15. Michelle
MICHELLE
The address Dean sent leads me to a large gate, half-hidden behind thick hedges. Before I can even search for an intercom, it creaks open with a low mechanical hum. He’s watching.
I guide my car up the gravel drive. The tires crunch softly beneath me as the house comes into view.
It’s not what I expected—a stone cottage built from dark river rock.
There’s something natural about it, like it didn’t come from blueprints or contractors, just appeared one day, exactly where it was meant to be.
My brain slips into work mode, cataloguing the details: established gardens, long setback from the street, complete privacy. No neighboring windows.
Dean’s already at the front door, leaning against the frame. He looks different. The suit is gone, replaced by soft grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt stretched across his chest. His hair’s a little messy. The stubble is back. Somehow, this version of him feels more like the real one.
“You live here?” I ask as I step out of my car.
“You sound surprised.”
“I figured you’d have some flashy downtown place. This is…modest.”
The Carters are super-yacht wealthy. And Dean? He’s not exactly strapped for cash. This place, sure—it’s probably worth four or five million—but for him? It’s low-key.
“Flashy’s not my thing,” he says with a shrug.
He leads me through to the living room. Dark wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, giving the space a rustic lean, but it’s still composed.
Two deep sofas face each other, their cushions perfectly arranged.
A solid coffee table sits between them, stacked with art books and vintage car magazines.
It’s unmistakably masculine, but there’s a precision to it, like nothing’s here by accident.
I take my time absorbing it all. It’s not what I imagined when I pictured Dean’s home, but now that I’m here, it makes sense.
Not in the obvious ways. Not in the way people expect someone like him to live.
But in the way nothing here is careless.
I still don’t get why he’d keep this place from his own family.
“Why don’t your family know where you live?” I ask.
“I don’t do visitors.”
I raise a brow. “What am I, then?”
“An exception,” he says. “This is where I go to sleep. To breathe. I don’t want people here.”
When he says it like that, it doesn’t sound so strange.
“You’re not worried I’ll start showing up? Destroy your peace?” I ask, picking up a car magazine and flicking through it before setting it back down.
“I’d like that. Which is exactly why you won’t ” he says, teasing.
I ignore the flutter in my chest and look toward the hall.
“You going to show me around?” I ask.
“Alright,” he says with a grin, “but don’t start taking stock. I’m not selling.”
He leads me through the place. It’s not huge—just four bedrooms—but it feels warm and inviting. High ceilings, natural wood everywhere, and wide windows that flood the rooms with sunlight make the space feel open and comfortable.
The kitchen is spotless, but clearly used.
A well-worn cutting board sits beside the stove, knife marks visible.
A pot rests on a burner like he planned to come back to it.
A dish towel hangs from the oven handle, folded with the kind of care you don’t give to guests.
The knives are lined up on a magnetic strip.
We pass a closed door, and I pause as he opens it.
I expect a basic guest room. Instead, I find chaos.
Canvases lean against the walls—some bold with color, others roughly sketched.
A pottery wheel anchors the space, a half-thrown piece of clay still drying on it.
Shelves are cluttered with uneven mugs and vases, no two alike.
“You have a lot of hobbies,” I say, taking it in.
“I keep busy.”
He says it like a throwaway line, but it lands differently. I doubt many people ever see this part of him. The thought settles low in my chest. It makes me feel warm, and slightly off-balance. I don’t know why he keeps everything so private, but I like that he’s showing me these parts of himself.
We end the tour on his balcony. Below, a decent stretch of lawn is framed by trees. But the real view is ahead. The city sits almost at eye level, like he’s picked the perfect height to keep it close without being in it. It’s not the most impressive skyline I’ve seen, but it’s nice.
Dean steps in behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. His chest is warm against my back, his calm settling into me without effort. I close my eyes and let myself match his rhythm.
“You always smell good,” he says.
