Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(7)

Golden stars burst behind my eyelids as perfect white-hot pleasure tears through my body and pulses in my veins. Dean drives into me one last time, groaning my name into my hair.

I come back to languid awareness with the feel of him nibbling on my lips. A minute later, I open my eyes to see that sexy, dirty-boy smile aimed down at me.

“I’ll be right back.” He pecks my nose. “Don’t fall asleep.”

I wiggle a little underneath him.

“After that, I think we’ve earned it.”

“No.” He braces up on his elbows, looking down at where we’re still connected.

His hips slide forward in a shallow jab of a thrust.

And he gets hard.

Again.

Inside me.

“We’ll sleep when we can’t move. Right now, we’re just getting started.”

And it’s official—in a past life, I must’ve been a very, very good girl.



~



My eyes creak open the next morning, only about a half hour after Dean let me close them. And I want the sleep—I need the sleep—I’ve earned all the sleep.

But my internal clock is an asshole, so once I’m up—I’m up.

I untwist myself from the cream sheet and slip out of bed, leaving the sleeping hunk of warm sex machine behind me. I scurry around the apartment on a mini scavenger hunt for my clothes, and then I head for the bathroom. In the trashcan beside the sink, I notice the used condoms—a whole box’s worth of used condoms—and I grin like the filthy girl I never knew I was, remembering how each one ended up getting gloriously used.

I guess if you’re only going to have sex every five years or so, this is the way to do it. Like a camel—fill the hump.

The reflection of the woman who stares back at me from the mirror is wonderfully wrecked—tousled hair from strong, gripping hands, smudged makeup, swollen lips, flushed cheeks . . . shining happy eyes. There’s a dark red hickey on my right shoulder—and I remember how that got there too. With my back to Dean’s chest, his hand covering my breast, and his mouth latched on to that spot as he came deep inside me.

After cleaning up my face and using my finger and Dean’s toothpaste to scrub away the morning breath, I step out of the bathroom. He lays on his back, one arm bent over his head, the other resting on his stomach, his spent cock—still impressive in its sleepy state—resting against his thigh.

And there’s a pull—that magnetic connection—that nudges me to crawl my ass right back in that bed with him.

But I fight it. Because I don’t know how these morning afters are supposed to work—but I know it always feels better to leave before being left. To get out when the getting’s still good—to not overstay your welcome.

So, I sit on the bed and run my fingers through the thick blond hair that’s sticking up in adorable angles.

His eyes open with a deep inhale of breath.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He starts to sit up . . . and then lays right back down.

“Shit, I’m still wasted.” He covers his eyes with his forearm. “What time is it?”

The words just come out, I don’t really think before saying them. “Early. But I have to go. My son has book-club at eight.”

Dean drops his arm and blinks, looking up at me like he’s not sure he heard right.

“You have a kid?”

“Yeah. Well, a teenager now.”

Those ocean-blue eyes widen. “No shit?”

I nod, smiling. “No shit.”

Dean clears his throat, but his voice is still scratchy. “Teenagers are cool. Amazing and totally irrational at the same time.”

I chuckle. “This is true.”

He glances around the room. “You want coffee? I can probably manage some scrambled eggs. Possibly toast if I really dig deep.”

A sweet warmth fills me. Maybe I’m setting the bar too low, but the fact that he offered to make me breakfast instead of rushing me out the door like the scenarios my sisters have described, is nice. He’s nice. More than nice.

And if I didn’t already know it before, I do now—I like him so much.

But still, I shake my head.

“I already ordered a car. Stay in bed, go back to sleep. I can’t do breakfast.”

He nods slowly, his expression hard to read. He runs his fingertip gently up my arm. “Lainey, last night . . . it was intense.”

The word comes out soft, tender.

“Yeah.”

“And awesome.” He meets my eyes, his mouth beautiful and earnest. “Last night was really fucking awesome.”

I run my tongue over my lip, remembering the taste of him.

“It really was.”

In the pause that comes after, I wait for him to ask for my number, if he can see me again. If I want to grab a coffee sometime or dinner—at this point, an invite to some vague future brunch would make me ecstatic.

But he doesn’t.

And I guess that connection I felt was a one-way street.

Though disappointment creeps in, I refuse to let it take hold. Because last night was amazing and hot and perfect—and I don’t want to taint it by hoping for more.

My phone dings with the notification that my car is here.

“I gotta go.”