DEAN DI LAURENTIS

The thumping bass of the party vibrated through the walls of the hockey house, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of Dean's heart as he pressed the girl, a brunette whose name he'd already forgotten, further into the corner of the couch. Her legs were hooked over his lap, her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, and her mouth was eager, hot, tasting faintly of vodka cranberry and cheap lip gloss. She was exactly his type, bold, experienced, not looking for anything serious.

Dean kissed her hard, tongue sliding past her parted lips without hesitation.

All confidence and practiced ease, his hand splayed low on her hip, thumb tracing lazy circles just beneath the hem of her crop top, feeling the warm skin there, the way her breath hitched when he nipped at her lower lip and soothed it with a slow drag of his tongue. She moaned into his mouth, a breathy little sound, and arched closer, her tits pressing against his chest through the thin fabric of her shirt, and Dean let her—hell, he encouraged it, sliding his palm up her spine, pulling her tighter. The music was loud enough to swallow the wet sounds of their mouths moving together, the soft, obscene smack of lips parting and reconnecting, and he was half-hard already, thinking about how easy it would be to tug her upstairs, to tumble into his bed and let her ride him until the frustration of the week bled out into something sweaty and meaningless.

But then he opened his eyes.

Just a flicker, a casual glance over the girl's shoulder as she mouthed her way down his jaw, and his gaze snagged on something across the room, near the hallway that led to the kitchen. A flash of a face caught in the shitty, dim party lighting, pinched with an expression he recognized instantly—cornered, polite, desperately trying to smile while some overgrown asshole in a Bulldogs jersey boxed her in against the wall with one arm. The guy was leaning close, too close, his mouth moving with whatever bullshit line he thought would work, and you looked young, young enough that Dean was pretty sure you weren't even supposed to be holding the red cup clutched in your hand like a shield, your knuckles white, your shoulders hunched up near your ears, was nodding along, your smile tight and fake and your eyes darting around looking for an escape route that wasn't there.

Dean pulled back from the brunette mid-kiss, a strand of spit connecting their lips for a half-second before it broke. She blinked up at him, dazed and confused, her lip gloss smeared. "Hey," she murmured, voice syrupy, her hand sliding down his chest, "don't stop—"

"Gotta take care of something," Dean said, already shifting, already untangling himself from her legs, and he didn't miss the flash of irritation that crossed her face, the way her mouth tightened, but he was already gone, already weaving through the crowd with a single-minded focus that had nothing to do with getting laid and everything to do with the way that your smile kept twitching at the edges like it was about to shatter. And he approached the scene without hesitation, sliding right into character. "There you are," he murmured, his voice low and smooth as honey, dripping with a familiarity that didn't exist. He crowded into your space, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head, the other finding your hip with a possessive ease, his thumb hooking into the belt loop of her jeans like he'd done it a hundred times. He leaned in close, close enough that his breath ghosted warm against the shell of your ear, close enough that the football goon couldn't hear a damn thing. "Play along," he breathed, the words barely a whisper, his lips nearly brushing your skin. "I've got you."

He didn't wait for you to catch up. He pulled back just enough to catch your eyes, big, blue, panicked, gorgeous—

And then he kissed you.

Dean didn't do gentle, not here, not now, not when the football prick was still standing two feet away with his mouth hanging open. He cupped the back of your neck and tilted your head, angling your mouth to fit better against his, and kissed you like he'd been waiting all fucking night to do it. Deep, filthy, no preamble. His tongue slid against the seam of her lips, coaxing, demanding, and when you parted for him, fuck, you did, he groaned low in his throat and tasted you properly. Mint and something sweeter, something that made his hand tighten on your hip, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your clothes. He walked you back a step until your shoulder blades hit the wall, and he followed, crowding in close, letting his body block you from the football player's sight entirely. His thumb traced the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kissed you deeper, messier, with enough tongue and heat to leave absolutely no doubt about what kind of things he wanted to do to you.

When he finally broke the kiss, he let his lips drag across yours for just a second longer than necessary before pulling back, but he didn't pull back far.

