Chapter 3
DEAN
Going to Liz's room this morning is a terrible idea.
After last night—after kissing her twice and barely stopping myself from doing a hell of a lot more—being alone with her in a hotel room ranks somewhere between 'monumentally stupid' and 'actively suicidal.'
But it's Liz.
And she needs help.
The walk to the Juliet Rose Building gives me three minutes to get my shit together. Three minutes to remind myself that we're friends. Best friends. That last night was for show, even if it didn't feel like it. Even if I'm still tasting her on my lips.
I knock on 347.
She opens the door, and fuck.
Yoga pants. Oversized t-shirt. Hair messy. Barefoot. And there's a crease between her eyebrows that means she's been overthinking herself into knots.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Hey." She steps back to let me in. "Thanks for coming. I know this is weird, but Maura's bridesmaid dress is a nightmare, and I needed someone to tell me if I'm being dramatic or if it actually makes me look like a sad eggplant."
I laugh despite myself. "A sad eggplant?"
"It's purple. And shapeless. Like, I don't know in what world this is supposed to flatter me. That ..." She gestures to the dress hanging on the bathroom door "... Help."
The bed's made, but her stuff is scattered everywhere. Laptop open on the desk. Shoes kicked off by the closet.
"Maura picked this specifically to make me look bad. I know she did. It's too tight in the chest and too loose everywhere else, and the color makes me look like I'm dying—"
"Breathe, Liz."
"I am breathing."
"You're spiraling."
"I spiral when I'm stressed, you know this."
"I do, which is why I'm here." I cross to the bathroom door, examining the dress. It's purple. Deep eggplant shade, like she said. "Put it on. Show me."
She disappears into the bathroom, and I sit on the edge of her bed because standing feels too formal, and I need something to do with my hands.
Bad idea. Sitting on her bed.
This is where she sleeps. Where she was last night after I left her in the hallway, flushed and breathless.
Last night was for show. The kiss on the dance floor, the kiss at her door. All for show.
Except there was no one in the hallway.
Just a thought, do ghosts count?
No one, no sentient being anyway, was watching when I pressed her against the doorframe and kissed her the way I've been wanting to for years. When she made those sounds that went straight to my cock. When I got so hard, I had to shuffle away.
She noticed. I know she noticed.
"Okay, don't laugh," she says from the bathroom. "I'll hate you forever if you do."
"I make no promises."
She emerges, and—
Jesus Christ.
The shade might not be her best color, but she still looks … wow!
The bodice fits tight across her chest, showing curves I've spent years trying not to notice.
The waist is loose, bunching weird, but somehow the color makes her eyes look darker, greener.
I forget what I'm supposed to be judging here because if I'm being honest, Liz could wear a burlap sack, and she'd still outshine everyone. In my eyes.
She grimaces, tugging at the fabric. "See? Sad eggplant."
"You don't look sad. More like angry. An angry eggplant."
"I hate you so much, Dean."
"Okay, that was a bad joke. You look..." How do I say beautiful without giving myself away? How do I tell her she probably looks so much better naked anyway? "The dress is fine. You make it work."
She turns, showing me her back. "I can't reach the zipper. Can you...?"
That's when everything goes sideways.
The zipper's only halfway up, and there's a lot of bare skin between the fabric and her shoulders. A lot. Enough to make a man lose his mind.
My fingers find the zipper pull, and I accidentally brush her spine.
She goes still.
"Sorry. Cold hands."
"It's fine."
I tug on the zipper and pull up. Each inch draws my focus closer to her back—her smooth skin, the curve of her spine, a small freckle near her left shoulder blade I've never noticed before.
My hands linger at the top before smoothing the fabric around her waist. Finding where it bunches. Making excuses to keep touching her.
"Does it look better now?"
"Hmm. Turn around."
She turns in the small space between me and the mirror. Now we're facing each other. Inches apart. My hands still on her waist.
This is dangerous. This is breaking the rules. There's no one watching. No reason to touch her except I can't seem to stop.
Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and she's looking at my mouth the same way I must be looking at hers.
One of us should move. Step back. Laugh it off. Make a joke about the dress and reset this before we do something we can't take back.
One second, we're inches apart, and the next, the space between us completely disappears.
Our mouths crash, and whatever coherent thought I had disintegrates into dust.
It's desperate and hungry.
Her nails claw on my biceps and forearm, and I back her against the mirror. She makes little gasps and whimpers that make me weak with wanting.
I'm already hard. Have been since she walked out of that bathroom. Since she asked me to zip her dress. Since forever. But now it's almost to the point of pain.