I smile, but don’t answer. Neither of us moves. We just stand there, staring out into the quiet. I’m not sure how long we stay like that. Long enough that I don’t want to move. Wrapped in him, the rest of the world feels distant. Like all my problems disappear. And then he ruins it.
“So,” he says quietly, “you wanted to see me?”
I know what he’s fishing for. He wants me to say it, to name whatever this thing is between us. That I like him. That this is more than convenience. And he’s right. I do. It is.
But admitting that feels like giving something away I’m not sure I know how to get back. Like once I say it, it’s out there, and everything changes. And I’m not ready for it to change.
“For sex,” I say.
I step out of his arms and turn to face him.
My dress doesn’t have a zipper, just a hem and bare skin beneath.
I reach down, hook my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear, and slowly slide them down my legs.
He doesn’t look away. His gaze tracks every movement, darkening as the fabric pools at my feet.
I step out of them, straighten, and lift my chin to meet his eyes. He stays still for a moment, watching me. His expression is unreadable, as always, but there’s something heavy in the quiet between us. For a breath, I wonder if he might say no.
Then he closes the distance and kisses me. It’s slow and focused, and the heat between us catches quickly.
My hands move without thinking. One slips beneath the soft hem of his shirt, gliding over the ridges of his stomach. The cotton clings to his skin, stretched thin over muscle that tightens beneath my touch.
The other drifts lower, cupping him through the fabric of his sweatpants. He’s already hard, thick and hot against my palm. The rush that hits me is sharp and immediate, edged with something dangerous, because I know I did that. Just by being here, just by wanting him.
The tension between us sharpens, and then he moves. He lifts me like I weigh nothing and carries me to the bedroom.
The room is dark and cool. When he lays me down, the brush of deep navy sheets against my skin makes me shiver. He pulls his shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor.
I take in his chest. Just beneath his left collarbone, is a tattoo of a compass. Not the old-school kind with ropes and scrolls, but something modern. The lines are fine, each one pointing outward in perfect symmetry. The rest is angles and pattern, a design I can’t quite decipher.
My gaze drifts down to his abs. Clearly, he doesn’t skip workouts. The muscle is carved deep, with a sharp V-line that pulls the eye lower and makes it very, very hard to look away. Seriously, where does he even find the time?
His mouth finds mine again, kissing me for too long when I’m already past patience. His hands are everywhere, pushing my dress up, dragging it off with a kind of focused urgency that makes my whole body spark.
By the time I’m bare beneath him, the ache between my legs is a low, constant throb. I’m strung tight, pulled thin with wanting, every nerve wound too close to the surface.
He kisses down my neck, then lower, his mouth tracing a path across my chest, my stomach, the curve of my hip. I know where he’s going. I know what he’s about to do. And I can’t take it.
I slide my hand into his hair and tug, gently at first.
“That’s not what I want,” I say.
“This is what you get,” he says, pressing another slow kiss to my hip.
I grip his hair tighter this time, stopping him. My voice is raw when it comes out.
“No,” I say, not caring how desperate I sound. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”
As usual, I can’t read his expression. His chest is rising and falling as he sits up. He’s panting a little. So am I.
“Tell me it’s more than a distraction,” he says.
“You can’t be serious.”
He doesn’t back down. “Then it’s not happening.”
He starts to move away, the heat of his body beginning to slip from mine.
“Jesus. Fine,” I snap, frustration flaring in my chest.
He waits, giving me nothing. The silence stretches as the words stick in my throat. I push myself up on my elbows, trying to find something that sounds right, something that won’t cost too much to say.
“Clearly…” I start, then stop, hating the way it sounds already. I blow out a breath and force myself to meet his eyes. “I came because…you’re not the worst.”
His brow lifts, just barely, and I roll my eyes, but I feel my shoulders drop with the weight of it.
“Alright, fine,” I say. “You’re actually quite tolerable.”
He still doesn’t speak. Just looks at me with that unreadable expression.
