Page 30

The Talk

Nora

I arrive at Dean’s apartment at 8:02. Two minutes late. My hands are cold despite the mild spring evening.

He opens the door before I knock. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He’s in jeans and a faded University of Michigan hockey t-shirt. He’s gorgeous like this—casual and boyish and smiling at me.

It’s undoubtedly distracting.

But I need to talk first.

He steps back, giving me space to enter. The apartment smells like him—clean soap, a hint of cedar, and the faint scent of the vanilla protein powder he uses.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

“No.” I set my bag down, swallowing hard. “I need to tell you something.”

His expression shifts, wariness replacing desire. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Maybe. I don’t know.” I take a breath. “Professor Wexler called me today.”

“Okay.”

“About the Archer Initiative.”

Dean stills, his full attention now razor-focused on me. “What about it?”

I explain quickly.

One position now, not three.

Career-defining opportunity.

Wexler nominating me from Neuroscience.

The deadline in two weeks.

Dean listens without interrupting, his expression unreadable. When I finish, he simply nods.

“You’re worried we’ll be competing,” he says. Not a question.

“Will we be?”

“Probably. Whitman’s been pushing me to apply since last semester.”

I watch his face carefully. “And that doesn’t bother you? That one of us could cost the other this opportunity?”

Dean moves closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Nora, if you win, I’ll be happy for you.”

“But it’s important to you,” I protest. “Jesse, the prosthetics—this isn’t just about your career.”

“And if I win, will you resent me for it?”

The question catches me off guard. “No. I’d be disappointed, but… proud of you.”

Sad, but also happy.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. It feels like a conflict of interest. If anyone found out about us—”

“They won’t.”

“But if they did—”

“Nora.” He takes my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I’m going to apply. You’re going to apply. The best candidate will get it. End of story.”

His certainty calms the anxiety that’s been churning in my stomach all day. “That simple, huh?”

“That simple.” He smiles slightly. “Besides, do you really think I’d want to win because you withdrew? Or that you’d feel good about winning if I did?”

“No.”

“Then may the best scientist win.” His thumbs trace gentle circles on my cheeks. “And tonight, can we just be us? Not competitors. Not tutor and student. Just Dean and Nora.”

Relief washes through me. I nod, the tension I’ve been carrying all day finally releasing. “Just us.”

His phone buzzes on the counter. Daphne’s name flashes on the screen.

Dean gives it a quick glance but makes no move to answer it.

“Just us,” he repeats, lowering his mouth to mine.

The kiss starts gentle but quickly deepens, weeks of growing comfort with each other’s bodies making us bold. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back as he explores my mouth with deliberate thoroughness.

His tongue is magic.

I press closer, my own hands finding the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath to feel the warm skin and hard muscle beneath. He makes a low sound in his throat at the contact.

His phone buzzes again. Daphne’s name appears once more.

Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to reach over and silence his phone, turning it face down without a word.

“Bedroom,” he murmurs against my lips. Not a question.

I nod, already breathless.

He leads me down the hallway, his hand warm around mine. The blinds in his bedroom are drawn, casting the space in dim, intimate shadows. He stops by the bed, turning to face me.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says, voice dropping to that register that never fails to make my skin prickle with awareness.

“Me too.”

His hands find the hem of my sweater. “Can I?”

I lift my arms in answer. He pulls the fabric over my head, his eyes darkening at the sight of my bra—simple white cotton, nothing special. But the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m wearing the finest lingerie.

“Beautiful,” he says.

My hands find his shirt next, tugging it upward. He helps, pulling it off in one fluid motion. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but the sight still makes my breath catch. The defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans, the small bruises on his ribs from hockey.

He reaches for me again, one hand sliding around to my back, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. The garment falls away, leaving me half-exposed in the dim light.

“Come here,” he says, voice rough with desire.

I step into his space, gasping as our bare skin makes contact. His arms encircle me, holding me close as his mouth finds mine again. The kiss is deeper now, hungrier, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes heat pool low in my belly.

He walks me backward until my legs hit the bed. “Lie down,” he instructs softly.

I comply, scooting back on the mattress as Dean follows, his larger frame covering mine. He braces himself on his elbows, careful not to crush me with his weight.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, eyes locked on mine.

The question surprises me. Usually, Dean takes charge, telling rather than asking. This feels different. More equal somehow.

“I want you,” I say simply.

He smiles against my skin, clearly pleased with my response. “Take off your jeans.”

I reach for the button of my jeans as Dean stands to remove his own. I watch, mesmerized by the fluid efficiency of his movements.

