Page 38

Controlled Reactions

Nora

The ride back to Dean’s apartment passes in a haze of anticipation, his hand resting on my knee in the rideshare, thumb tracing small circles that send shivers up my spine. We maintain a careful distance—nothing inappropriate, nothing that would make the driver uncomfortable—but the tension between us is almost tangible, electric.

By the time we reach his door, my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the three flights of stairs we’ve just climbed.

Dean unlocks the door with steady hands, always controlled, even now. But when it closes behind us, something shifts in his expression—the careful restraint giving way to something hungrier, more intense.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that never fails to make my skin flush. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted to touch you at that gala?”

“You were touching me,” I point out, remembering his hand at the small of my back, on my waist, fingers linked with mine.

“Not the way I wanted to.” He steps closer, until I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “Not like this.”

His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is different from our others—deeper, more possessive, with an edge of desperation I haven’t felt from him before. Like he’s been holding back all evening and can finally let go.

I respond instantly, arms winding around his neck, pressing closer. His other hand finds my waist, then slides lower, bunching the fabric of my borrowed dress as he lifts me.

I wrap my legs around him instinctively, gasping against his mouth as he carries me toward the bedroom.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs against my neck. “You in that dress. You talking about neural pathways with that focused expression. You standing next to my work like you belong there.”

“I do belong there,” I say, surprised by my own certainty.

He sets me down beside the bed, eyes darkening at my words. “Yes. You do.”

My borrowed dress has a side zipper, hidden in the seam. Dean finds it, lowering it with deliberate slowness. The fabric loosens, slipping slightly off one shoulder. He pushes it the rest of the way down, his breath catching as it pools at my feet.

I stand before him in nothing but a strapless bra, matching underwear, and the heels Sadie insisted “make my legs look amazing.” From Dean’s expression, she was right.

“Beautiful,” he says, the simple word heavy with meaning.

I reach for him, hands sliding under his suit jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. His tie follows, then his shirt, until he’s standing before me in just his dress pants, the defined muscles of his chest and abs a sight I don’t think I’ll ever tire of.

“I have something for you,” I say, suddenly remembering.

His eyebrow lifts slightly, curious.

I move to my small evening bag discarded near the door and retrieve a folded piece of paper. When I return, I hand it to him without explanation.

He opens it, understanding dawning in his eyes as he reads. My STI test results, all negative, dated from three days ago.

Something shifts in his expression—hunger giving way to tenderness, then back to hunger, deeper than before.

Dean sets the paper aside carefully, then turns back to me, his eyes never leaving mine as he closes the distance between us. “What do you want tonight, Nora?”

The question catches me off guard. Usually, Dean takes charge, tells rather than asks. This feels different. More equal, somehow.

“You,” I say simply. “All of you.”

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “No barriers?”

I understand what he’s asking. “No barriers,” I confirm. “Just us.”

The significance of the choice hangs between us—not just a physical decision, but an emotional one. Trust. Vulnerability. Connection without obstacles.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it.

“I’m sure.” I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm. “I trust you.”

His eyes darken at my words. Then he’s kissing me again, walking me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed. I sink onto it, pulling him down with me, suddenly desperate for the weight of him, the solidity.

His hands and mouth are everywhere, leaving trails of heat across my skin. He unclasps my bra with practiced ease, his gaze almost reverent as he takes in the newly revealed skin.

“I’ll never get tired of looking at you,” he murmurs, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth.

I arch into the sensation, fingers tangling in his hair. “Dean…”

“Patience,” he admonishes, the word vibrating against my skin. “We have all night.”

It’s a nice thought.

His mouth continues its path downward, across my ribs, my stomach, pausing at the edge of my underwear. He looks up, seeking permission I’ve already given countless times but he still asks for anyway.

“Yes,” I breathe.

He hooks his fingers under the delicate fabric, drawing it down my legs with deliberate slowness. When he settles between my thighs, his intentions clear, I can’t help the anticipation that courses through me.

The first touch of his mouth against me tears a gasp from my throat. He knows exactly how to touch me now, months of learning my body culminating in precise, devastating attention. His hands hold my hips firmly, keeping me in place as pleasure builds rapidly.

Just when I’m approaching the edge, he pulls back, ignoring my sound of protest.

“Not yet,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “I want to be inside you the first time you come tonight.”

The implication that there will be multiple times sends another wave of heat through me.

As does the rough sound of his voice.

I watch as he stands to remove his remaining clothing, my breath catching at the sight of him fully naked—all lean muscle and controlled power.

He moves closer, his weight supported on his forearms.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

I do, meeting his gaze as he positions himself at my entrance. The first push forward takes my breath away—the sensation different, more immediate without the barrier between us.

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

“More than okay,” I manage.

He begins to move, establishing a rhythm that has us both breathing harder. The connection feels different this time—deeper, not just physically but emotionally. His eyes never leave mine, maintaining that intense focus that always makes me feel like I’m the only thing that exists in his universe.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he commands softly.

It’s a familiar request—Dean always wants to know my mind as well as my body. But tonight, the answer is simple.

“That I love you,” I say, the words coming easily now. “That I can’t believe I almost lost this. Almost lost you.”

His rhythm falters slightly at my confession, something raw crossing his expression. “You didn’t lose me,” he says, his voice rough. “You won’t.”

He shifts slightly, changing the angle to hit exactly where I need him most. The pressure builds rapidly, coiling tighter with each thrust.

“Dean,” I gasp, feeling myself approach the edge. “I’m—”

“I know,” he murmurs, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. “Let go, Nora. I’ve got you.”

