12. Michelle
MICHELLE
The sting from today won’t fade. I’m in my kitchen with a glass of wine that isn’t doing its job. I don’t want to process. I don’t want to reflect. I just want something to drown it out.
At seven o’clock, I text Dean.
I know it’s rude. That’s the point. If I’m polite, he’ll know I actually like him and then he’ll walk all over me.
I’d been doing so well in ignoring him. But tonight, I feel feral. Like something that’s been caged for too long. The pressure’s building, heat and tension with nowhere to go, and I need somewhere to put it.
Monty rubs against my ankle, purring, trying to soothe me, but even his affection doesn’t help.
An hour crawls by without a reply. I shower, pull on a white chemise trimmed in lace, and throw a silk robe over it.
Now I’m standing in my kitchen, waiting.
The silence makes me feel foolish. Worse, it makes me feel desperate.
I catch my reflection in the window. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve scare him off, just like I did with Josh.
Then the doorbell cuts through the thought.
When I open it, Dean’s standing there with two glass containers in hand.
He’s in tailored navy trousers and a crisp white shirt, the top button undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He’s clean-shaven tonight, and it’s almost unfair how good he looks.
Without the stubble, his jaw is all sharp lines and high cheekbones, less rugged, more refined.
For one unguarded moment, I’m really glad he came.
Then Monty starts hissing behind me.
I close my eyes. I forgot about Monty.
“Wait there, I’ll just—” I begin, but it’s already too late.
Monty launches. Dean jerks back as Monty sinks into his leg, and one of the glass containers crashes to the floor, smashing and splattering food across the hardwood. Dean swears under his breath, trying to shake him loose.
“Monty—!” I rush forward, reaching out, but Dean’s already crouched. He grips Monty under the belly with a careful hand, trying to pry him off without causing more damage.
Monty twists and hisses, then sinks his teeth deep into Dean’s palm.
Dean winces but doesn’t let go. He holds Monty out to me, and I take him, clutching the furious cat as he thrashes in my arms. I murmur whatever calming nonsense comes to mind and carry him to the bedroom. Monty wriggles free and bolts under the bed.
When I return, Dean’s in the kitchen. He’s set the unbroken glass container on the counter and is calmly examining his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt. “I meant to put him away.”
“What is he, part gremlin?” Dean lifts his left hand, showing me the bite. The skin is broken, blood welling along the edge. “Got any alcohol?”
I grab the first-aid kit from the drawer and set it on the table. Dean sits without being asked, already rolling up his pant leg to check the damage. Luckily, his trousers took the brunt of it, just a few shallow scratches underneath.
His hand, though, is a different story. The bite looks deep and angry. I soak a cotton pad in alcohol and press it to the wound. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink when I press a little harder than I need to.
“Maybe we should get this checked out,” I say, eyeing the bite again. Monty really did some damage.
“It’s fine,” Dean says, brushing it off like it’s no worse than a paper cut. I wrap his hand tightly in a bandage, still wincing at the angry bite marks, ready to apologize again when he nods toward the counter.
“At least your dinner survived.”
Then he heads to the kitchen, opening cupboards until he finds the plates. He doesn’t ask, just moves like he belongs here.
I repack the first-aid kit and set it aside, then join him at the counter. The lid’s already off the container.
“You cooked?” I ask, surprise slipping into my voice before I can catch it.
“Seared scallops. Lemon beurre blanc. Shaved fennel. Little bit of citrus,” he says, like he’s narrating for an upscale cooking show.
“You could’ve just picked something up,” I say, watching the way he plates the food with practiced movements. His forearms flexing slightly with each motion.
He glances over at me. “Yeah, but then you wouldn’t know I can cook. Gotta take the points where I can get them with you.”
I try not to smile, but it slips through. He catches it, and his grin deepens, just enough to send a flutter straight to my stomach.
“We can share,” I offer, but he’s already shaking his head.
“Not hungry. And I should clean that up.”
“I’ll do it.”
“I’m already bleeding,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Sit. Eat.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. I hesitate, then I take the plate.
He heads to the living room to clean up the mess while I take the first bite. It’s still warm. The scallops are so tender they practically fall apart under my fork. The sauce is rich and perfectly balanced and the citrus cuts through the butter.
I try to pace myself, maybe even leave a few bites out of courtesy. But I’m hungrier than I realized, or maybe it’s just that good. By the time he returns, the plate is spotless.
