Chapter Thirty-Three No More Pretending
Chapter Thirty-Three
No More Pretending
Poppy
He looks exhausted.
Good.
He should be exhausted. Should’ve lost sleep. Should’ve suffered like I’ve suffered in this stupid perfect villa with its stupid perfect views and its stupid perfect emptiness.
But also—
He’s here. Actually here. In Portofino looking wrecked and uncertain and holding my earring like it’s precious.
“Mine,” he says again, and I’m gone.
Done pretending I haven’t been dying without him. Done acting like four days wasn’t enough to rewire my entire existence.
His hands are everywhere. My waist. My hair. The curve of my hip where linen meets skin.
“Missed you,” he breathes against my neck. “So much.”
“Show me.”
And he does.
He backs me against the wall and kisses me like he’s trying to make up for lost time. For stupid goodbyes. For every moment we’ve been apart.
“The bedroom’s—”
“Don’t care.”
“Dean—”
“Here.” His voice is rough. Desperate. “Need you here. Now. Can’t—”
I get it. The urgency. The fear that if we move, if we think, if we do anything but this, one of us might remember why this is crazy.
So I don’t move. Don’t think.
Just pull him closer. Let him press me into the wall. Let myself feel how much he wants this. Wants me.
“You’re shaking,” I realize.
“You scare me, baby,” he admits against my throat, his lips making me dizzy. “Absolutely terrify me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. Because you could wake up tomorrow and realize—”
I shut him up the only way that works. With my mouth. My hands. My whole body telling him what words can’t.
That I’m here. That this is real. That we’ll figure out the rest later.
“Bedroom,” I gasp when we come up for air. “Now.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lifts me—actually lifts me—and carries me through the villa like he owns it. Like he owns me. And right now, he does.
But I think might own him right back.
His hands are steady now as he sets me on the bed. Sure. Like something’s settled in him.
“Let me see you,” he says, voice low.
I reach for the hem of my dress.
“No.” He catches my hands. “Let me.”
And damn, the way he looks at me. Like I’m something precious. Something worth savoring.
He slides the straps down slowly. Presses his mouth to each shoulder as he bares it.
“Thought about this,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every night. How you’d taste. How you’d sound.”
“Dean—”
“Shh.” His fingers trail down my spine, finding the zipper. “My turn to talk. You’ve been running this show since day one.”
The dress pools at my feet. His eyes go dark.
“Fuck, Poppy.”
“That’s the idea.”
He laughs. Low. Rough. Then his mouth is on mine again and coherent thought becomes optional.
His shirt has too many buttons. I tell him so.
“Patience,” he says.
“Forget patience.”
But he catches my hands again. Pins them gently above my head with one of his.
“What did I say about who’s running things?”
Oh. Oh.
“You think you’re in charge now?” I arch against him. “Just because you showed up with some grand gesture—”
“Nothing grand about it.” He traces my jaw with his free hand. “Just a man who finally figured out what he wants.”
“Which is?”
“You.” Simple. Certain. “However I can have you.”
My breath catches.
“That’s not fair,” I manage. “You can’t just say things like—”
“Watch me.” He releases my hands and runs his knuckles along my cheek. “You’re brilliant. Infuriating. Beautiful. You reorganize everything you touch, including me, and I—” He stops. Swallows. “I’m completely gone for anyone who isn’t you.”
“Dean—”
“Still talking.” But he’s smiling now. That rare, real thing that transforms his whole face. “Let’s see what other things we can do with that mouth of yours.”
He kisses me then. Different from before. Slower. Deeper. Like we have time now. Like maybe the urgency’s settling into something else. Something that might last longer than tonight.
“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” I point out when we break apart.
He pauses. Studies me and seems to decide something. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
His shirt finally comes off. Then everything else, with a lot less finesse than I’m sure he planned. But I don’t care about finesse. I care about his hands on my skin. His weight above me. The way he says my name like a prayer.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“You. Just you. All of you.”
He moves then, and we both gasp. A shocked, helpless sound—like we’ve opened a door we’ve been leaning against for months.
For a moment we’re still. Adjusting. Remembering.
Relearning. Foreheads pressed close. Noses brushing.
My fingers clutch at his shoulders, feeling the tremor there that matches mine.
“Okay?” he asks, breathless.
“Perfect.” I pull him down for another kiss. It’s messy and grateful and a little desperate. “You’re perfect.”
“Poppy—”
“Shut up and move.”
He does. Slow at first. Careful. Like I might break. His hand finds mine above my head; our fingers lace, anchor-tight.
“I’m not fragile,” I tell him.
“No.” He picks up the pace. “You’re not.” His mouth finds my pulse point. “Perfect for me,” he breathes into my neck.
Something in my chest loosens. It’s nothing like before.
Nothing like the fumbling, rushed, what’s-the-fuss-about experiences I’ve had in the past. Not that there were many.
A handful of forgettable encounters that left me wondering if maybe I was broken.
If everyone was lying about how good this could be.
This is… everything. This is deliberate. Intentional. This is choosing each other.
“Look at me,” he says when my eyes drift closed.
I do. Find him watching me with something like wonder.
“So good,” he murmurs. “So perfect. So mine.”
“Yours,” I agree.
His rhythm falters. “Say it again.”
“Yours, Dean. Yours.”
“Damn.” He drops his forehead to mine. “You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can.” I wrap my legs around him. Pull him deeper. “My grumpy, emotionally constipated, perfect—”
He kisses me quiet. Moves harder. Faster. Until words become impossible and there’s just sensation. Connection. The two of us figuring out how we fit.
Spoiler: We fit perfectly.