Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Dean and I finished our dinner in relative silence, neither of us willing to test the suddenly calm, unfamiliar waters we find ourselves suddenly drifting in. As soon as I’m finished, I stand.
“It’s been a long day,” I say, offering him a polite smile. “I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.”
“Okay.” He gives me a flat, polite smile of his own.
Feeling awkward and exposed for some strange reason, I turn away from the table, forcing myself to walk across the deck to the bungalow, instead of run.
In the bathroom, I contemplate a bath for a few minutes before deciding I’m too tired and opt for a quick shower after all. Twenty minutes later, I’m dry and moisturizing when I remember.
Oh no.
Snagging the last hotel robe, I wrap myself in it and secure the belt before opening the bathroom door to find Dean sitting on the side of the bed, frowning at his phone.
While I was in the shower, someone came in and cleared the buffet and dinner dishes, leaving the area spotless.
“Mateo said you have a late breakfast on the schedule and to let him know if you changed your mind…” When all I do is stand here and stare, he looks up at me. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.” Nodding my head, I feel my guts twist a little before I give up and shake it. “No. I mean—nothing’s wrong but…”
Frowning, Dean sighs. “I might not be a gentleman, Mills but I’m not a complete creep either, so if this is about sharing a bed, then—”
“No. That’s—” Shaking my head again, eyes so wide I can feel them bouncing around in my skull, I take a step forward. “I don’t have anything… appropriate to wear to bed.”
He looks at me like he has no clue what I’m saying. “Appropriate?”
“Actually…” Blanching slightly, I pull the lapels of my robe closer together over my chest. “I don’t have anything to wear…
to sleep in.” Swallowing hard, I look away from him, slightly mortified.
“I did—I mean, I packed mostly lingerie because it was supposed to be my honeymoon but then when I found out about Allister and Paige, I went a little crazy and I spent yesterday afternoon shopping for new clothes for a trip I thought I was going on by myself. All I packed besides undergarments were bikinis and cocktail dresses for dinner out if I wanted to…” Shaking my head, I force myself to look at him.
“I didn’t think appropriate sleepwear would be necessary.
” Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly.
“Actually, I didn’t think sleepwear would be necessary at all—appropriate or otherwise. ”
Dean frowns up at me like he’s having a hard time piecing together what I’m saying. After a few seconds, he seems to figure it out because his expression goes from puzzled to slightly amused. “Were you gonna sleep naked?”
Feeling an ugly, red flush bloom across my chest, I fight the urge to look away from him because I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman and if I can’t look at a man while he says the word naked without passing out, then Allister is right and there’s absolutely no hope for me, whatsoever.
“I was, yes—” Bobbing my head, I run my tongue across my lips because my mouth is suddenly so dry I feel like I’ve been swallowing cotton.
“because I was supposed to be here, alone.” The decision was an impulsive one, made after too much wine and self-pity to be considered healthy.
“Go ahead and say it,” I gripe at him. “Tell me how sad and pathetic you think I am, or maybe that—”
“I think you’re a lot of things, Mills,” he tells me in a firm, matter-of-fact tone.
“but sad and pathetic don’t make the list.” Setting his phone on the bed, he stands to make his way toward me.
Stopping in front of me, close enough to touch, he gives me one of those maddening smirks of his.
“Besides, that would be against the rules.” Hooking his hands into the hem of the shirt he’s wearing, he lifts it, dragging it up, over his head.
Shirtless, he offers it to me. “Here you go—it’s choking the shit out of me, anyway. ”
My first instinct is to refuse. Tell him to put his shirt back on because sleeping next to him is going to be hard enough.
There’s no way I can sleep next to a shirtless Dean Mercer.
Not if I actually want to sleep. He must see the refusal, brewing on my face because he cocks his head slightly to the side, his expression hardening slightly.
“I’m starting to feel insulted here, Matador. ”
Shit.
“Thank you,” I say, snagging the offered shirt from his grip before backing myself into the bathroom. Shutting the door, I sit on the edge of the tub for a few minutes, shirt in my lap while I listen to him move around the room on the other side of the wall of frosted glass behind me.
I saw him naked.
Purely by accident—I just happened to look up from my dinner and catch a glimpse of him while he was changing into the clothes I’d left for him.
I’ll be the first to admit that my experience with the male body is severely and almost embarrassingly limited, but I know perfection when I see it—and naked Dean Mercer is exactly that.
