Getting Played

The conversation between me and Dean flows easy—we talk about everything and nothing at the same time.

“If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

He frowns—and even his frown is hot. Possibly hotter than his smile.

“Damn, that’s hard.”

I don’t relent.

“Life’s most crucial questions usually are.”

He tilts his head toward the ceiling, exposing the enticing swell of his Adam’s apple. And there’s something so deliciously manly about it—I want to lean over and lick it.

But then he dips his chin, blocking my move. “Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits.”

“That’s not a song—that’s a whole album.”

“That’s my answer.”

I poke the curve of his bicep—it’s like prodding a warm, sexy, rock.

“That’s cheating.”

“Then I’m a cheater.” He shrugs. “Screw it.”

Later, we delve into each other’s souls . . . kind of.

“Tell me something you hate,” Dean asks, before downing his shot.

“I hate commercials where you have no idea what they’re trying to sell you until the end.”

His head bobs in agreement. “They suck.”

“What about you?”

“I hate people who drive in convertibles with the top down and the windows up. Like dude . . . pick a side.”

And he says it in such a serious, adorable way, I crack up.

Dean watches me, staring at my mouth, his eyes deep-water blue and enraptured.

“That’s a great sound.” He leans in. Closer and closer.

“What sound?”

He takes a curl of my hair, brushing it between his fingers thoughtfully. “Your laugh. It’s a beautiful laugh, Lainey.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. “I work really hard on it every day.”

His lips stretch into a full, chuckling smile. Then he grabs the bottle of vodka on the bar, tosses down a few bills and tilts his head toward the door.

“You want to get out of here?”

And I don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

~ ~ ~

We shuffle across the back parking lot of the bar—holding hands, taking swigs from the bottle and giggling. Because alcohol is a time machine—it makes you young and silly.

Dean leads me up the steps to an apartment above a detached garage. “This is where we stay when we play at the Beachside Bar. But these days, Jimmy and the guys get hotel rooms with the wives and kids, so it’s just you and me tonight.”

He flicks on the lights revealing a small living room with a couch and television, and a tiny kitchen. It’s sparse, and void of any real personality, but it’s clean.

I follow him through the set of French doors that lead out to a balcony, with two cushioned lounge chairs and a hot tub that overlooks a dark, wooded lot.

I nod, smiling. “Nice.”

“I’m going to take a quick shower. You good here?”

I give him two thumbs-up. “I’m good.”

Dean takes out his phone, fiddles with the buttons and sets it on the table, leaving Amos Lee to sing “Wait Up For Me,” as he goes inside. And I soak it all in—the warm breeze, the way the moonlight shimmers on the trees, the smell of the ocean in the air, and the loose, languid feel of my bones.

Here, now, in this moment—life is really good. And when it’s good, it should savored, enjoyed. Celebrated.

A few minutes later, the song changes and “Boardwalk Angel” plays from Dean’s phone. I close my eyes, humming along, tilting my head up to the sky and spinning slowly in time to the music.

Until I feel him. I turn around and Dean is leaning against the door-jam, the heat of his eyes following my every move.

He’s wearing jeans—shirtless—his hair a damp, dirtier shade of blond. The muscles of his arms and chest are long and taut, all beautiful swells and shadowed ridges. Little water droplets glisten on his shoulders and I’m suddenly very thirsty.

“Hi,” I whisper, a little breathless because—wow.

His mouth does that sexy quirk thing.

“Hi.”

Dean moves forward, eating up the space between us and I step in into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands skim up my back, pressing me close, and mine slide down his arms—loving the warm, smooth feel of his skin beneath my palms.

And then we’re dancing. Swaying together to this slow song about the boardwalk and carnival lights and falling in love on a carousel. And there’s a sweetness to the moment—a magic and tenderness—that I just might remember for the rest of my life.

“This is a good song. John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band.”

I feel the chuckle that comes from his chest. “Most people would’ve said Eddie and the Cruisers.”

I shake my head. “Not me. I know my music.”

He strokes my hair down my back.

“What kind of music do you like, beautiful?”

“I like songs that tell a story. That make me feel. That make me remember. There’s a song for every big moment in my life.”

“Me too.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. “When I was a kid, music always made sense to me, even if nothing else did.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

And he smells so good—like sandalwood and spice and a unique, clean man-scent that’s just him. I want to run my nose across his skin—smelling up every inch of him.

When the song ends, our eyes lock. And I whisper his name, because I like the taste of it on my tongue. “Dean…”

He swallows harshly, his throat rippling, his eyes tracing my face.

“Lainey… Jesus.”

Then his mouth comes down on mine—hard and hot. His hands sink into my hair, angling my head, and a needy, frantic spike of pleasure streaks up my spine with every stroke of his warm, wet tongue.

It’s a great kiss, the kind they write songs about. A movie-star kiss—that gets the audience all hot and bothered. The kind of kiss that deserves surging background music—a whole soundtrack—that goes on and on and on.

“I wanted to do this the second I saw you,” he tells me between kisses.

I sigh against him, molding my body to his, warm putty in his strong, talented hands.

“I wanted that too.”

His fingers dance across my rib cage, pushing my tank-top up and off. And the sensation of our bare stomachs pressing, my breasts rubbing against the hard heat of his chest, is nothing short of heaven.

“It was all I could think about the whole set. Walking off that fucking stage and kissing the hell out of you.”

I wrap my arms around his neck—pulling him nearer, wanting him closer.

“Yes.”

Dean’s arm is an iron band across my lower back, lifting me off my feet, moving us into the apartment. He pushes me against the wall, grinding the unrelenting ridge of his erection against my pelvis. And it’s so good—that mindless kind of good that’s all instinct and no thought. An effortless intimacy that makes me tremble.

He holds my face in his hands when he kisses me—and I love that. The way his tongue delves deep, his fingers brushing my cheek, like I’m something precious.

His lips slide down to my neck, rasping against my skin.

“Lainey, are you drunk?”

“Yeah.” I rub my cheek against the spiky stubble on his jaw, and moan with how damn good it feels. “But not too drunk. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want.”

He straightens up and looks into my eyes, both of us breathing hard.

“Tell me.” He sweeps his thumb against my lip, like he can’t stop touching me. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you.”

I skim my palm over the ripples of his abs into the front of his pants, cupping him, taking the hot, impossibly hard length of him in my hand and stroking up and down.