My hands slide from her waist up her ribs, and she clings to me. The dress is in the way. Everything's in the way. I want her out of this thing, want her out of everything.
My mouth moves from her lips to her jaw. Her throat. Her collarbone.
"Dean—"
"Tell me to stop." I'm kissing down her neck, tasting her skin.
"Stop."
I freeze.
"I don't want you to stop. But our rules, remember? No one is watching us here. I need to process what is happening."
I place a finger under her chin and raise her eyes to mine. "Hey, we've been friends forever, well, for so long now I've lost count of the years. You know how we complete each other. Christ, we talk like a married couple, we tell lies like a tag team."
"Yes, but why have we always drawn a line. We've never crossed these lines. Why?"
I draw in a breath. It's a good question. "I don't know, Liz, I wish I did, but I just don't fucking know."
"I think I've been too terrified to lose a wonderful friend."
"Yes, that's true for me, too, but now I feel like I am more than just your friend."
She flops back onto the bed. "Shit, if we don't have the courage to cross those fucking lines, I guess we'll never know."
She springs up. "I know." She runs to her laptop and goes berserk on the keys, flashes her fingers across the touchpad. She clicks. Maura appears in a video. "If Maura is watching us, does this count?"
That's all the permission I need as I drop to my knees.
She runs over and bounds onto the bed.
I've imagined this. Late nights when I couldn't sleep, mornings in the shower, every time she's close enough to smell and I can't have her.
Now I can.
Now she's letting me.
And I'm going to make her forget every other man she's ever kissed.
I push the dress up, bunching the fabric at her waist. Gorgeous legs, lace underwear—light blue, with a wet spot—and my restraint snaps.
"Liz. Jesus, look at you."
"Dean…"
"Let me taste you."
I slide her underwear down her legs and around her ankles. I pocket them without thinking.
She laughs. "Did you just—"
I look up at her. "Problem? It's mine now."
"You gonna wear them?"
"Very funny, Liz."
"I'd pay to see that video."
"Shhh!"
My hands are on her thighs, spreading her before I drape one leg over my shoulder. Her hands brace against the mirror for balance.
Fuck. This doesn't feel real.
With my thumbs opening her folds, I drag my tongue along her slit.
Her hand flies to my hair, gripping hard, and she gasps my name. The sound makes me roll the flat of my tongue over her, side to side. Fuck, I just found my favorite meal.
"Dean, oh God, Dean."
I've never heard my name sound like that. Another lazy lick, my tongue parts her before I tease her clit give it a light suck, and nibble on it.
"You taste so fucking good, Liz."
She moans, hips rolling against my mouth.
"That's it. Let me hear you."
I press open-mouthed kisses along her pussy, sucking lightly on the folds before returning to her sensitive button.
"You're so fucking wet. Is this for me? You're dripping already."
"Yes! God, yes."
"Say my name again. Like that. Exactly like that."
"Dean—"
Liz starts to say something else, but it morphs into a low, long moan when I slide my tongue inside her. Her pussy immediately clenches.
Ah, so she likes this.
I plunge in and out of her, an imitation of what my cock will do to her pussy later, while my thumb circles her clit. Her nails dig into my scalp, and I enjoy the sharp sting.
Liz slowly loses control as I fuck her with my tongue.
"Dean, I-I'm going to—"
"Come for me, Liz. I want to taste your cunt."
It begins with a light trembling of her thighs, then her belly. With halting whimpers of my name, she grabs my hair and rides my face, grinding against my mouth and tongue. Her juices coat me, and I don't care if I can hardly breathe. Suffocating on Liz's pussy is the best way to die. Take me now!
As she comes down from the high, she slumps against the mirror, and I have to hold her to keep her steady.
"Oh, my God."
I stand and swipe a hand across her sweaty forehead. "You okay?"
She looks up at me, eyes wide. "That was … you just … we just—"
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Yeah. We did. And you taste fucking good."
"T-that was a mistake."
Whatever happiness I just felt evaporates, and my chest tightens.
Mistake.
Right.
Of course, it was a mistake.
Just got on my knees for my best friend, made her come against my mouth, and it was a mistake. It didn't feel like a mistake, though. Everyone has a breaking point. Guess I just found mine. It felt like the first right thing I've done in years. Maybe ever.
"Yeah. Probably."
"We got carried away, right? The dress, the zipper, and … we're just stressed. I was just stressed. Wedding stress. Fake engagement stress. That's all."
"That's all."