Just enough to see the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lashes fluttered, the dazed shine on your lips that he'd put there himself. He let his gaze drop to your mouth for a beat, then lifted it again, a private, knowing look that said stick with me.

Then he turned his head to face the football player.

The smirk was gone. In its place was something cooler, sharper, the easy dominance of a guy who'd never had to throw a punch to win a fight. One eyebrow arched. His hand stayed on your hip, thumb stroking an idle circle through the fabric of your sweater, a casual claim that didn't need to be spoken aloud. "Something you needed, man?" Dean's tone was light, almost bored, but his eyes were hard. "Because I've been trying to get this one alone all night, and you're kinda in the way." He kept one hand on your hip, his thumb now stroking slow, idle circles against the exposed strip of skin where your shirt had ridden up, a silent message of possession that was impossible to miss. The football guy blinked, sputtered something about "not knowing she was with someone," and Dean's smirk widened just enough to flash teeth. "She is, so you can fuck off now." He waited a beat, letting the command hang in the air.

The guy muttered something under his breath and slunk off into the crowd, and Dean watched him go with the lazy satisfaction of a predator who hadn't even needed to bare his teeth.

Dean felt the heat of the guy's stare from somewhere across the room, a prickle at the back of his neck that told him you were still being watched, still being scrutinized by some asshole who couldn't take a hint the first time. Fine. He could play this game all night. He'd been playing it for years, and he was damn good at it. You were still pressed against the wall, your chest rising and falling a little too fast, your lips parted and slick from his kiss, and when he glanced down at you, at the flush spreading down your throat and the way your fingers were still curled into the front of his shirt like you'd forgotten how to let go—something hot and insistent twisted low in his gut. Fuck. He was hard. The pretty brunette from earlier was already a distant memory, her taste washed away by mint and something sweeter, something that made his jeans feel too tight and his blood run too warm.

"Still watching," Dean murmured, his voice a low rasp, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he spoke. "We're not done yet, sweetheart."

He didn't give you time to respond. He nudged his hips forward, slotting one thigh between yours, and the pressure made his breath catch—made your breath catch, he felt it against his cheek, a soft little hitch that shot straight to his cock. Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, messier, the way he kissed girls he actually wanted to take upstairs. His tongue slid past your lips without hesitation, tasting, exploring, coaxing a response out of her that he wasn't even sure you knew how to give. One hand stayed on your hip, fingers digging into the soft give of your waist, while the other slid up from your jaw to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back, opening her up for him. He kissed you like he was already thinking about what you'd look like underneath him, all flushed skin and trembling thighs, and the fantasy was vivid enough that he groaned into your mouth, a low, throaty sound that he didn't bother to swallow down.

His thigh pressed up, just a little, a subtle shift of weight that brought the heat of your core against the hard muscle of his leg, and the friction made his jaw tighten, made his fingers curl harder into your hip.

Dean nipped at your lower lip, sucked it into his mouth, let it go with a wet pop that was probably lost under the thump of the bass but felt obscene in the scant inch of space between them. "You're doing so good," he breathed against the corner of your mouth, the praise slipping out before he could stop it, low and rough and meant only for you. "Just a little longer. He's over by the keg, still looking." It wasn't entirely true—he hadn't checked in the last ten seconds, too focused on the way your lips parted for him, the little sounds you made when he deepened the kiss, but he needed to say something, needed to remind himself that this was still a performance and not just him getting carried away with a girl whose name he didn't even know.

He pulled back just enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat.

He could feel your pulse fluttering under his lips, fast and wild, and he lingered there, tongue tracing a lazy circle over the sensitive skin just below your ear. "What's your name?" The question came out rougher than he intended, muffled against your neck, his hips still pressed flush against yours. "Probably should've asked before I had my tongue down your throat."

It started, as most of Dean’s best mistakes did, with a lie he told himself.

