16. Pants Optional Inventory
PANTS OPTIONAL INVENTORY
Felicity
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about blackouts, they are spectacular at dismantling every carefully constructed wall you’ve spent weeks/months/years building around yourself.
One second I’m cataloging inventory in a storage warehouse and the next, Dean’s lips are crashing into mine with a force that bordered on desperation, as if all the weeks of us avoiding one another had finally collapsed into a mutual magnetic attraction.
His hands slid under my shirt like they’ve always known exactly where they belonged, for the record, they absolutely did not.
I anchored myself on his shoulders, digging my fingers into the sculpted planes of muscle that flexed like he was carrying the weight of the entire world on his back, which… he probably was, but at this moment, I was happy to let him carry me instead.
The rest of the world vanished: the blackout, the storage warehouse, the scent of cardboard and sawdust. My spine hit the wall of stacked moving boxes with a soft thump.
Somewhere in the rational part of my brain, a tiny alarm was screaming this is a catastrophically bad idea, but the rest of me—the traitorous, warmth-chasing, muscle-appreciating rest of me—had already voted unanimously in favor of catastrophe.
His palms bracketed my face, leaving exactly enough space between us to qualify as technically restrained, and I could feel him trembling with the effort of it. Then he dropped his voice to a deep rasp—which was completely unfair—and asked, “Are you sure this is what you want, Felicity?”
Spoiler: I was about to make the best worst decision of my entire life.
I didn’t say yes. Instead, I confessed, “I’m pretty sure my entire nervous system will mutiny if you stop.” Which was the most honest answer I could have given.
He made a rough sound—half laugh, half groan—and buried his face in my neck.
I could feel his pulse hammering against my collarbone, each beat in time with my own.
His hands moved lower, exploring, mapping the curves of my body like he was committing every detail to memory.
My own hands weren’t exactly innocent, I slid them beneath his flannel and shirt, marveling at the way his skin felt against mine, the heat of it, the promise.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t practiced. It was needy and greedy and a little bit messy—two people finally letting themselves take what they’d spent weeks pretending they didn’t want.
Dean didn’t just kiss me, he devoured me—slow at first, like he was sampling something forbidden, then with a deepening urgency that made my skin prickle and my toes curl inside my boots.
One minute I was pressed against the wall, feasting on the taste of him, and the next I was floating, weightless in his arms, then abruptly on my back atop a makeshift bed of packing blankets, cushioning the impact but not muting the sensation.
The chill of the concrete floor was insulated by layers of moving supplies and the fire building inside me.
He lowered himself over me with the careful, predatory grace of a lion stalking his prey, catching his weight on his elbows so that I was caged but not trapped.
His eyes flicked from my mouth to my eyes, and I realized he was waiting for the smallest sign that I wanted him to stop, to slow down, to second-guess.
It didn’t come. Instead, I hooked my finger through the collar of his t-shirt and yanked him down for another kiss, greedy and open and wet, like I could taste the weeks of restraint on his tongue.
He made a sound deep in his throat that vibrated straight through me, and his hands went to work, finding the hem of my shirt once again and sliding underneath.
Each brush of his fingers over the bare skin of my stomach, the curve of my ribs, the sides of my torso, left a trail of electric aftershocks that made it hard to breathe.
I was expecting him to rush, to tear at my clothes as single-mindedly as any other man I’d been with, but Dean moved with a deliberate slowness that was somehow even more dangerous.
He undressed me the way you might unwrap a priceless artifact, like he was trying to keep every piece intact.
My shirt came off with a soft whoosh. He tossed it aside and sat up on his knees, just looking at me for a moment—and I mean really looking, as if he was memorizing every birthmark, every blue vein beneath my skin, every imperfection I’d ever tried to hide.
The air was chilly and my skin pebbled with goosebumps, but Dean ran his hands up and down my arms as if his touch alone could warm me.
He bent forward and kissed me again, softer now, and when I shivered, he said, “Are you cold?”
“No.” My voice sounded unsteady, but it wasn’t nerves, it was want, so much more want than I’d ever let myself feel.
