Page 33 of Dean

Please don’t behave.

Be the filthiest. Please.

“This is a thank you for dinner,” he adds. “It was delicious, by the way. Ford thinks I should marry you.”

Yes, please marry me.

“Yes. Dinner. Delicious. Marriage.” My words come out in a jumble. I’m making no sense. I’ve taken leave of my senses. “I think I’ll make you lunch too if this is the thanks I get.”

“You’ve already made my lunch.”

“I have. When I feel sorry for you.”

“I’m pathetic, hm?”

“The worst and most pathetic,” I lie.

I exhale and close my eyes, trying to will my dick to stay soft, but it’s a lost cause. My entire body is taut, like a tightly wound string. And the butterflies. They’re enormous and fluttering.

I shouldn’t let this go on, but I am. I’m so letting it go on. I’m loath to stop it.

“Oh god, Dean. This is…oh my,” I whisper as he continues to massage my thighs, the sore muscles loosening as he goes. “This feels so good. I haven’t had a massage in forever.”

He clears his throat, and my eyes pop open, meeting his stare. His cheeks are flushed and his pupils are blown out.

“Why not?”

“Well, like I said, I haven’t been with anyone in a while and massages are expensive. And like I said, I don’t get paid enough for them,Boss.”

He smirks at me, his hands still on my thighs.

“Well, I can talk to Ford and Cash about raises, but I can give you massages whenever you need them,” he says, and I bite my bottom lip. Hard.

“I may take you up on that. You have nice, strong hands.”

He glances down at them.

“You do too. Nice hands, I mean. They’re…pretty. I noticed you like to paint your nails.”

The observation has me stiffening. “I do.”

He meets my gaze once more. “You can paint mine, if you want.”

My eyes just blink wildly, those butterflies taking flight. “Oh. Yeah. I can do that.”

He nods and then continues to work some kind of magic until I’m a sloppy, loose mess. Then, and only then, do his hands slide away from my thighs.

“You seem relaxed now. How do you feel?”

I let out a shaky breath. My dick is hard, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I feel like I’m this close to falling apart.

“I feel good, but honestly, you may need to carry me to bed. You’ve reduced me to overcooked spaghetti. I’m mush.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m just kidding?—”

But before I can protest, Dean reaches out and shifts me up onto his lap, pulling my legs on either side of his. And for a moment, just a split second, I envision myself naked, straddling his thighs, his cock stretching me open. The way that would feel, the pain mixed with pleasure…

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