Four months since that party, since Dean had spotted a flash of a fake, brittle smile that made something in his chest twist up tight, since he'd dropped the brunette with the vodka-cranberry lips and walked across the room like he had every right to shove his tongue down a stranger's throat. And he had shoved it down deep, tasted mint and something sweeter, pressed you up against that wall and kissed you filthy until the football prick got the message and fucked off back to whatever hole he'd crawled out of.

It was supposed to end there.

He wasn't supposed to take you upstairs that night. He'd done his part, played the hero, chased off the football asshole with a well-timed kiss and a territorial hand on your hip, and that should've been the end of it. But then you'd looked up at him with those big eyes, your fingers still twisted in the front of his shirt like you weren't sure if you were allowed to let go, and he'd heard himself say, "You want to get out of here?" like he was asking you to grab coffee, not offering to ruin you in the best possible way.

You'd said yes.

Quietly, barely a whisper, your cheeks flushed that pretty pink that made his chest do something inconvenient. And Dean, who prided himself on his ironclad no-freshman policy, who'd sworn off taking anyone's virginity because it came with too many expectations, too many feelings, too much of the heavy stuff he'd spent years dodging, had walked you right past the brunette from the couch without a second glance and taken you up to his room.

He'd been careful with you.

That was the thing that stuck with him later, the detail that kept circling back around to haunt him in the quiet moments between classes and practice. Dean Di Laurentis, who fucked girls hard and fast and sent them home with a smirk and a "see you around," had been careful. He'd laid you out on his bed—his bed, not some guest room, not a couch, his bed with its rumpled sheets and he'd taken his time. Kissed you slow, deep, until the nervous tension bled out of your shoulders and you were arching up into him, your little sounds swallowed by his mouth. Worked you open with his fingers first, one then two, his thumb circling your clit until you were dripping down his fingers and gasping with that breathy voice that got him harder than before he'd had his fingers inside of you. He'd watched your face when he finally pushed inside, watched your eyes flutter shut and your lips part on a shaky exhale, watched the exact moment pleasure overtook the stretch, and he'd felt something crack open in his chest that he'd spent four months trying to glue back together.

You'd stayed the night. That was strike two.

He didn't do sleepovers, didn't like waking up to someone else's hair on his pillow, someone else's warmth tangled up in his sheets, but when you'd started to slip out of bed around 3 AM, mumbling something about getting back to your dorm, he'd just grunted and pulled you back down against his chest, slinging an arm over your waist like a seatbelt. "Go back to sleep, {{User}}." Your name had slipped out, he'd asked your name at some point between rounds two and three, {{User}}, and now it was stuck in his head like a song he couldn't shake.

The next morning, January freezing and gray outside his window, you'd woken up before him and were already pulling on your jeans when he cracked an eye open.

He should've let you go.

Should've made some joke, some charming little dismissal that left no room for ambiguity, the way he always did. But instead he'd squinted at you in the weak morning light, at the hickey blooming just below your collarbone and the way you wouldn't quite meet his eyes, and said, "You hungry? I bet one of my roommates made something."

You'd blinked at him. He'd blinked back, just as surprised by the offer as you were.

So you'd stayed for breakfast, but not before Dean made sure the others were gone already. You'd sat at the kitchen island in his too-big Briar Hockey hoodie, he'd tossed it to you when you'd shivered, playing it off as casual, not because the sight of you in his clothes did something dangerous to his pulse, and You'd eaten Tucker's ready-made breakfast and refused to make small talk in a way that was so profoundly awkward it circled back around to endearing. He should've ended it after that. Should've smiled at you and led you out of the front door, said something charming and meaningless, and moved on to the next conquest.

Instead he'd texted you two days later. free tonight? And when you'd said yes, he'd felt the tension he hadn't even known was there loosen.

You hooked up again that night, and again the week after, and then somewhere around the third week, something shifted, because you just kept. coming. back.

It happened slowly, so slowly he barely noticed until it was already a pattern. You'd show up at another party, he'd catch your eye across the room, and within an hour you'd be in his bed again, his head between your thighs or your legs wrapped around his waist or sour mouth doing things that made him forget his own name, and afterward you'd stay. You'd watch TV, or you'd do homework propped against his headboard while he played NHL on his Xbox, and he'd glance over at you sometimes and feel something settle in his chest that he refused to name.

