24. No Cereal and Cow Talk
NO CEREAL AND COW TALK
Felicity
The night air was chilly, the kind of cold that cut clean through the truck window.
Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, the other loosely covering mine where it rested in my lap.
It felt like a tether, an anchor. The roads were empty and dark, the town’s Founder’s Day banners fluttering along Valentine Boulevard.
A few stragglers from the fundraiser were visible in the frosted glow of streetlamps, clutching their to-go dessert plates and laughing into the wind.
In the back seat, Maverick was a silent lump, so thoroughly asleep that his face had gone slack and his fingers twitched in little dreams.
We’d blown past the fundraising goal, three thousand above the financial target, a fact that had Gen beaming and hugging me about twenty times, and the mayor promising to buy a round at Cupid’s Arrow for every volunteer.
It should have felt triumphant. But instead, as Dean nosed the truck down my drive, the only thing I felt was an emptiness, like someone had reached in and scooped out all my good parts and left the empty shell behind.
Today had been draining. It wasn’t just today, just the four hours that Tanner didn’t bring Mav home. It was the years that Tanner had put me through days and nights of uncertainty, then somehow turned it around on me. It was exhausting.
Having not only Dean beside me, on my team, but also his family, was something I was telling myself not to get used to.
This wasn’t anything. Our relationship was somewhere between co-workers-with-benefits and a situationship, and it terrified me how natural it felt.
I had to continually remind myself that Dean was a good man.
His attraction to me was separate from his character.
That was not specific to Maverick or me.
I was sure he would do what he’d done for me for anyone in town.
Dean lived his life by the gospel of Vanilla Ice: if there was a problem, yo, he’d solve it.
If there wasn’t a problem, give him five minutes, he’d probably find one and he could solve that too.
The man had never met a crisis he couldn’t fix.
Despite his actions feeling personal to me, they weren’t. I had to remember that.
We pulled to a stop, and before I’d even gotten out of the truck, Dean was easing Maverick from his booster seat, cradling him as if he weighed nothing.
He carried him inside with a protective vigilance that made my heart hurt.
I trailed behind, carrying my purse, feeling at loose ends.
After a lifetime of being the only adult in the house, the only dependable person in any room, I didn’t know how to process someone else carrying my responsibilities—literally and metaphorically.
I didn’t know how to let myself want it, much less accept it.
I hovered outside Maverick’s room. Dean laid him down, straightened the twisted sheets, and brushed the hair off Maverick’s forehead in a gesture so gentle I almost burst into tears on the spot.
He tucked Deputy Neigh under Mav’s arm, then straightened and stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him.
We walked into the living room together in silence. The house was full of the familiar smells of vanilla candle and clean laundry, and even though I’d lived there for months, it struck me that this was the first time it really felt like home.
Dean’s hands were in his pockets. He’d rolled his sleeves up, and I could see the faint smudge of ink on his forearm where Maverick had given him a “tattoo” earlier. I wanted to reach out and trace it with my thumb.
The silence stretched between us, and suddenly I had no idea what to do with my hands.
Hugging him seemed reasonable.
Kissing him seemed better.
Bursting into tears and make the entire situation horrifying for everyone involved was apparently also on the table.
I shifted my weight, then crossed my arms, mostly to keep my hands from betraying me and reaching for him anyway.
Unfortunately, that did nothing about the rest of my body. My chest felt too tight, my eyes had started doing that dangerous pre-cry sting, and my skin seemed to have shrunk at least two sizes in the last thirty seconds.
I rocked back on my heels and stared at a spot somewhere near his shoulder. Because looking directly at him felt like a gateway drug to making very bad decisions.
I was tired. I wanted to curl up under a mountain of blankets and not move for a week.
I also wanted—deeply, unreasonably—for Dean to stay, for his voice and his steadiness to fill the next few hours and maybe the rest of my life.
But the only thing I could manage to say was, “I think I’m going to head to bed. ”
He nodded, then leaned down to kiss my forehead, the press of his lips was tender and sweet. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He made it one step towards the door and panic rose in me.
