Page 12 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

I’m close, so close, my body trembling on the edge of release. Dean’s mouth captures mine in a kiss that mirrors the one from dinner—hungry, possessive, real.

“Dean,” I whimper against his lips. “Please.”

“I’ve got you,” he promises, curling his fingers just right, his thumb circling my most sensitive spot. “Come for me, Brooke.”

And I do, pleasure crashing through me in waves as powerful as the ocean beside us. I cling to him, crying out his name as my body shudders through the aftershocks.

I wake with a gasp, my body hot and aching, sheets twisted around my legs. For a disorienting moment, I can still feel his hands on me, his weight pressing me down.

Then reality reasserts itself. I’m alone in the king-sized bed. Dean is asleep on the couch across the room, his back to me, breathing deep and even.

It was just a dream. A vivid, incredibly detailed dream that’s left me frustrated and aroused in a way I haven’t felt in—well, in two years.

I close my eyes, willing my racing heart to slow. This is bad. Very bad. One kiss—admittedly a mind-blowing kiss—and I’m having erotic dreams about my ex. About the man I left behind. About the man I’m lying to everyone about still loving.

The worst part? In my dream, it hadn’t felt like lying at all.

FIVE

Brooke

Morning arriveswith relentless Hawaiian sunshine pouring through the balcony doors I forgot to close last night. I squint against the light, disoriented for a moment until memories crash back like a hangover: the kiss at dinner, the walk back to our room in loaded silence, and worst of all, that dream. That vivid, toe-curling dream about the man currently sprawled across our suite's too-small couch, one muscular arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths.

I close my eyes again, mortification washing over me in hot waves. Did I make noise? Did he hear me? The dream felt so real, so intense that I wouldn't be surprised if I'd called out his name in my sleep.

When I dare to peek again, Dean is still asleep, his long legs dangling off the end of the couch, a blanket twisted around his waist. His t-shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of tanned abdomen and the trail of light brown hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

I should look away. I should definitely not be staring at my ex-boyfriend's bare skin while he sleeps, especially after the dream I just had. But I can't seem to tear my eyes away.

He stirs, and I snap my gaze to the ceiling, heart pounding like I've been caught doing something illicit. There's a groan, the sound of joints popping as he stretches.

"Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," I reply to the ceiling, not trusting myself to look at him directly. "Sleep okay?"

"Like a baby," he lies. I know it's a lie because that couch is about a foot too short for his six-foot-two frame, and I saw how his neck was bent at an awkward angle. "You?"

Images from my dream flash through my mind—his hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck, the weight of him pressing me down.

"Fine," I lie back, my voice embarrassingly high. "Perfectly fine. Normal sleep. Nothing unusual."

I can feel his eyes on me, curious at my babbling. I risk a glance and find him watching me, those gray eyes still soft with sleep, his light brown hair sticking up in a way that makes him look younger, more like the Dean I left behind.

“I’m going to get ready,” I say hurriedly, throwing back the covers and grabbing my toiletry bag. "I'm just going to—yes."

I practically sprint to the bathroom, closing the door perhaps a bit too firmly behind me. I lean against it, taking deep breaths, willing my racing heart to slow.

"Get it together, Brooke," I mutter to my reflection. My dark hair is a tangle of messy waves, my eyes still heavy with sleep, lips swollen from biting them during the night. During the dream.

I turn on the shower, cranking it colder than I'd prefer, and step under the spray. The cool water helps clear my head, washing away the lingering heat of the dream. It was just my subconscious processing that kiss, I tell myself. A perfectly normal physiological response to physical stimulus. Nothing more.

By the time I emerge, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe with my hair turbaned in a towel, I've almost convinced myself I'm fine. Then I see Dean, now standing on the balcony in fresh clothes, the morning sun gilding his profile, and my carefully constructed composure threatens to crumble.

"All yours," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.

He turns, eyes tracking over my robe-clad form before quickly looking away. "Thanks. Taylor texted—breakfast in the main restaurant in thirty minutes."

"Great." I keep my tone deliberately light. "I'll be ready."

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