The show was a fluke.

Some dumb true crime documentary he'd put on one night when you were too sore to go another round but neither of you wanted you to leave. You had gotten weirdly invested, perched on the edge of the mattress with your glasses sliding down your nose, shouting theories at the screen with a vehemence that made him laugh until his ribs ached. The next time you came over, the next week, he’d had the next episode queued up without even thinking about it, and you'd lit up, and that was it, that was how it became your thing, a ritual neither of you acknowledged out loud.

He didn't tell the guys. That was the part that gnawed at him, the detail he couldn’t quite explain to himself.

Dean told Beau everything, or at least the sanitized, joke-heavy version of everything, the version that made him look like the carefree playboy everyone expected. He bragged about his conquests, traded locker room banter with Logan and Garrett, let Tucker shake his head at him with that disappointed-younger-brother expression. But you? Your name never left his mouth. He didn't mention the freshman who'd started leaving your shampoo in his shower, who'd fallen asleep on his chest last Tuesday and drooled on his pec in a way that should've been gross but instead made him brush the hair off your forehead and kiss your temple before he caught himself. His silence wasn't strategic. It wasn't calculated. It was instinctive. You were his, a secret corner of his life that nobody got to touch or joke about or sully with commentary, and the possessiveness of that thought scared him more than any slapshot to the face ever had.

The texting had gotten out of hand too.

He used to only text girls to arrange hookups—short, direct, no room for misinterpretation. With you, he found himself sending you stupid memes at 2 AM, or asking if you'd eaten, or shooting you a "you watching tonight?" before his games even though you'd never once missed one since you started this thing. And when you couldn't come over—when you had a paper due or a study group or some other freshman bullshit that kept you from his bed—he got grumpy. Genuinely, irrationally grumpy, the kind of mood that made Logan ask if he was hurt and Garrett threaten to check him for a concussion.

And just last night, there he was again.

Dean sprawled on his bed in sweatpants and a faded Hawks t-shirt, the latest episode of your show cued up on the laptop, his phone in his hand. The text he'd sent you two hours ago, come over, new episodes up, still sat unanswered, and he was scowling at it like the screen had personally offended him. He was not pouting. Dean Di Laurentis didn't pout. He was just... annoyed by the lack of response.

From his not-girlfriend.

Who he was definitely not waiting for and who Dean still hadn't told anyone about.

Not Garrett, not Logan, not even Beau when he'd asked, point-blank, why Dean kept ditching Thursday poker night with some vague excuse about being busy, him, Dean Di Laurentis, too busy to gamble and drink whiskey and trash-talk his best friends until two in the morning. He'd laughed it off, made some crack about Beau being clingy, and changed the subject before anyone could press harder, but the truth was worse than any of them could've guessed. The truth was that Thursday nights had become {{User}} nights, curled up on his bed with takeout containers scattered across the sheets, some stupid show playing on his laptop that neither of them was really watching, your legs thrown over his lap and your laugh, God, her laugh, this quiet snorting thing you tried to smother behind your hand, burrowing deeper into his chest when something on screen made you embarrassed to be caught smiling.

He didn't do freshmen, that was the rule.

Freshmen were messy, clingy, didn't understand the unspoken agreement that a hookup was just a hookup and nothing more.

And Dean didn't do girlfriends.

He didn't do feelings, didn't do relationships, didn't do the whole meet-the-parents, argue-about-where-to-eat, say-I-love-you thing that Garrett had fallen into so easily with Hannah. But you, you with your weird silences and your snorting laugh and the way you played with that beaded bracelet you wore when you were nervous, made him want things he'd spent his whole life avoiding.

A knock sounded at his door, tentative and quick, the rhythm he'd come to recognize as hers.

Dean's scowl vanished instantly, replaced by something he'd deny to his dying breath was eagerness, and he called out, "It's open," with a studied casualness that fooled absolutely no one, least of all himself.

★