Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

The last inches between us disappear as Dean presses his forehead to mine, stroking his thumb along my chin and across my bottom lip. His voice is a plea and a promise.

“I’ll make it good, Lainey. It’ll be so fucking good.”

And I know it will be.

I close my eyes. “You could do that? Stay unattached. Just make it physical?”

I feel his nod. “I could do that. You won’t regret it, I’m an awesome fuck buddy.”

I open my eyes—and stare into the scalding blue waters of Dean’s gaze.

“I’m not. A fuck buddy, I mean. I was telling the truth when I told you I don’t do one-night stands. I’ve had sex with four people in my life and you’re number four. I’m a relationship kind of girl. I get emotional when it comes to sex.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“I don’t know. And that’s the problem. You literally just decided to do this with me, Dean. We’re going to be involved in each other’s lives forever—and we’re just starting out. To bring sex into that mix now is . . . not smart.” I press my hand between us, on my stomach—the feel of the firm bulge helping me focus on the right things. “It could end up being a disaster for all of us.”

Dean closes his eyes a moment, then he straightens up and steps back, tilting his head to the ceiling and blowing out a deep, frustrated breath. He scrubs his hand over his face, like he’s trying to wake himself up.

“Okay, I see what you’re saying. You’re right.”

He turns toward the door—but then changes course and spins back around to face me.

“But I’m putting this on the table . . . anytime you feel like being not smart, I’m your guy. You change your mind and want to hook up, for one night . . . or ten . . . I am up for that.” He gestures to his groin. “Literally, up for it. Just say the words.”

A giggle tickles my throat. “What words?”

“Yes, Dean. Please, Dean. Now, Dean. Supercalifragilisticexpiali-fuck me, Dean. Any combination of those will work. Don’t be shy—I’m a sure thing. Okay?”

And now I laugh—not just because it’s funny, but because being around Dean already makes me happy too.

“Okay.”

“Good.” His movements are tense and quick—horny—as he takes his glasses off the counter and slides them back on his face.

Then, smoothly he reaches over and kisses my cheek. I savor the feel of his firm, full lips—and he seems to linger there just a second longer, breathing me in.

Then he’s backing up toward the door.

“Don’t stay up too late editing. You’re percolating our kid—that requires energy. You need your sleep.”

I smile. “Okay. Bye, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Lainey.”

And then my wild drummer boy, sexy professor, baby daddy slips out the door.

Chapter Ten

Dean

Lainey’s killing me.

As sure as a gorgeous, incurable, stage-four disease.

After I left her house last night, her scent followed me, haunted me. I had to jerk off three times before I could finally lay on my stomach and fall asleep without my hard-on poking me in the gut. It’s a new record—and not one I’m particularly proud of.

It was bad enough when she was just a memory, but now, with her real and close and in-person, I’m going to be a walking, talking pair of blue balls and a serious case of raw dick by the time our kid makes an appearance on the world stage.

Each time I came, it was more intense than the last, and every time was with Lainey’s name poised on my lips—and the picture of her full, perfect tits, that pouty mouth and pretty pussy in my head. Sometimes all three at once. Then there were the images of her eyes, her smile—making her smile yesterday, that was a rush—the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice. It’s all so damn good.

Too good.

Motherfucking addictive.

Being this close to her and not being able to have her—possibly ever—I’m toast. No way I’m making it out alive. And it’s all because Baby Mama is into relationships. Can’t say I’m surprised—though she gives outstanding dirty-girl in bed, out of it, she definitely gives off the good-girl vibe.

It’s not like I haven’t had girlfriends before. I’ve had plenty. I’ve done relationships.

I just suck at them. Screw them up. Every time.

It became a pattern, in high school and into my twenties. The first few days, I was golden—life was good—the bloom was on the rose. But then I’d start to get that itch, start to get bored.

The pussy would start to look pinker on the other side of the street.

And then I’d fuck around. I didn’t set out be a jerkoff, hurting a woman’s feelings was never the goal. The drama, tears, and headaches that always followed weren’t fun either. Which is why when I was older, wiser and more mature, I swore off relationships all together. I went legit—became a straight shooter. I discovered being direct with a woman, putting my not-interested-in-a-relationship cards on the table was even easier than screwing around and inevitably getting caught.