He stands to remove his boxers, revealing his erection, already fully hard. His fist moves over his steely length, gliding slowly up and down as he watches me push my jeans the rest of the way off.

I’m mesmerized.

His lips quirk. “You like watching me?”

I nod, breathless.

He retrieves a condom from his nightstand, setting it within reach.

My stomach jumps.

When he turns back to me, his eyes darken at the sight of me in only my underwear. “Those too,” he says, nodding toward the simple black cotton, still stroking himself in long, lazy pulls.

I hook my thumbs in the waistband and slide them down my legs, suddenly conscious of being completely exposed to him while he just stands there watching. But the appreciation in his gaze banishes any self-consciousness.

“You’re perfect,” he says, rejoining me on the bed.

His hand starts at my knee, sliding upward along my inner thigh with deliberate slowness. I part my legs instinctively, wanting his touch where I need it most.

His fingers brush between my legs. I gasp at the contact, hips lifting involuntarily toward his hand.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, establishing a rhythm that has me panting within minutes. “So responsive.”

The tension builds quickly, coiling tighter with each precise stroke of his fingers. He watches my face intently, learning what makes my breath catch, what makes me moan.

“Dean,” I gasp as the pressure builds. “I’m close.”

“Not yet,” he says, withdrawing his hand despite my sound of protest. “I want to be inside you when you come.”

He reaches over to grab the condom, cock bobbing against my thigh. He rolls on the condom with practiced efficiency before rejoining me on the bed.

The sight makes my mouth go dry.

“Ready?” he asks, positioning himself between my thighs.

“Yes.”

He holds my gaze as he brings his hand to his mouth, wetting his palm deliberately. He reaches down, stroking himself and then me, spreading the moisture where our bodies will join. It’s raw, and hot. And… I don’t know what else because Dean is moving now.

He pushes forward slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size. The sensation of being filled, of being connected so intimately, draws a moan from deep in my throat.

“Okay?” he checks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

“Yes.”

Fun fact—it’s been a very long time since I’ve had sex. More than a year.

And Dean’s, well… Dean . He’s huge and very hard, and…

I make an unintelligible sound.

He pauses, retreats an inch. “Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s just… a lot.”

The hint of a smile. “Can you handle a little more?”

“I think so?” I’m not sure why that sounded like a question, but Dean just kisses me.

“That’s my good girl”— kiss —“So perfect for me.”— kiss —“Exactly how I knew you’d be,” he says, voice faltering.

He presses in, two more inches and I gasp.

“Almost there, baby,” he says, voice tight.

“Dean…” I groan and grip his shoulders.

Another inch and I feel his body pressed snugly to me—he’s finally buried deep inside me, and then he starts to move.

I feel it everywhere.

Sex has never been like this before.

This hot.

This explosive.

This real.

“You want someone to tell you what to do?” he murmurs, pressing his face against my throat. “Want to turn off that big brain of yours for a little while?”

A soft whimper is the only sound that escapes me.

“All I need you to do is lay there, and let me fill this perfect… tight …” he groans, “pussy with my come.”

He begins to move, establishing a rhythm that has us both breathing hard.

“You feel amazing,” he murmurs, one hand sliding beneath me to change the angle slightly.

The new position hits something deep inside me that sends sparks of pleasure racing along my nerve endings. “There,” I gasp. “Right there.”

Dean complies, maintaining the angle while increasing his pace slightly. The tension builds rapidly, coiling tighter with each thrust.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Feel good?” his voice is tight.

“Dean,” I warn, feeling myself approaching the edge. “I’m going to—”

“Look at me,” he commands softly. “I want to see your face when you come.”

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as the tension finally breaks. Pleasure washes through me in waves, my body clenching around him as I cry out his name.

The sight of my release pushes Dean over the edge as well. His rhythm falters, his grip on my hip tightening as he finds his own completion with a low groan.

For several moments afterward, we stay connected, both breathing hard. Dean’s forehead rests against mine, his weight supported on his elbows to avoid crushing me.

“That was…” I begin, unable to find the right words.

“Yeah,” he agrees, understanding what I can’t articulate.

He withdraws carefully, disposing of the condom before returning to pull me against his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath my ear, his breathing gradually slowing.

“You okay?” he asks, fingers tracing patterns on my bare back.

I nod, too content to form words. The worries that plagued me all day seem distant now, insignificant compared to the weight of Dean’s arm around me, the warmth of his body against mine.

We’ll figure out the Archer situation. We’ll navigate the complications of our relationship. For now, this is enough—this quiet moment of connection, of being seen and known and wanted exactly as we are.

Just Dean and Nora. No competition. No complications. Just us.

At least for tonight.