Before running it by my brain, my hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. The shock of his skin against mine was electric. “Don’t go,” I breathed, it came out small, almost a plea. “Just…don’t. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
He looked down at my hand, then at my face, searching my eyes.
I wasn’t sure what he was looking for or if he found it.
But the next thing I knew, Dean’s arms encircled me, pulling me flush against him, not in the hesitant, is-this-okay way of a man uncertain of his welcome, but like he’d been waiting for this precise moment his whole life.
His hold tightened around me, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself relax, let my guard down past the polite, past the banter, down to the marrow.
“You don’t have to do it alone.” He paused, settling his hands at my waist. “I’m here. For both of you. For as long as you’ll let me.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he spoke over me.
“I told myself a hundred times I’d keep it simple.
I tried to follow your rules. But we already broke rule number one, and I’m not good at lying, so I’m just going to say it, I love you, Felicity.
I love Maverick, too. In the short time I’ve known you both, you’ve somehow become… everything.”
I stood there, stunned by the simplicity and magnitude of his words. Every relationship I’d survived until now had unraveled and left me picking up the pieces. I found myself waiting for the catch, the caveat. I was already bracing for the other shoe to drop.
Despite that, I pressed my forehead to his chest. The steady beat of his heart grounded me.
“I love you too, Sunshine,” I confessed and looked up at him.
Dean smiled, that rare, unguarded smile that made his whole face look younger.
It was all I needed to fill my soul. I took his hand and led him down the hall to my bedroom. The old floorboards creaked under our feet, but Maverick didn’t stir. At my door, I hesitated, the weight of the moment settling over me.
Dean bent down, his mouth inches from my ear. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”
In all the time we’d been seeing each other, we had never done anything at my house, and I hadn’t let him spend the night. I was worried about Maverick getting the wrong idea. But tonight, after hearing Dean confess he loved me, I wasn’t worried about that anymore.
Dean followed me into the room, and I turned the lock behind us before reaching for him, fingers trembling with anticipation and relief.
I pressed my lips to his, slow and searching, savoring the reality of his arms around me.
We took our time, as if we were both afraid the spell would break if we moved too fast.
I grinned up at him, feeling lighter than I had in years. “We’ll have to be quiet. If Mav wakes up, he’ll want to eat cereal in bed and ask you a hundred questions about cows.”
He leaned in, kissing me again, softer this time. “I’m not the one who’s loud.”
I laughed against his lips. He wasn’t wrong.
More than once, he’d had to swallow my whimpers and moans with a kiss, or even put his hand over my mouth.
He was the first and only person I’d ever been with who made me forget my surroundings, made me forget what I was doing.
When his hands, his mouth, his tongue were on me, he transported me to another place. I completely lost myself in him.
His fingertips ran up my arms, slow, deliberate, not the frantic groping of our first time, or the passionate encounters we’d stolen since, but with the kind of care someone might use to unwrap a priceless artifact from bubble wrap.
He turned me by the shoulders so my back was to him, and I caught a glimpse of us in the oval standing mirror.
He was easily a foot taller than me. In the glass, we looked like a statue of opposites: my porcelain skin against his tanned arms, me all curves and chaos, him all sharp lines and control.
He eased my zipper down, taking his sweet time, as though the anticipation was half the pleasure. The fabric gave way, baring my back, and his lips pressed against my shoulder like a brand. Every time he kissed me, it was like a vow, and for once I believed every promise in that touch.
He hooked his thumbs in my straps and skimmed them over my shoulders and down my arm. The dress dropped to my ankles, pooling on the floor with a whisper, and for a split second I stood in front of him in the matching bra-and-underwear set I’d bought for myself on a rare spree at Target.
His fingers found the clasp and, with ridiculous skill, unhooked it one-handed. I almost told him it was impressive, but his hands were already moving, sliding the straps down my arms until the bra hit the carpet. Next, he gently tugged my underwear down my legs.
Once I stepped out of them, he straightened back up to a standing position.
He stared at me in the reflection, and I had to admit, I felt very exposed.
