Time Served (10 page)

Maybe it’s the vulnerable nature of the position, but he looks impossibly huge right now. He’s wearing a white T-shirt beneath the hoodie, and it’s pulled tight across his muscled torso. In the dim light I can see that it’s splotchy with rain or sweat or a combination of both, and I almost come when Dean yanks it over his head and tosses it on the floor before striding toward me, his face hard and set with determination and arousal. His bare chest and abs are a work of art, chiseled and tan, flecked with a few tiny white scars but no tattoos or piercings.

“Yes,” he utters on a growl, flicking my clit with his thumb, just to hear me cry out. “Watch,” he orders, tugging out his furious erection and sheathing himself with a condom I didn’t see him collect. Then, with both our gazes locked between us, he fits himself to me and begins to push inside.

My position on the table means my thighs are spread as wide as they’ll go, and the additional pressure makes my head flop back so I’m staring up at the ductwork on the ceiling, sweat gathering between my breasts as I struggle to remain conscious.

“I said watch,” Dean repeats, fisting a hand in my loosened hair and lifting my head.

I bite my inner cheek and do as he’s ordered, watching my body strain to accommodate his cock, welcoming him with greedy pulls.

“You want it,” Dean says.

“I want it.”

When he’s halfway in he grips my ass in both hands and rams forward, burying himself to the hilt. This time when I cry out and my head falls back, he doesn’t force me to keep watching, just begins fucking me, deep and hard. He’s battering my thighs with his broad hips, knocking the breath out of me with each thrust. My arms give out and I fall back, lying flat on the green felt, hearing the balls racked on the other end rattle with every brutal lunge.

I tug one heel out of the pocket and wrap it around Dean’s back, hoping to control him somewhat, but he snags my ankle and draws it up over his chest, resting my foot against his shoulder. The sight of my pale skin contrasting with his tan, rippling flesh pushes me over.

“You like that,” Dean mutters, almost to himself.

Through half-closed eyes I see him glide a hand down my extended leg, stopping at the juncture of my parted thighs and pressing on my clit, letting the power of his thrusts and my own clenching body torture the swollen nub. The orgasm ratchets up another notch and I grip either side of the pool table as though that will help me, back arching, eyes squeezed tight as unbearable waves of pleasure rack my body. Dean continues to thrust right through it, grunting and cursing as he forces his cock past contracting muscles to bottom out every time.

“Dean,” I moan when I can’t take any more. I try to swat his hand away from my too-sensitive clit but he pins it down at my side and hunches over, sweat dripping from his temples onto my breasts. He hammers into me, leg still pressed over his shoulder, my body as wide open as he could possibly need.

I reach up a weak arm and wrap it around his neck, spreading my fingers over his skull like I used to do when he had long hair. Now I feel the coarse rasp of his buzz cut on my palm and look up just in time to catch the second he starts to come, eyes locked on mine, unguarded. It only lasts a moment, a split second of weakness in his impenetrable coat of armor, then he drops his head and groans, pounding into me with his vicious release.

Chapter Nine

A minute or two later Dean finally moves, propping himself over me as he pries apart our sweat-slicked skin. I try to hide a smile as I see him look down, watching his glistening cock slide out. I glance down too, smile fading as I take in how truly big he is and remember how sore I’d been the two days following our...reunion.

“You doing all right?”

My eyes flicker up to see Dean watching my face now, reading my concern. “Fine,” I tell him.

“Sore?”

I shake my head.

“Liar. Even I’m hurting and I didn’t just get pounded into a pool table.”

I watch the muscles in his back ripple as he walks away, more than a little smug as he heads around the kitchen island to dispose of the condom and wash his hands. I sit up, self-conscious and very much aware that he’s still wearing his sweats while I’ve got nothing but felt burns on my ass. I look around for my clothes, but they’re all in the entrance hall and it would only make things weirder if I suddenly put my suit back on.

“You want a drink?”

I glance over to see Dean silhouetted in the light of the fridge, watching me over his shoulder.

“Um, sure.”

“Here.” He tosses me a bottle of grape-flavored energy drink and I fleetingly recall teenage Dean’s love affair with all things grape. His mother, Camila, used to buy a dozen packets of powdered purple mix every week to keep him satisfied.

“Do you still love grape?”

His smile is fleeting. “Not as much.”

I flush when I realize that he’s now propped against the counter, staring openly. I lift my arm to block the view of my breasts, using the guise of opening the bottle for cover. Then I sip very slowly.

When I next glance over at Dean he’s polishing off his drink, head tipped back, eyes still on my excruciatingly naked form.

“You want to take a shower or anything?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I did. This way.” He tips his head toward the hallway I’d seen on my first visit and steps out of the kitchen toward it, waiting for me to go first. I cringe inwardly as I approach him, trying desperately to appear confident. My inner thighs brush together, slick and sticky, as though reminding me that he’s seen everything already and there’s no need to be uncomfortable. But common sense has no hold on me now—or ever, where Dean is concerned—and I’m sure my cheeks are flaming red as he gestures for me to walk ahead and follows me the short distance to the bathroom.

