7. Michelle #2
Dean isn’t wrong. I’m tense enough that even he has become dangerously tempting. The last of my pride clings to the idea of holding out. Not because I don’t want it. I do. I just don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me cave. Especially after he ruined things with Nathan.
I exhale slowly. What other option do I have? There isn’t one. He’ll do.
But I’m not bringing him upstairs. I don’t want him in my space. I don’t want him knowing which door is mine. I don’t want Monty startled.
“You’re not coming into my apartment,” I say.
His brow lifts, like he’s waiting for the excuse that usually follows. I don’t give him one.
I shift in the seat, turning toward him. The hem of my dress pulls higher along my thigh.
“Can he hear or see?” I ask, glancing toward the blacked-out partition.
“No,” Dean says easily.
“Good. If you’re serious,” I say, “then get to it.”
“Here?”
“Obviously.”
If he’s surprised by my directness, he doesn’t show it. He leans in to kiss me but I turn my head, letting his mouth graze my jaw instead. Kissing is a line I don’t cross. I haven’t kissed anyone since Jason.
“We’re not doing that,” I say, and slide my hand to the back of his neck, guiding him lower. He hesitates for just a second before he moves to the floor before me, pushes my dress up and parts my thighs. My pulse throbs in my throat, a frantic rhythm I’m sure he can see.
He hooks his fingers into the lace and slides my panties down. The air is cold. His mouth isn’t.
His tongue finds me with a light stroke that makes my back arch off the seat. A sharp gasp escapes me. My hands find his hair, not to guide, just to hold on as a shudder runs through me.
He doesn’t ease up. If anything, my reaction spurs him on. His rhythm is relentless, each flick and press coiling the tension in my stomach tighter.
I let my head fall back. Let every worry, everything on my to-do list, evaporate. There is only the slick, wet sound of his mouth on me and the breath I can’t seem to catch.
His fingers push inside me and settle into a perfect, devastating rhythm against a spot that blurs my vision. It’s too much—the heat of his mouth, the relentless pressure of his fingers.
I clap a hand over my mouth, muffling the sounds he pulls from me. The pace, the focus, the way he doesn’t let up, it’s all too much.
I usually need time. A slow build. But he keeps me pinned in place, steady and unrelenting.
I try to stay quiet. Try not to show how fast he’s unraveling me. But my body’s already gone, and he knows it.
I reach for a distraction. Laundry. Taxes. Anything but the maddening precision of his fingers. I’m right there, balanced on the edge, but I don’t want to fall apart this fast.
Then he curls his fingers a little deeper and the tension snaps.
The climax hits hard, wrenching a low moan from my throat. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding on as the waves crash through me.
When I finally collapse back into the seat, breathless and spent, he stops. He sits back beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, his voice pure, satisfied arrogance.
The rest of the drive passes in thick silence. His hand stays on my thigh, a warm, possessive weight I don’t bother to move. I keep my gaze fixed out the window, pulse still pounding in my throat, my mind scrambling to catch up.
I was supposed to be the one in control—set the pace, draw the lines, keep the upper hand. But I came too fast. It’s not regret, exactly. Just the sting of how easily he got to me, how fast I let him in without meaning to.
We pull up to my building before I’ve pulled myself together. He slips out of the car with that same unbothered grace, and holds the door open.
I slide out, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk.
“Goodnight,” I say, clipped.
He moves to follow me toward the building entrance.
I stop. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“You think I’m finished?” he asks. “That was the warm up.”
I glance down before I can stop myself. He’s hard, the outline unmistakable beneath his trousers. Definitely not small.
There’s a pull but it passes just as fast. Because here’s the thing: I’m satisfied. That restless energy is gone. I don’t need more. And the sight of him like this—hard and waiting—sparks a different kind of heat. A petty, delicious kind of power.
I straighten my dress, smooth a hand over my hair, and meet his gaze. “You should’ve made me wait, Carter.” My voice is cooler than I feel. “I have no use for you now. Go home.”
“You know where to find me for next time,” he says. His expression gives nothing away. I can’t tell if I’ve actually landed a hit.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.” I walk into my building without looking back. He waits until I’m through the lobby doors. Then I hear the solid thunk of the car door closing, and the engine pulling away.
I lean against the cool railing of the elevator. That was good. Really good. The way he read my body, knew exactly what I needed without a word. My skin still hums from it. That’s exactly why it won’t happen again.
Men like Dean are dangerous. That kind of skill is a trap. It turns women into repeat customers, crawling back like they’ve got no self-respect. I’m not doing that.
One lapse in judgment. That’s all it was.