simply, his voice rough.
The acceptance in his voice, the way he didn't argue or try to convince her otherwise, somehow made it worse. He was letting her go again, even after this. Even after everything they'd just shared.
"I just needed you to know that," she whispered.
"I know," he repeated, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. "I know, Fi."