Chapter 2 #2
"Oh yeah? Your eyes are wild, y' face, no color—," waving his open palm in front of my face, for emphasis.
That breaks through my nervousness, and I smack his chest. "You should never tell a woman she doesn't look her best."
"I'm not. You just look like you've seen a ghost."
"Okay, fine."
"So, we kiss?"
"Okay, Dean. Okay, I'm ready. Should I just—"
"Liz, please shut up. No one talks this much when they're about to kiss."
His lips press against mine, and it's sweet, soft, appropriate for the audience watching, exactly what a loving fiancé would do.
Then he sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, and the floor vanishes from underneath me.
My lips part on instinct. His tongue sweeps in, and I taste champagne and mint, and oh God, this is what kissing Dean feels like.
His hand cradles my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek, as he deepens the kiss. I fist my hands in his shirt because I need to hold onto something, need to anchor myself before I float away entirely … or melt into a puddle on the floor or crumble into dust.
Dean groans, barely audible, but I feel it vibrate through his chest into mine.
This is getting out of control.
I whimper into his mouth as Dean's hand drops lower on my back, pulling me flush against him. We're not dancing anymore. We're just standing in the middle of the dance floor, so close to tearing each other's clothes off.
Someone whistles, and reality crashes back with mortifying speed.
We break apart, both disoriented and breathing hard. In all the years we've known each other, Dean has never ever looked at me the way he's looking now.
Something passes between us. Something I can't name, can't read, something that looks too much like raw want.
That kiss, that devastating, perfect kiss that felt nothing like pretending.
Then I glance at him and notice something else.
His dress pants are tailored. Well-fitted. Raven black fabric that shows everything.
Like, everything.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Dean's hard.
Very obviously, very prominently hard. There's no hiding it in those pants, and heat floods my face immediately followed by heat flooding much lower.
I did that. My kiss caused that. That kiss affected him the same way it affected me, and this new knowledge awakens something in my body I've never felt before. Not like this. Not this sharp aching want that pulses between my legs and makes me press my thighs together.
Trying not to stare, I force my eyes away before he notices, but it's too late. The image is burned into my brain.
We go back to our seats, and he adjusts his position, jaw tight, trying to be subtle about it.
I look anywhere else. The dance floor. The ocean beyond. My plate. Anywhere but the evidence of what that kiss did to him.
I'm going to die. I'm going to actually die from wanting him and pretending I don't.
Around ten, we make excuses. Early morning tomorrow, need rest, thank you so much for tonight.
The walk through the resort grounds feels surreal. Fairy lights illuminate paths through the gardens. Other couples pass, heading to their rooms, wrapped around each other.
Neither of us speaks.
Every step brings us closer to my room, and I don't know what will happen when we get there. Do I say goodnight? Do we kiss? But there's no one here to watch. Our rules say only when people are watching.
God, I want him to kiss me again.
I want it so badly I can't breathe.
We reach my room, and I fumble with the key card, hands shaking, and finally get the door open.
I turn to say goodnight, but Dean steps closer and backs me against the door.
"Someone might see us, Liz. We should probably do a proper goodnight … for appearances, pretend I'm about to sneak into your room. Your mom thinks I won't be sleeping in mine."
There's no one here. The hallway stretches empty in both directions. But there could be someone. Anyone could step off the elevator, walk down this hall, see us.
"For appearances," I whisper.
"Yeah." Dean braces one hand against the doorframe above my head, and the other holds my face. "Just in case. For safety's sake."
His mouth slants over mine, and this isn't the kiss from the dance floor.
That one was for show.
This is—
God.
He doesn't kiss me. He devours me, coaxing my mouth to open for him, and when I do, he plunges his tongue in and tangles it with mine. I arch into him because close isn't close enough, arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer.
Dean groans against my mouth, and his hand slides from my face to my throat. His thumb strokes my pulse point, and I shake and tremble against him. His other hand drops from the doorframe to my waist, yanking me against his length.
I can feel him. All of him. Still hard from earlier, maybe harder, and that knowledge short-circuits whatever was left of my brain … because he's thick and girthy.
Dean's fingers tighten in my hair, and I make sounds I've never made before, desperate wanting sounds that should embarrass me but don't because I can't think past the taste of him and the feel of his hands and the way he's pressing me against the door.
The elevator dings down the hall, and it's like a bucket of ice-cold water over us.
Dean steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and, taking a sudden interest in the carpet pattern, refuses to meet my eyes.
"I should—" He clears his throat. "Goodnight, Liz."
"Goodnight."
He walks away without looking back.
I make it three steps into my room before my knees give out. I sink onto the bed and touch my lips.
That kiss.
Those kisses.
Dean kissed me. Twice tonight. And I kissed him back like I've been starving for it.
Because I have been.
I've been in love with Dean since college.
Not the cute kind of love. Not the manageable kind. The devastating, all-consuming, ruins-you-for-anyone-else kind.
The kind where every guy I've dated felt like a placeholder. Where I could tell you the exact moment—March 14th, 2 AM, he brought me coffee and my favorite snacks—that I realized.
The kind where I've spent years pretending to be fine, being his best friend while hearing him date other women (he only ever tells me ... I haven't met any of them) and wishing they were me.
And now?
Now, I'm fake-engaged to him with his grandmother's ring on my finger, and the taste of him still on my lips, forced to pretend this doesn't mean anything.
Three days.
That's all this is.
Three days of Dean touching me and kissing me and looking at me like I'm his.
Three days of pretending while actually dying inside.
Three days of having everything I've ever wanted in the worst possible way.
And then we go back to being just friends, and I have to pretend my heart isn't broken and nothing changed when everything changed.
This is going to destroy me.
I know it is.
And I'm going to let it happen anyway because three days of fake Dean is better than a lifetime of nothing.
Tomorrow, there will be more kissing, more touching, more pretending.
I'm not going to survive this weekend.
But God, what a way to go.
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