Page 40 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

Dean stares at me for a long moment, disbelief clear in his expression. Then he laughs again, the sound harsher than before. "Moving on? I never moved on from you. But you sure as hell did."

The accusation stings, all the more painful because it's not entirely true. "That's not fair," I say, taking a step toward him. "I tried to move on. I dated. I built a life in New York. But it wasn't—" I swallow hard, struggling to articulate the emptiness I've never quite been able to fill. "It wasn't the same."

"What do you want from me, Brooke?" Dean asks, his voice dropping to something rough and low that sends shivers across my skin. "Because I can't keep doing this dance. Can't keep touching you and wanting you and loving you without knowing if I'm just setting myself up for another heartbreak."

The raw honesty in his words breaks something open inside me—a dam I've built to hold back the truth I've been denying since I first saw him in the airport. "I want you," I whisper, taking another step toward him. "I've always wanted you."

For a heartbeat, he doesn't move, his eyes searching mine for any sign of insincerity. Then his control snaps. He closes the distance between us in two strides, one hand tangling in my hair as his mouth claims mine in a kiss that's nothing like the gentle ones we've shared before. This is demanding, possessive, an assertion of everything he's been holding back.

I respond with equal fervor, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. There's anger in this kiss, and hurt, and two years of longing compressed into a single point of contact. When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, I moan, pressing myself closer, needing to eliminate any space between us.

Dean breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, nipping at the sensitive spot below my ear that he remembers with devastating accuracy. "Tell me again," he demands against my skin. "Tell me what you want."

"You," I gasp as his teeth graze my collarbone. "I want you, Dean."

His hands find the zipper of my bridesmaid dress, dragging it down with more force than necessary. The dress falls to the floor in a puddle of pale blue fabric, leaving me in just my underwear and the pearl necklace Taylor gave all her bridesmaids. Dean steps back slightly, his eyes roaming over me with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Always so damn beautiful."

I reach for him, impatient with the barrier of his clothes. He allows me to unbutton his shirt, to push it from his shoulders, but when I move to his belt, he captures my wrists in one large hand.

"Not yet," he says, backing me toward the bed. "First, I want to hear you say it again. That you want me. That this isn't just convenient or temporary or part of some game you're playing."

The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I sink down onto it, looking up at him standing over me. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, his expression is a complex mix of desire and wariness, need and restraint.

"This isn't a game," I tell him, holding his gaze. "I want you. Not just tonight. Not just this week."

Something shifts in his eyes, hope warring with disbelief. "Prove it," he challenges.

I rise to my knees on the bed, bringing us eye to eye. Slowly, deliberately, I remove my necklace, then reach behind to unhook my bra, letting it fall away. Dean's breath catches audibly, his gaze dropping to my bare breasts, but he doesn't move to touch me.

"I was jealous," I confess, the words easier now in the charged atmosphere between us. "Thinking you might be interested in someone else, that you might have moved on."

"Never," he says fiercely, his hands finally coming to rest on my waist. "There's only been you, Brooke. Even when I tried, even when I dated other women, it was always you I wanted."

The admission sends a thrill through me that's equal parts satisfaction and remorse. My hands move to his belt again, and this time he doesn't stop me as I unbuckle it, then unbutton his pants.

"I was afraid," I continue, pushing his pants down his hips until he steps out of them. "Afraid of wanting you too much. Of losing myself in us. But I think what I've really been afraid of is admitting how much I still love you."

The words hang in the air between us, a truth finally spoken aloud after two years of denial. Dean goes still, his eyes searching mine as if he can't quite believe what he's heard.

"Say that again," he demands, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I love you." The admission breaks free, as inevitable as the tide returning to shore. "I never stopped loving you, Dean. Not for one day since I left."

With a groan that sounds almost like pain, he pushes me back onto the bed, covering my body with his. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's both triumphant and tender, his hands roaming my skin like he's rediscovering territory long missed.

"Mine," he murmurs against my lips, my neck, my breasts. "You're mine, Brooke. Always have been."

"Yours," I agree, arching beneath him as his mouth closes around a nipple, tongue teasing the sensitive peak until I'm gasping his name.

There's an urgency to our movements now, a desperate need to reclaim what we've both been denying. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me wet and ready for him, and I cry out as his fingers stroke with a precision that proves how well he knows my body.

"Dean," I plead, reaching between us to wrap my hand around him, feeling him hard and hot against my palm. "Please. I need you inside me."

He groans at my touch, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. "Protection," he manages, his voice strained.

I shake my head, beyond caution now. "I'm on the pill. I'm clean. I haven't been with anyone since you.”

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