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Dean nods his head, then takes his hat off, resting it atop the pile of folded towels. He tugs his hand through his flaxen hair, the ends curling against his neck in that way I love. “Clara June, it kind of scares me to think that if Tanner didn’t play ball, I’d never have run into you.”

Embarrassment licks at my cheeks, but I reach into the basket, snatching a pair of Spiderman underwear.

Dean’s hand takes the underwear and drops them into the basket, and I stare at our fingers as he links them together.

Resting them between us, Dean smiles, then he leans down, his warmth and scent overwhelming my senses as he presses his lips to mine.

His lips are soft, and he applies the perfect pressure as our jaws torque and flex, mouths opening, tongues colliding.

The coarse, teasing brush of his mustache grazes my upper lip, igniting a cascade of electric shivers that explode up my spine, leaving my body molten, pulsing with raw, untamed desire.

He tastes sweet, the moans he leaves in my mouth have me throbbing against the seam in my panties, and it takes great restraint not to yank off my top and climb into his lap.

I want to.

But it’s too fast.

I just said I wanted to take it slow, anyway.

We pull apart, and I find myself out of breath, looking up at Dean who is smiling in a way that makes my stomach light and my heart beat too fast. I feel like I’m fourteen, standing against the closed bleachers at a school dance, with my crush walking directly toward me, our song blaring through the gymnasium.

“Was that okay?” he asks, his voice quiet and tender, his lips flushed with pink.

I nod. “Yes.”

He smiles. “Okay. Good.” He kisses me again, but this time it’s brief, no tongue, simple but warm. “I promise we’ll go slow. In fact, slow works well for me. But I just had to taste those lips.”

I wrinkle my nose as the TV light flickers against our profiles. “Is that right?”

“Mm,” he groans his response, tipping his head. I love the way his shadow eats me up, even in the low light. His eyes sweep over mine, hesitant and hovering on my lips for a moment before coming back to my gaze. “Been curious about you since the first night I met you on the field.”

I pull back from him only slightly, because the warmth of his body and the feel of sinking against him on the couch is divine. Heavenly. Something I didn’t know I was missing until now.

“You were curious about me? All these weeks?” I hate how shocked I sound but I can’t help it.

Dean McAllister fills a pair of Levi’s out like a goddamn rodeo champ and owns a cowboy hat better than John Wayne.

He’s single, and he coaches football—the community’s collective favorite sport.

His friends in town? The other hottest men in Bluebell.

Dean McAllister wondering what my lips taste like is… insane. “Me?”

His brows furrow, and I don’t see any playfulness as he squeezes our joined hands. My heart flutters, and warmth prickles along the insides of my thighs. “Why do you say it like that?”

I shake my head, answering easily, because this isn’t a hang up. It’s just the truth. “Because you’re you and I’m me .”

A displeased growl moves through his chest. “I don’t quite know what that means, but I think I may understand the sentiment.”

I don’t know what to say, so I nibble at the inside of my cheek, and his eyes catch the movement.

Another groan bounces around inside his chest. “And I don’t agree. I don’t believe that there is anyone in this town, me or anyone else, that is more special than you are, Clara June.” His smile is so sincere that it makes my eyes burn. “You’re incredible.”

My chest goes concave from the sweet weight of his words, as heat stalks my neck and sinks into my cheeks, and my eyes burn.

“I mean, my football record is pretty damn good. And my kids have damn good test scores. I make a mean steak and baked potato, and my parents would tell you I’m a pretty damn good son.

” He leans down, dusting his lips over mine, injecting my spine with liquid heat, my palms suddenly clammy.

“Still not as special as you are, Clara June.”

He seals those words with a kiss, our mouths opening in unison as his tongue curves into mine. His hand comes to my jaw, guiding me, teaching me to follow his lead, and I do, with my eyes closed tight and my pulse thudding in my ears, I follow Dean’s lead.

And after twenty minutes of making out, we finally break apart.

“Slow,” he says, panting, wearing a smirk from ear to ear. It matches mine, and it’s the first time I’ve ever been giddy after a makeout session. Once you push three human beings out of your body, you start to think there are no more firsts, no more great surprises or shocking moments.

Until a hot cowboy frenches you on your couch after doing laundry all night.

“I know this is where I put on my hat and say goodnight,” he whispers, our hands still woven together tightly. He finally releases me, but places his hand palm-down on my thigh, rubbing slow circles. “I just… I need a minute before I can leave.”

I nod my head, agreeing with him that we need a minute to cool off and relax before saying goodbye.

I grab the remote and turn the channel to the local news, and then twist to face Dean.

I can’t help but steal a glance at his large hand splayed across my knee, and how good it feels there. How good I feel everywhere.

It feels possible.

Orgasm.

With him.

Tonight.

But we’re moving slow because I asked and going back on that now would really come off as desperate hoe, which is not the look I’m going for.

And anyway, taking it slow is what’s right.

Kids are involved, and while they’re convinced coach Dean and I are going to be more than friends, truth be told, we don’t know yet.

And moving too fast would only serve to complicate things that needn’t be complicated.

“Can I get you some water? A drink? I’m sorry I didn’t ask till now,” I get to my feet, and notice the couch pillow over Dean’s lap.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before but Dean couldn’t leave just yet because he can’t stand.

There is a gorgeous man who had his tongue in my mouth, sitting on my couch, agreeing to take it slow, with an erection.

“Uh, did you, um,” I glance at his crotch and up to his eyes again. He’s smirking, completely aware that I’ve just put the kissing and his inability to stand together. “Want a whiskey? Instead of water? Nightcap for the road?”

I can’t believe I'm offering it. I don’t dislike drinking, but I’ve always viewed it as a happy time only type of thing.

And life is good, but recently, there hasn’t really been a drink to celebrate.

So the bottle of whiskey collects dust in the cupboard above the fridge, where it has been for a few years, and where it will likely be for many more.

After floating it out there, I grow insecure with my question, wondering if I’m coming off desperate, pulling anything out of my pocket to get him to stay. Except, I do still want to move slowly. I just don’t want him to go. Not yet.

In case he comes to his senses when he gets home, I want tonight to be a little fantasy for me to revisit for as long as I need.

“Sounds good.”

After a minute in the kitchen, I pour us two glasses of whiskey, his in a reusable Avengers cup from the movie theatre, and mine a The Hulk cup from McDonald’s. We clink them together in relative silence, and I sink against his chest, the news temporarily entertaining us.

I sip. He sips. The anchor highlights a missing man in Bluebell, one with a criminal record of hate crimes. A commercial comes on, for a vacation package to Hawaii, and Dean asks me if I’ve ever been, and if the boys have been.

We talk about the lack of vacations I’ve taken, and the surplus of vacations he’s taken—all of them alone, except for Mt. Rushmore, where he took his parents two years ago. I settle into his chest, and his blunt fingertips massage the top of my head as we sip whiskey and unwind.

The wall of muscle, the way his heat radiates, the scent of his cologne and his skin—all of it is heavenly, and I find myself resting my eyes for just a second.

But because everyone knows resting your eyes always equates to deep slumber, I fall asleep, and am woken from a peaceful snooze by the sound of Tanner screaming. His most pained, agonized cry.

Dean is on his feet, pulling me to mine, in under a second.