I was totally naked in front of him, and he was fully dressed.
If it were anyone else, I would have been self-conscious.
I would have tried to cover myself. But the way he looked at me, like I was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen, not only emboldened me, it turned me on.
He paused and wrapped both arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I sucked in a startled breath at the abruptness of his movements. He held me tightly, and I could feel every inch of him, solid and present, as I melted into him.
His chest was rising and falling in labored breaths as his hands glided over my hips, up my sides, and around to cup my breasts.
His palms were rough from work, but his touch was soft.
I closed my eyes the instant his hand slid down my stomach.
It was instinct, a last defense, a way of keeping some little secret part of myself hidden, even as I stood utterly bare before him.
But Dean wasn’t having it. He pressed his mouth to the cusp of my ear, his voice a deep, hoarse whisper that vibrated through every cell in my body. “Open your eyes, Felicity.”
I obeyed, because I always obeyed him, and the sight that greeted me in the mirror was almost enough to undo me on the spot.
His hands were on my body, framing me. He dragged his mouth down my neck, leaving an electric trail of heat, while his hand on my belly moved slowly, deliberately, until his restless fingers found their way between my legs.
It was like all the oxygen in the room had been replaced with pure longing.
I was so slippery and swollen that his fingers moved with barely any resistance, gliding up and down before he circled my clit in a lazy, teasing rhythm. I practically levitated.
“Look at yourself,” he said again, and this time he bit my earlobe, just hard enough to make me gasp. “You’re perfect. You know that, right? I wish you could see what I see.”
“I do,” I told him, my voice cracked and thin, “when you touch me.”
He responded with a low, gruff sound—almost a growl—a noise I’d never heard from him before tonight.
His hand on my breast kneaded, fingers rolling my nipple between them, pinching just enough to send a bolt of electricity straight to my core.
I arched against him, helpless to do anything else.
The sensation of heat between my legs and the press of his body against my back was enough to scramble my brain entirely.
He didn’t rush, instead, he took his time. He just watched, patient and intent, as if he was memorizing every twitch of my face, every shiver, every stuttered breath. He then adjusted accordingly. When his finger brushed over my clit I gasped. He then began to flick it, and I was undone.
My thighs shook, knees went to jelly, and I whimpered as I attempted to stay quiet. Dean only held me tighter, his hand never faltering as he pressed the flat of his fingers against my clit, rubbing harder, faster, until the whole world narrowed to that one spot.
I came fast and hard, a bright burst of pleasure that stole my voice and my balance.
My vision whited out, and I might have collapsed if he hadn’t wrapped his arm around my waist, bracing me as I trembled and shook.
My head falling back onto his shoulder. I was vaguely aware of the mirror—of seeing myself come apart in his arms—but it felt like watching a stranger.
I was beautiful, and I was naked, and I was his.
Dean kept working me through the aftershocks, his mouth on my neck, his other hand stroking up and down my torso as if he couldn’t get enough of the feel of me.
When the quaking finally slowed, he turned me around, gentle, so gentle.
I surrendered to his touch, my brain a tangled mess of relief, disbelief, and something dangerously close to pure happiness.
He kissed me, deep and slow, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips.
It made me wild, and almost before I knew it, my hands were at his shirt, fumbling for the buttons, desperate to get him naked.
He let me try for a minute, but my fingers were shaking so bad I kept missing the tiny buttons, so he laughed under his breath and started helping me, popping them open one by one.
His pupils were blown wide, and for the first time all night he looked just a little bit lost, like he wasn’t used to being the one who was wanted this much.
I got his zipper down and pushed his slacks down his hips.
He was hard, straining against the fabric of his boxers, and the sight of him sent a fresh jolt of excitement through me.
I got his boxers down, and he sprang free, thick and heavy and already leaking at the tip.
“You don’t have to—” he started, but I cut him off.
“I want to,” I broke in, and licked my lips. His eyes flashed with desperate need, making me feel even bolder as I lowered myself onto my knees in front of him.
I wanted him to feel every ounce of pleasure he’d given me.