Page 119 of The Equation of Us

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.”

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