Page 117 of The Equation of Us

“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.

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