I hesitate, then press my lips together and let the rest of it out. “I like this…you.”
He moves, and for a second I think he’s still not satisfied. But then he stands, pushes his sweatpants down, and steps out of them. His cock springs free, hard and heavy, and he reaches for the bedside drawer, grabs a condom, and rolls it on without a word.
I part my legs for him, and he slides between them. His fingers slip inside me, and he grins when he realizes just how ready I am.
He lifts my hips, angling me carefully, then eases in slowly. The stretch is full and deep, a pressure that catches me off guard. A sharp gasp escapes as I adjust around him. He doesn’t rush, just stays steady, letting me take him in.
The intensity of him is overwhelming at first, thick and deep, but as I settle, the tension in my body begins to shift. The pressure blossoms into pleasure, and a low moan slips past my lips before I can stop it.
His thrusts are controlled, slow enough for me to feel every inch of him.
When my moans deepen, he responds, hips rolling with more power, more need.
Every sound I make pulls him closer. I begin to lose myself in the sensation, mind narrowing to nothing but the heat, the stretch, and the steady weight of him.
Pleasure builds fast, each thrust winding the tension tighter. Desperate moans escape me, one after another, and I can’t hold them back. I’m unraveling beneath him, coming apart faster than I ever have. Usually it takes a few positions to get me here. Never missionary. Never this fast.
I press my face into his shoulder, burying a sound I don’t mean to make. It’s not a cry exactly, just something I didn’t realize I’d been holding in.
“I’ve got you,” he says against my ear.
I feel it more than I hear it, and I let go. The orgasm hits hard, sharp and full. My back arches, a raw sound escapes, mingled with curses, and my body trembles beneath him.
I fall back as he curses under his breath, thrusting once, twice, before he comes.
For a few breaths, neither of us moves. Then he pulls out, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before slipping into the ensuite.
I shift onto my side, still catching my breath. My body feels loose and spent, every nerve alive, and I struggle to form a coherent thought.
When he comes back, he slides in behind me. One arm wraps around my waist, holding me close.
“It’s been a while. A long time, for me,” he says.
It takes me a second to catch on. I think he’s apologizing, for speed. It’s weirdly endearing.
“Don’t worry, Carter. Your reputation’s safe with me.”
We lie there for a while and I can’t help but ask.
“How long?” I ask.
“Maybe five, six months.”
I turn to face him.
“That’s a long time.”
He shrugs. “Got tired of it meaning nothing.” He threads his hand in mine. “I want more than this,” he says. “We should make a go of it…I like you, Michelle, and you like me too.”
For a moment, something inside me stirs, soft and foolishly hopeful, the part that still wants to be chosen. Then panic wraps around my ribs, squeezing tight. He’s getting to me, and I’m letting it happen. This is why I can’t be soft. Why I can’t be nice.
“I like you with your shirt off and your mouth shut,” I say. It’s meant to sting, to push him back just enough to keep this physical, where it feels safe.
I start to roll away, hoping he’ll let me go. Also hoping he won’t. The truth is, I don’t know what I want right now, only that whatever this is, it’s starting to feel dangerously real.
His arm tightens around me. Then he shifts over me, pinning me in place. The tenderness from before is gone. His hips press into mine, his arms cage me in, and his eyes lock on mine.
“Alright. We’re just…this,” he says. “But not if you’re with someone else.” His hand rises to my jaw, thumb stroking lightly across my cheek. The gesture is gentle, but his grip isn’t. It’s possessive in a way that twists low in my stomach. “You don’t sleep with anyone else. Just me.”
It’s a line in the sand. Him and only him, or nothing. It’s dangerously close to commitment, but I don’t have the time or the interest to see anyone else.
“Fine. Whatever,” I say. “Just don’t make it a thing. It’s just sex.”
“Got it,” he says, smiling, already lowering his mouth to mine.
We both know that’s a lie.