Page 53 of Deviant Obsession

I study her face—objectively beautiful, with high cheekbones and full lips. We used to have explosive chemistry, the kind that left rope burns and bruises and endless orgasmic ripples. But looking at her now, all I can think about is how her eyes aren’t that shade of emerald green I’ve become addicted to.

"Not tonight." I quickly remove her hand from my arm, gentler than I feel like being.

Her perfect pout appears right on cue. "Come on, Dean. Remember that full suspension scene we did? How wet I was just from your knots?"

The memory should turn me on. Instead, I feel vaguely nauseated. All I want is to be anywhere but here, preferably wherever Rhea is right now.

"I saidno." I reject Jade’s advances a little more sharply. "I'm not interested. I’m only here tonight in case Ethan needs a hand."

Her eyes narrow, artful seduction morphing into genuine irritation. "Since when do you turn down playtime with me? Who is she?"

"That's none of your business." I push off from the bar, already reaching for my keys. "Good luck with the demo."

I'm halfway to the exit before she can respond, shouldering through the growing crowd. The music pounds against my skull, the air thick with artificial fog and expensive perfume. This place used to feel like home. Now it just feels foreign without my favorite little toy by my side.

"Fuck it," I mutter, typing out a quick text to let Ethan know I couldn’t stay. Sometimes surrender is the only option left.

***

The hallway outside Rhea's apartment feels endless as I pace back and forth, my footsteps muffled by the worn carpet.What the hell am I doing here?This isn't like me, pawing at her door for a crumb of attention, no agenda beyond wanting to be near her. The drive over was a blur of headlights and second thoughts, but now that I'm here, my feet won't carry me back to the elevator.

A sliver of warm light spills from beneath her door like an invitation. The soft melody of what sounds like indie folk music drifts through the thin walls, something melancholic with acoustic guitar. No doubt she’s studying, in the zone. I shouldn’t interrupt. I should leave now and pretend I never came.

Instead, I find myself walking the length of the hall again, counting steps to keep from losing my nerve. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back. The security light at the end of the corridor flickers on every time I trip the motion detector, like it’s mocking me for being back again. Each time I pass her door, the urge to knock grows stronger.

I left the club because I felt like it was the wrong place for me to be. But this is foreign territory, too.Dangerousterritory. I don't do this. I don't chase. I don't yearn. I'm the one who makes others come running, who maintains control by keeping everyone at arm's length.

Except apparently, now I do. Now, I'm the one prowling outside someone's door at night, practically vibrating with the need to see her face.

The music changes to something slower, more intimate. Through the wall, I catch the faint sound of her humming along. The simple domesticity of it hits me like a punch to the gut. Before I can talk myself out of it, I raise my fist and knock. The sound seems to echo through the empty hallway, like I might draw the attention of the whole building to my pathetic display of neediness. For an excruciating minute, there's only silence. Then shuffling footsteps approach from the other side.

The door opens, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious effort. Rhea stands there in loose gray sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, her hair pulled into a messy bun with escaped curls framing her gorgeous face. No makeup, alabaster skin, looking soft and real and perfect. A smudgeof highlighter ink stains her left thumb where it rests on the doorjamb, and I fight the urge to reach out and wipe it away.

Her eyes widen when she sees me, surprise clear in those emerald depths. "Dean? I didn’t know you were coming. Did I miss a text? Am I in trouble?"

"Nah. I just..." The confession sticks in my throat. How do I explain something I barely understand myself? How do I tell her that the thought of not seeing her tonight felt physically painful? "I wanted to see you."

A small crease appears between her brows. I can’t tell if she’s confused or suspicious. But then her lips curve into that genuine smile I don’t get to see often, the one that I rarely do anything to deserve. It’s somehow shy and knowing, all at once. I've been thinking about it since I stared into her eyes while she rode me.

She studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly. I can almost see the wheels turning in that brilliant mind of hers, trying to decode my unexpected appearance. Probably wondering if this is some new game, some elaborate seduction. The Dean she thinks she knows would have played into that assumption, would have turned this vulnerable moment into something darker, more controlled.

But not tonight. For once in my life, I have no ulterior motives. I just need to be near her.

"You can tell me to leave," I blurt, watching doubt cloud her expression. "If you're busy studying, or if you just don't want?—"

"No, it's..." She steps back from the doorway, creating space for me to enter. "Come in. I was just reviewing some notes, but I could use a break."

The invitation floods me with relief so palpable I question my own damn sanity. I eagerly cross the threshold into her space, immediately enveloped by the scent of vanilla candles and old books.

"I didn’t come with a plan," I tell her as she closes the door behind me. "No expectations. I just..."

"Wanted to see me," she finishes softly, a deliciously shy smirk tugging at her plush lips. "You said that already."

Our eyes lock, and for a moment everything else falls away. The late hour, the slightly awkward nature of my sudden arrival, my own internal panic—none of it matters. She's here, looking at me like maybe she understands exactly what drove me to her door tonight.

Like maybe she feels it too.

Rhea returns from her tiny kitchen a little while later with two glasses of red wine a few minutes later, the liquid nearly black in the dim lighting. I watch her careful movements, the way she checks repeatedly to make sure she’s not about to spill. Always so anxious, so measured. It makes me want to unravel her completely.

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