To demonstrate my neediness, I reached for the buttons of his shirt and fumbled them open, each one taking twice as long as it should have because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
When I got to the last button, Dean shrugged out of his flannel and dropped it to the floor, leaving him in nothing but a white t-shirt that molded to every inch of his torso.
He leaned down, mouth grazing the shell of my ear, and said, “If you want to stop, just say so.” The words made my heart hiccup.
I’d never had someone ask me that before—not in a way that felt like they meant it.
Most guys just assumed that once you were half-naked, consent was a given.
But Dean didn’t move until I gave him a nod, and then he peeled off my bra with a level of finesse that was, honestly, unfair.
My breasts spilled free, nipples already hard, and I covered them with my arms, suddenly shy.
I wasn’t in my early twenties. I’d had a baby.
I’d breastfed that baby and had stretch marks.
Dean gently tugged my hands away. “Don’t hide from me, Felicity.
” His voice was low, almost reverent. He bent his head and kissed the top of my breast, then the side, then the soft undercurve.
He took his time, working his way toward my nipple, and I thought I might actually die from anticipation.
When he finally closed his mouth around me, warm and wet, I arched up into him, unable to stay still.
He sucked gently, then swirled his tongue, and I realized that my entire body was tuning itself to the rhythm of his mouth.
Every time I glanced down, Dean’s eyes were locked on my face, as if checking to make sure I was still with him.
He switched sides, lavishing just as much attention on my other breast, his hands bracketing my waist, thumbs stroking slow circles against my skin.
When I gasped or whimpered, he would pause and look up, and check in with me to make sure I was still good.
I was more than good, I was living out my fantasy, and it was better than my imagination had come up with.
It was like he was building me from the ground up, undoing every memory of sex as something transactional and replacing it with something raw and honest and almost sacred.
The old panic—the one that said I was only wanted for as long as I was new, or fun, or easy—would creep in at the edges, and Dean would sense it before I did, shifting his weight, backing off, waiting for me to decide what I wanted next.
What I wanted was him. All of him.
I wanted to see him lose control.
I reached down and grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up over his head.
The moment it was gone, I pulled him down to me, skin on skin, and kissed him with everything I’d been forced to hold back.
My hands explored his back, the smooth dip of his spine, the flex of muscle just above his waistband.
His body was hard everywhere, so different from mine, but the way he held me felt like this was where I’d always belonged.
He kissed a line down my sternum, then across my belly, nipping at the sensitive skin just above my slacks.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband and paused, giving me one last look.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and he undid the button and slid them down my hips, dragging my underwear with them as I toed off my boots.
I was naked in front of him, vulnerable and exposed, but instead of feeling small I felt… seen. Worshipped.
Dean spread my thighs with deliberate, reverent care, his large palms spanning from the width of my inner thigh.
He didn’t rush. He lowered down and lingered, just breathing me in, the heat of his mouth a whisper above the place I wanted him most. I was already so slick it ached, my nerves spiking at the thought of how clearly he could see the effect he had on me.
He watched, eyes almost black in the low light, thumb stroking lazy semicircles on the inside of my thigh.
The anticipation was nearly unbearable. Every second he waited, my pulse ratcheted higher, my body straining for the kind of release I’d convinced myself I didn’t need anymore.
He turned his head and kissed me softly on my inner leg, his hand tracing lazy circles on my hips.
Then he shifted lower, pressing his lips to the inside of my knee, then back up again, his stubble rough against my skin.
When his mouth hovered over the area where I needed him most, he stopped, looking up at me with a question in his eyes.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
He started with his fingers, so gentle I barely noticed the touch at first, a feathering caress down the length of my slit, not quite dipping inside, just mapping the territory.
My hips twitched, shameless, and he made a low, satisfied sound in his throat.
He parted me with two fingers, exposing every swollen, sensitive nerve ending, and the air, shockingly cool compared to the heat of my own skin, made me gasp.