Perfection.
Get it together, Millie. It’s either sleep in the bathtub or put the shirt on and go to bed. There were about a hundred shops in the hotel lobby. You can buy something appropriate in the morning.
Standing, I take off the robe and toss it over the side of the tub before dropping the T-shirt Dean gave me over my head, the hem of it falling to mid-thigh.
Reasoning that it offers more coverage than the dress I wore to dinner Friday night, I tell myself it’s fine.
This is fine. Lifting the soft cotton of it to my nose, I take a deep breath and feel my stomach swan dive toward my feet.
Not fine.
Definitely not fine.
He had it on for less than an hour. How does it already smell like him?
Get it together, Millie.
I turn off the bathroom light and open the door before I lose my nerve.
It’s dark, the only light coming from the moon, through the huge, floor-to-ceiling sliders that open out on to the deck.
Seeing the shape of Dean, lying in bed, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, I make my way toward it to slip beneath the sheets.
Following suit, I lie on my back and stare at the same ceiling while willing myself to stay calm.
Quit acting like a shriveled-up spinster, Millie. You shared a bed with Allister for over a year. This is nothing new. You’re not—
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Turning my head on my pillow, I catch it again. Movement. Under the covers. Mouth falling open, I watch while Dean’s hand moves, the blanket we’re sharing shifting around his hips. His bicep flexing and contracting with each—
Oh my god.
Sitting up, I lunge for the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it off the nightstand in my hurry to turn it on.
“The fuck, Mills,” Dean gripes, tugging his other arm out from under his head to fling it across his eyes to block out the light. His other arm, still buried under the covers, stops moving but I know what I saw. “What are you—”
“Doing?” I practically screech at him. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to recoup and recover after a long day of getting kidnapped,” he growls back at me. “You mind?”
“Recoup and recover?” I parrot back at him because my brain is so scrambled I seem incapable of forming rational words on my own. “Is that what we’re calling it?” I ask, my gaze shifting to the bulge of his hand, resting between his legs.
It takes him a few seconds to catch up but when he does, he lets out a sharp bark of laughter. Lifting his arm from his face, he turns his head to nail me with a hard look. “Are you fucking serious, right now?”
“Yes,” I say, cheeks—hell, my entire body—on fire with mortification. Yes, that’s what it is—mortification. It’s not something else. It can’t be something else. “I’m serious, Dean. Don’t try to gaslight me. I know what you’re doing. It’s the same thing you were doing yesterday.”
His forehead crumples in what looks like genuine confusion. “Yesterday?”
“Yes—yesterday.” I swallow hard, my belly flipping inside out at the memory of it. The flex of his bicep. The way he was looking at me. “When we were FaceTiming. You’re—”
When I can’t make myself say it, Dean tucks his arm under his head again with a smirk. “I’m what?” he asks while his hidden hand starts to move again. “What am I doing that’s so offensive to you, Mills?”
“You’re…” Eyes still glued to the slow, rhythmic movement of his hand, I shake my head. “You’re…” Forcing my gaze up to meet his, I feel something warm and heavy slide down the length of my spine. “You know what you’re doing.”
“You’re right,” he says quietly, his gaze hooked into mine. Arm still moving. “I know exactly what I’m doing… so why don’t you look under the covers and see for yourself?”
“You want me to look? At you while you…” That warm, heavy feeling freefalls, dropping low in my belly before it starts to throb. Jesus—am I turned on? Does the fact that I caught Dean Mercer masturbating in bed next to me actually excite me? Am I okay? “Don’t be absurd.”
Definitely not okay.
Like he’s reading my mind, Dean laughs. “Come on… don’t chicken out now, Marmaduke—just lift the covers and take a peek. You know you want to.”
I can’t explain what happens next.
All I know is that I told myself no.
That the best way to beat Dean Mercer at his own game is to simply refuse to play.
To roll over, turn off the light and pretend that what is happening in the bed next to me isn’t happening.
Because no matter the truce we called not more than an hour ago, torturing me is Dean’s favorite thing to do and he’ll never pass up an opportunity to make me squirm.
Don’t do it.
I hear it in my head, loud and clear, a split second before I reach for the covers and jerk them back, exposing us both.
Dean’s hand is still moving but—
“I thought…” Looking up at him, my cheeks flame red for an entirely different reason. “I…”