He sets the dustpan aside and eyes my empty plate. One brow lifts, and there’s a flicker of something, like he’s pleased but trying not to show it.
“You moonlight as a chef or something?” I ask, setting down my fork. I expect a sarcastic remark, maybe some comment about me devouring his food, but instead he just says, “Glad you liked it.” Then he comes around the table, stops close, and looks down at me.
“So, what happened today?” he asks, quiet but direct.
“What makes you think something happened?”
“You only call me when you’re upset.” There’s no judgment in it, just a calm kind of certainty that somehow makes it worse.
“Got me all figured out, have you?”
“Max mentioned a competition with your brother,” he says. “That it?”
I stiffen. “You’ve been talking about me to Max?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. Not about us.”
“Good because there is no us,” I say, sharp.
He doesn’t respond. Just crosses his arms and waits. Maybe it’s the fact that he cooked for me. Maybe it’s that Monty ripped his hand apart. Or maybe it’s the way he’s standing there now, like he’s not going anywhere until I give him something.
So I sigh and tell him about Jennifer Cole. I keep it short, just the facts. But saying it out loud feels better than I expected. Like I’m setting down a heavy bag.
“That’s...ruthless,” he says.
“Vinnie’s not ruthless. He’s just good at what he does. It’s not his fault.” I pause, jaw tight, something sharp rising in my throat before I can stop it. “But it still feels—”
I cut myself off. I was about to say it hurts. But I can’t. My gaze flicks up to meet his. “Look, I didn’t invite you here for a heart-to-heart.”
He watches me for a moment, like he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind. When I don’t, he steps in and takes my hand, pulling me gently to my feet. Before I can register what’s happening, his fingers thread into my hair. He leans in like he’s about to kiss me, but I turn my head.
“You don’t have to be scared. I don’t bite.”
“I’m not scared,” I snap. “Kissing is…intimate.”
His mouth quirks. “More intimate than my face between your—”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s letting it go. “I get it.”
I relax a little. Too soon.
“You won’t kiss me because you’re scared of how much you’ll like it. If it meant nothing, you’d have done it already.”
“For goodness sake,” I say. I grab him by the shirt and kiss him. The second our mouths meet, he takes over. One hand slides to my jaw, tilting my head just the way he wants it, and then he’s kissing me like he’s been waiting all night for permission.
His tongue moves against mine. Slow and certain. My stomach flips. I gasp, and he swallows the sound, his fingers threading into my hair, holding me there.
There’s no space to think, no time to retreat. He kisses me like he’s staking a claim. Like he always knew this would happen.
When we finally pulls away, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against mine. His breath is ragged. So is mine.
The rest of the world drops away. The sting of the day, the ache in my chest are gone. In its place, a rush of something warm and wild and weightless. A kind of high I can’t explain.
I stay close, my hands still curled against his shoulders. Not ready to let go.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” I say.
Dean’s hands slide to my hips, his grip firm. “Giving orders again?” he says. “That’s cute. But that’s not how this works.”
Before I can reply, he lifts me up and sets me down on the edge of the kitchen counter. The cold marble beneath me contrasts sharply with the heat rolling off his body.
His mouth finds my neck, kissing a slow path down the column of my throat. His hands move with purpose, fingers slipping beneath the collar of my robe, then my chemise. The fabric parts, sliding over my skin, and a rush of cool air brushes across my shoulders just before his mouth replaces it.
Then his lips close around my nipple, hot and wet. He sucks with slow, rhythmic pressure that makes my back arch and a moan tremble out of me before I can stop it.
A pulse begins to throb deep inside me. Slow at first, then sharper. More urgent. I reach for his hand, desperate to guide him lower, but he catches my wrist.
He takes his time. Kissing me, teasing me, working my nipples until they ache. He circles the edge of too much and always stops just short. It’s like he knows exactly how far he can push me.
His mouth trails up. Brushing over my collarbone, my throat, the corner of my jaw. Then his lips find mine again. I’m strung tight with need, just on the verge of snapping.
Finally, he slips a hand between my thighs, pushing the silk of my underwear aside. One finger slides into me, curling just right. He adds another, and the stretch is perfect. The sound I make is rough and desperate.
He sets a steady rhythm. Deep, precise, relentless. Each stroke drives the pressure higher, pulling a moan from my throat.