Dean never broke eye contact. He seemed to want to watch every flicker of sensation cross my face, as if proving to himself that he could make me come undone with nothing but patience and intention.
His fingertip circled my clit, barely grazing it, just enough to send a shiver up my spine.
I bit my lip, helpless to control the whimper that slipped out, and he rewarded me by pressing a little harder, making tighter, more purposeful circles.
I could feel myself getting wetter by the second, arousal slicking his touch.
He hummed in approval, spreading it around with deliberate, slick strokes.
It was clinical and reverant all at once, the way he explored every inch of me, like he was memorizing a set of instructions for how to make me lose my mind.
I’d been with men before. Some were enthusiastic. Some were efficient. None were prepared to treat it like an act of devotion.
He explored me with the same careful attention he gave to spreadsheets and financial projections, like he was mapping a territory he planned to conquer but didn’t want to damage on the way.
He skimmed, flicked, and circled, and when my hips bucked, he held me down with hands that spanned my hips like they’d been made for it.
The sensation built, slow and relentless, until I was panting, clutching the blanket beneath me, desperate for more. Every time I thought I was close, Dean pulled back, kissing his way down my thigh or up my stomach, making me beg for it.
“Dean,” I said, voice shaking, “please—”
He looked up, eyes dark with intent. “You want more?”
I didn’t even have words. I just nodded, wild and wordless, and then his mouth was on me again.
Then, mercifully, his tongue replaced his finger.
He spread my folds apart and licked me the way he kissed—slow at first, soft and exploratory, as if testing my response, then building in pressure and speed until my thighs trembled with the effort of staying open for him.
He flattened his tongue and dragged it upward, ending with a tight flick against my clit that made my whole body arc off the floor.
I clutched at his hair, needy and desperate, and he made a satisfied grunt that vibrated directly into my core.
He kept at it, switching up the rhythm whenever he sensed I was close, backing off just enough to keep me dangling at the edge of climax.
My legs shook, my vision tunneled, and I was so close it felt like I might actually die if he stopped.
He didn’t stop. He worked me with devastating patience, tongue and touch in perfect tandem, one finger sliding inside me at just the right angle, curling to find a spot I hadn’t known existed.
Every time I said his name, he answered by sucking hard on my clit, then softening, bringing me back from the brink, over and over, until I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think.
I wanted to tell him to finish me, to let me have it, but the words wouldn’t form.
All I could do was writhe and beg with my body, and Dean seemed to understand exactly what I needed.
He added a second finger, stretching me with slow, careful pressure, and the sudden fullness made me lightheaded.
He lapped at me like he wanted to swallow every last drop, groaning every time his tongue met my skin.
With his free hand, he gripped my hip harder, holding me down, holding me together.
I’d never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, and at the same time so safe.
Like if the world caved in on us right now, Dean would hold it back for me with nothing but his bare hands.
Each pass of his tongue sent white-hot sparks through my body, building an impossible tension in my stomach.
When he sensed my frustration, he changed his angle, flicking his tongue with perfect, ruthless precision, his fingers stroking inside me in time with my heartbeat.
I felt myself climbing, higher and higher, the pressure mounting until it was all I could feel—no past, no future, just the need for release.
He sucked my clit into his mouth, hard, and curled his fingers inside me at the same time.
I lost myself as I called out his name. There was no point pretending otherwise.
I’d never been that loud with anyone, never let myself go that completely, but Dean didn’t seem to mind.
He wanted it. He needed it. He held me down with the weight of his body, devouring me, refusing to stop until he’d wrung every last shuddering aftershock from me.
Finally, I shattered, fireworks behind my eyelids, pleasure infusing every single inch of my body, tingling waves of orgasm carrying me out to total bliss, noises escaping my throat I didn’t recognize as my own.
When I finally came back to myself, Dean was there, bracing himself above me, face flushed, hair mussed, waiting for me to breathe again. His hand smoothed the hair back from my forehead, gentle and patient, like he was willing to wait all night if that’s what it took.
But I didn’t want him to wait. I wanted more. I wanted all of it, all of him, right now.