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There. My boots pound the pavement. Move closer to the door. My hand finds Dean's. The car beeps. Locked.
He intertwines my fingers with his.
It's sweet. But, right now, I don't want sweet. Right now, I want a dirty, messy, hungry fuck.
I slide my key into the door and turn the lock.
He brings his hands to my hips to pull me closer. My ass against his crotch. My back against his chest. My cheek against his neck. "You're nervous."
"It's been two years."
"Is that it?"
"I just… I don't want to think anymore." I turn the handle and press the door open.
He follows me inside. Studies the cozy living room the way he studies my mock-ups.
"What?" I lock the door. Toss my keys on the dining table. Our place is nice for what it is, but it's nothing compared to the Beverly Hills neighborhood where Dean grew up.
"I like it."
"Really?"
"Yeah. It fits."
"What about it?"
He motions to the huge TV, the black couch, the framed prints from the Met. "Everything." His fingers skim my sides as he moves closer. "If you're worried about your test, I get that. But I don't give a fuck about how big or fancy your house is. I've dreamed about being in your room since the tenth grade."
"For that long?"
"Yeah." He takes my hand and pulls me toward the stairs.
"Shouldn't I lead the way?"
"Probably, yeah, but one of us has to get to your bed."
"It's a twin."
He flashes me a devilish grin. "I can work with that."
My room is the first door to the right of the stairs. It looks out on the cozy street.
Usually, I enjoy the view of the neighborhood.
But right now?
Not so much.
I pull the sheer curtains to block out the world.
They cast diffuse light over the room.
Dean presses his ass against the door to close it. He looks around the space with a mix of reverence and curiosity.
His eyes pass over every piece of art—mine, others, magazine cut-outs, movie posters.
Over the full-length mirror across from the bed. "Fuck, sunshine. I knew you had it in you."