There are three doors off the hall, one on either side and one at the end. The bathroom is first and Dean stops me with a hand on my elbow, reaching in to flip on the light. The bathroom is as new and polished as the rest of the apartment, with gleaming fixtures and minimal personal items except for a single toothbrush, a bar of soap and a towel. There’s no tub, instead the shower is a huge glassed-in rectangle, large enough for two men of Dean’s size. It’s probably why he chose the place.

“Go ahead. I’ll bring you a towel.”

He leaves and I scurry into the shower stall, closing the glass door as though it offers any real privacy. I turn the tap and water pours down from a large showerhead in the center of the stall. Steam surrounds me and I unpin my hair, groaning out loud as the pounding water soothes my aching shoulders. I’m surprised to find full bottles of salon-quality shampoo and conditioner, frowning as I lather up my hair, trying to figure out why a man with no hair would have either of these items. Does he still use them? Is there a woman who comes by regularly enough that she leaves them here? Or does he keep them for the stampede of female guests who need to wash up after a round of rough sex?

I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later to find myself alone in the apartment. I’ve piled my hair on top of my head in a loose knot and the black T-shirt Dean left me hangs nearly to my knees.

“Dean?” I call, just in case I’ve missed him, but there’s no answer. I walk the perimeter of the living room, taking in everything, which is very little. The large flat-screen television sits on a low, empty stand, and the couch is new, clean, with two pillows in matching fabric. There’s no art on the brick walls and, with the exception of the pool table, nothing particularly personal. Even the kitchen is sparse, the refrigerator filled with energy drinks, milk, bottled water, eggs, a half-eaten loaf of bread and a few condiments.

The cupboards reveal little more, just some oatmeal and protein powder. Still no sign of the owner of the fancy shampoo. I’ve finished my examination of the common areas and am seriously contemplating investigating the two mystery doors when I hear keys jangle and Dean returns, looking surprised to see me.

“I didn’t know...” I begin awkwardly.

“You’re fast,” he says, kicking off his sneakers and joining me in the kitchen with a brown paper bag full of something that smells amazing. “I thought you’d be in there longer. You hungry?”

“Yes.” I’m more relieved than I let on, and not just because Dean didn’t cruelly abandon me. The pizza I had earlier was meant to curb my hunger until I got back to the office and ordered something in, and now my stomach growls to remind me how little it appreciates my unexpected detour.

Dean snatches a roll of paper towel off the counter and walks over to the couch with the bag. “Grab me a drink. A red one,” he says, taking a seat. “And whatever you want.” Then he pauses and turns to look over his shoulder. “Unless that offends you?”

I roll my eyes, knowing he’s referring to our unsuccessful lunch date. “Ha-ha.” I retrieve a red drink and a bottle of water before joining him on the couch. I sit on the far end and tug down the hem of my shirt to cover my knees, both out of a belated attempt at modesty and a desire not to drip food on myself.

Dean’s already opened the bag and laid out three meatball subs on the coffee table, each bundled in wax paper. He’s got one unwrapped and shoves it in my direction, clearly trying to woo me. “God,” I groan, as the smell reaches my nose. “I don’t even remember the last time I had one of these.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I lift it up to take a careful bite.

“When was the last time you got fucked?”

I laugh so unexpectedly that I almost blow a meatball off the sub. “Jesus, Dean!”

“What?” He’s glancing at me sideways, mouth full of food. He’s trying to play it cool, but I know he’s trying not to laugh too.

“If you want to know something, just ask. Don’t be coy.”

Now he does laugh, reaching for the remote and turning on the television, flipping up to the movie channels and stopping on the original
Die Hard
, which is just beginning. I roll my eyes and eat my sub, struggling to reconcile sharing ‘80s movies and subs with my very limited understanding of the man next to me.

“What’s the answer?” Dean asks two minutes later.

“To what?”

He’s finished his first sub and is opening the second. “When’s the last time you were with somebody?”

“Last Wednesday.”

“You know what I’m asking, Rachel.”

I do not want to talk about this. I think about Todd, how it was supposed to be him last week. How if I had chosen door number two I would probably be spending tonight at the office, just as I’d planned, instead of panty-less in Camden eating meatball subs.

I really don’t want to tell Dean about Todd because I’m pretty sure his constant references to how uptight I am and how much I need to “relax” stem from his belief that I haven’t had sex in years, when in fact it had been just a few weeks between breaking up with Todd and my Fourth of July impulsiveness.

“No comment, Dean. Eat your sub.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Why? You think I’ll get mad?”

“I don’t know.” Yes. “Maybe.”

“Was it between last Wednesday and today?”

“When’s the last time
you
had sex?”

“Answer my last question.”

“No.”

“Which question are you answering?”

“There hasn’t been anybody since Wednesday. Now you answer mine.”

“Same answer.”

“Fine. Conversation over.”

“Fine.”

We watch the movie in silence. Dean hoovers down his second sub and I give up on mine at the two-thirds mark, knowing I’ll regret it if I eat the rest. I look on, bemused, as Dean reaches over and snags the remaining meatball and polishes it off, then sighs, as contented as I’ve ever seen him. He leans back against the couch, knees spread, focused on the movie. I see him wince slightly as he adjusts, and remember.