The combination of his voice, his touch, and the new sensation of nothing between us pushes me over the edge. Release washes through me in waves, my body clenching around him as pleasure radiates outward. Through it all, Dean watches me with that intense focus, like he’s memorizing every expression, every reaction.

As I come down from the high, he increases his pace slightly, his own control beginning to slip. I can feel him getting close, his movements becoming less measured, more instinctive.

“Nora,” he says, my name sounding like both a prayer and a curse on his lips.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, hands sliding up his back to pull him closer. “Stay.”

The simple request seems to break something inside him. With a low groan, he finds his own release, his body tensing above mine. The sensation of him coming inside me—warm, intimate, without barriers—sends another aftershock of pleasure through me.

Dean holds himself above me, his breathing ragged, eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my heart race. After a moment, he slowly withdraws, his gaze dropping to where we were just joined.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with something possessive.

I follow his gaze, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable as he gently pushes my thighs wider, exposing me completely to his view.

His thumb traces through the evidence of his release now glistening on my skin.

It’s erotic.

Hot.

His intimate inspection makes me blush despite everything we’ve already done.

“Beautiful,” he says, his touch deliberate as he circles my still-sensitive clit with the slickness of his come. “Mine.”

I jolt.

The single word, delivered in that commanding tone, sends a fresh wave of heat through me. It should feel primitive, this marking of territory, but instead, it feels like the most intimate connection I’ve ever experienced.

“Yours,” I agree, breath hitching as his thumb sweeps lazy circles over my sensitive clit.

His eyes darken further, pupils dilated with renewed desire. “Again,” he commands softly, increasing the pressure slightly. “I want to watch you come with me all over you.”

In any other context, with anyone else, I might find the words crude. But from Dean—controlled, precise Dean—the raw honesty behind them is unbearably arousing.

He plants a hot, open-mouthed kiss on my inner thigh, his thumb still sweeping over my clit.

“Dean,” I gasp, feeling the tension rebuild impossibly quickly.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his gaze alternating between my face and his hand between my legs. “Let go for me.”

The second climax hits unexpectedly fast, less intense but somehow deeper than the first. I arch beneath his touch, helpless against the pleasure washing through me. Dean watches with that focused attention I’ve come to crave, cataloging every reaction, every expression.

As I come down from the high, he plants one more tender kiss against my inner thigh, then moves up to lie beside me, gathering me against him.

He places his thumb in my mouth, and I suck it clean. He watches me with a dark look.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice gentler now, hand stroking my hair.

I nod, too dazed to form coherent words. That combination of dominance and tenderness—the way he can shift so seamlessly between claiming and caring—continues to fascinate me.

For several moments afterward, we stay like this, both breathing hard. Dean’s forehead rests against mine, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist.

“That was…” he begins, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I know,” I say, understanding what he can’t articulate. “For me too.”

He rolls to the side, bringing me with him so we’re facing each other on the pillow. His hand traces lazy patterns on my bare back, his expression softer than I’m used to seeing it.

“Okay, baby?” he asks, always checking, always making sure.

I nod, too content to form words. The connection between us feels different now—deeper, more solid, like we’ve crossed another invisible line neither of us knew was there.

“What?” he asks, noticing my contemplative expression.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just… happy.”

His smile—rare and genuine, transforming his usually serious face—makes my heart skip. “Good.”

A comfortable silence falls between us, his fingers continuing their path up and down my spine. I’m on the edge of dozing off when a thought occurs to me, making me laugh softly.

“What?” Dean asks, curious.

“I just realized—I’m never getting this dress back to Sadie.”

He glances over at where the borrowed dress lies crumpled on the floor. “It’s a casualty of war,” he says solemnly, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. “I’ll buy her a new one.”

“It’s her favorite,” I warn him.

“She’s a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things,” he deadpans.

I swat his chest lightly. “Dean!”

“Fine.” He sighs dramatically. “We’ll have it professionally cleaned and returned with a thank-you note.”

“And flowers?”

“And flowers,” he agrees, pulling me closer.

I settle against him, my head finding that perfect spot on his chest where I can hear his heartbeat. Steady, like everything about him.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asks after a moment, his voice rumbling beneath my ear.

I consider the question seriously. There are a million things I could say—about tonight, about us, about the future that suddenly seems so much clearer than it did a month ago.

But what I say is: “Integration.”

“The calculus kind or the life kind?” His hand continues its soothing path along my spine.

“Both, maybe.” I trace patterns on his chest, following the definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. “How everything fits together. Variables and constants and the equation of us.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “And what’s the solution to that equation?”

I smile against his skin. “Still calculating. But I think we’re converging on something pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” There’s a smile in his voice. “That’s your professional assessment? ‘Pretty good’?”

I lift my head to look at him properly, taking in the relaxed set of his features, the warmth in his eyes, the curl that’s fallen across his forehead. I reach up to brush it back, the simple gesture feeling intimate in a way I can’t quite explain.

“Exceptional,” I amend. “Unprecedented. Statistically significant.”

“Now you’re just showing off,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.

“You like it when I show off,” I counter.

“I like everything about you,” he says, suddenly serious. “Even the parts that drive me crazy.”

“Especially those parts,” I suggest.

His laugh is warm against my skin. “Especially those parts,” he agrees, pulling me closer.

As his lips find mine again, I let myself melt into him, into us. The careful walls I’ve built for years, the defenses, the constant need for control—they don’t come down all at once. But with Dean, they’re at least permeable. Selective barriers that let in exactly what I need.

And what I need, it turns out, is him.

Just him.

No conditions, no calculations.

Just us.