Page 22 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"I'm not that drunk," I reply, kicking off my sandals. "Just…relaxed."

He makes a noncommittal sound, moving to the minibar to retrieve bottled water for both of us. I take mine and drink deeply, more thirsty than I realized.

"About what I said," I begin, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. "On the dance floor."

Dean stills, his back to me. "You don't need to explain. You were drunk, feeling nostalgic."

"No." I move toward him, newfound courage propelling me forward. "I meant it. I do miss you."

He turns slowly to face me, his expression guarded. "Brooke..."

"And I think you meant what you said too." I take another step closer. "About still wanting me."

The air between us feels charged, dangerous. Dean's eyes darken as they track over my face, down to my lips, then back up again.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice rough.

"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm tired of pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That I don't want you too."

Time seems to suspend as we stare at each other, the truth finally spoken aloud. Then Dean moves, closing the distance between us in two strides. His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips.

Instead, I rise on tiptoes and press my mouth to his.

The kiss is nothing like the one we shared at dinner the first night—that was for show, a performance. This is real, raw, two years of denial and longing poured into the urgent press of lips and tongue. His hands slide into my hair, loosening the pins until it falls around my shoulders. Mine fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, eliminating any space between us.

"Brooke," he groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. "We shouldn't?—"

"I know," I whisper back, already working on the buttons of his shirt. "I don't care."

That's all the permission he needs. His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, as his hands slide to my waist, then lower, gathering the material of my dress as they go. I push his shirt off his shoulders, eager to feel his skin under my palms, to rediscover the planes and contours I once knew by heart.

We stumble toward the bed, a tangle of hands and mouths, neither willing to break contact for even a moment. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall backward, dragging Dean with me. He braces himself above me, his eyes dark with desire but still questioning.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of restraint.

In answer, I reach behind me and untie the straps of my dress, letting it fall away from my chest. Dean's breath catches audibly as he takes in the sight of me in just a lacy white bra.

"I'll take that as a yes," he murmurs, lowering his head to trace the edge of the lace with his tongue.

I arch into his touch, a small moan escaping me as his mouth finds more sensitive terrain. His hands seem to be everywhere at once—tangled in my hair, skimming along my ribs, pushing my dress up and over my hips. I'm not passive, either, my fingers working at his belt, desperate to feel all of him against me.

"Slow down," Dean whispers against my collarbone. "We've got time."

But it doesn't feel that way. It feels urgent, necessary, like we might never get this chance again. I push at his shoulders until he rolls onto his back, allowing me to straddle him. I look down at him—his hair mussed from my fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes dark with want—and feel a surge of power.

"We've waited two years," I say, reaching behind to unhook my bra. "I don't want to wait anymore."

His hands come to rest on my hips as I toss the bra aside, his thumbs making small circles on my bare skin. "God, you're beautiful," he breathes, gaze roaming over me. "Even more than I remembered."

I bend to kiss him, my hair curtaining around us, creating a private world where only we exist. His hands slide up my back, then down again, beneath the waistband of my underwear to cup my backside and pull me more firmly against him. I can feel him hard beneath me, separated only by the thin fabric of his pants and my panties.

"Too many clothes," I murmur against his mouth, shifting to help him push off his pants.

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