“What about your ribs?”

He glances at me. “What?”

“Reginald said you had a fractured rib. Where’s the bandage?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s just a bruise. He overreacts.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not right now.” He turns his attention back to the television, clearly uninterested in the line of questioning.

I slide back into the cushion on my end, stretching out my bare legs to rest my feet on the coffee table next to the sandwich wrappers. “Thanks for dinner.”

“No problem.”

There’s a lot happening on screen, but very little happens on the couch. Dean laughs occasionally, always a very short, controlled sound, and twice he shifts in his seat, eventually resting one leg on the coffee table, as well. He doesn’t change the channel during commercials, and doesn’t say a word until the hour mark.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“You wet?”

“No.”

“Come over here so I can fix that.” Without so much as looking at me, Dean reaches over and snags my upper arm, pulling me toward him. At the same time he moves so one of his legs rests along the back of the couch, the other still on the floor, which results in my back being pressed flush to his strong chest. And his erection digging into my ass.

“Don’t play hard to get,” he whispers, biting my earlobe. “I don’t have time for games.” One of his hands strums absently along the top of the couch while the other cups my breast through the T-shirt. “I’m going to get you wet, then if you don’t mind, you’re going to turn around and sit on my cock and fuck me while I watch the movie.”

“When’d you get to be so romantic?”

He twists my nipple, hard. “In prison.”

* * *

I wake up slowly the next morning, groggy and disoriented. I’m on my stomach beneath a single black sheet, head turned toward a bedside table and an alarm clock that seems to be broken. Ten twelve? That seems very late. What day is it? And where...

I push myself up to a sitting position, looking around frantically. I’m alone in Dean’s bed, muted sunlight streaming around the edges of the blackout curtains on the windows. “Oh God,” I mutter to myself. “Oh no.” I fling a leg over the edge of the bed and wince as my inner thigh twinges, reminding me of last night’s extreme workout. I struggle into my wrinkled clothes, gathered up along with my purse and thoughtfully arranged on the dresser at some point during the night.

Dean
, I think. Good Lord. He’s insatiable, sexually speaking. The couch sex turned into floor sex and hallway sex and finally bedroom sex, where he’d drilled me into the mattress like his life depended on it. We’d fallen asleep afterward, naked and sweaty, but he’d awakened me throughout the night, over and over again, hard and determined. He’d ignored my pleas for a reprieve, taking smug satisfaction in each orgasm he’d wrung from me, each time I’d sworn I couldn’t do it again and he’d found me wet and wanting.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror and frown, then scurry out into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and finger-brush my teeth. It wakes me up a little but does nothing to change the fact that I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes and have clearly woken up in the wrong part of town.

I return to the bedroom to find my purse, doing the best I can with a compact and tube of pink lipstick before spotting my phone in the bottom of the bag. I haven’t checked my phone in over twelve hours. What was I thinking? I’m lucky to make it twelve minutes without a call or an email. I already knew Dean was a terrible distraction, this just proves it.

I slump onto the bed and stare mournfully at the display: nineteen texts—twelve of which are from Parker; fourteen voice mails, six from Parker, six from Belinda, one from Hector Nunes and one from Baxter, the firm’s private investigator. And then there are the emails: seventy-one unread messages. I sigh and flip through Parker’s texts, most wondering where I am and if I’ve been kidnapped. Apparently Adrian told him I’d agreed to go for a drink with Reginald and hadn’t been heard from since.

Still alive, I text. Will be in by noon.

Where are you? he writes back immediately.

Sorry for going AWOL.

Are you in Camden?

See you soon.

I’ll trade you a donut for a hint.

I laugh even as the offer tempts me, sticking my phone in my purse and heading out to find my shoes.

“Morning.” Dean’s sitting at the kitchen island, drinking a protein shake and reading a newspaper. He holds up his glass in salute, then asks, “Want one?”

“No. Thanks.”

He looks me up and down. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes. Work. I didn’t realize it was so late. I never sleep in.”

He shrugs. “You were tired.”

“When’d you get up?”

“Seven.”

I roll my eyes. I wonder how many protein shakes are required to allow a man to go through half a box of condoms in a single evening and still be able to roll out of bed with the rising sun come morning. I slept until ten and still feel as though I spent the evening strapped to a mechanical bull with no off switch.

“Well, anyway, I have to go. I’m pretty late.”

“On a Saturday?”

I shrug. “Yep.”

Dean finishes the shake and stands, rinsing out the glass and resting it on the counter. “Okay. I’ve got something to do downtown anyway. I’ll ride in with you.”

Ten minutes later we’re boarding a mostly empty city bus, me biting my tongue to prevent myself from suggesting we take a cab. I know Dean has a job, but I can’t imagine him being willing to shell out over a hundred dollars for the trip. Even less likely is him agreeing to let me pay for it.

So here we are, sitting side by side on the back row of seats, bumping along the uneven roads, me in yesterday’s suit, Dean in his sweats, this time carrying a bulging backpack.