The air in the room takes on a charge the way it does before a storm.

Dean looks down at me with his eyes dark, assessing me with an intensity I've never seen on his face before. My gaze lingers on his mouth before drifting down to his throat, watching his pulse tick in his neck.

The pad of his thumb glides across my cheek, whisper soft, bracketing my jaw. His grip on my waist tightens, pulling me closer until I'm pressed against a wall of warm, ridged muscle. He tilts my face up, leaning in, and when his lips find mine everything inside me fires up like lightning across the night sky.

My eyelids flutter shut, fingers digging into his muscular shoulders through his white dress shirt. He pushes his way into my mouth and I melt against him, softening more with each sweep of his tongue.

There's nothing tentative or questioning about it like most first kisses. It's like floodgates being opened, releasing nine years of waiting, wondering, and wanting. But it isn't hurried, either; it's deliberate, like he's mapped out a plan of attack and now he's executing it one delicious movement at a time.

I always knew kissing him it would be good, but I didn't know it would be like this. This is a television kiss. No, a movie kiss. We should be standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower in the rain.

Still holding my face, he retreats slightly, pulling back. Testing me. I grab the back of his neck to hold him close, capturing his bottom lip between my teeth, and a low, husky groan rumbles in his chest. He presses me up against the wall, large hands dragging down the sides of my body hungrily, savoring every inch.

Dean was right. This was a bad idea, because now I don't want to stop.

Slanting his mouth against mine, he deepens the kiss. I can taste the Macallan he was drinking earlier, alcohol burn with a caramel note. I've never been a big fan of scotch, but it's a revelation when it's mixed with Dean's mouth.

Our mouths stay locked together like we're drowning and the other person is air. I get so lost in him that I begin to lose all sense of time—and self-control. His cologne has wiped out my brain function entirely and I'm not confident it will ever return. I've always wanted to be pushed up against a wall and ravaged, but it's never happened properly until now. If I'm being brutally honest with myself, I've always wanted Dean to be the one to do it, too.

I don't know why. I don't even like him.

His hand skims down my backside and slips under my dress, caressing my inner thigh as he travels higher. Desire flickers through my center, quickly igniting into a flame. He tugs my lacy underwear aside and his fingers slide inside me easily, thumb pressing the sensitive bundle of nerves and sending off an explosion of pleasure in my core. I let out a soft gasp as shimmering heat floods my body. He chuckles, low and deep in his chest, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on me.

"Dean." Another shockwave of pleasure rocks through me and I whimper again.

Dean lowers his lips to the shell of my ear. "Shh."

Somehow, this has the opposite of the intended effect and turns me on even more, making it even more difficult to be quiet. Because I know this is wrong; so incredibly wrong, and yet it feels so incredibly good. It probably feels good because it's wrong—a testament to my emotional baggage, which could fill an entire cargo hold.

Another reason I don't want a boyfriend? I have notoriously bad taste in men. My track record is littered with the cocky, the emotionally unavailable, and the otherwise unsuitable. Case in point, the man pressed up against my body right now.

He buries his face in my neck, alternating licking and sucking in a torturously divine pattern. His fingers slide against me again and another, louder whimper escapes from my lips. "Oh god."

"Brooke." Dean lifts his mouth, warm breath skirting my ear. He's trying to sound stern but I can hear a smile in his deep voice. "Be quiet."

"Make me."

"Gladly." His other hand slides up, gripping my hair at the roots in the most delicious way. He angles my face up to his and his mouth crashes down on mine again, muffling my sounds.

He's relentless, the way he keeps touching me, knowing I'm unraveling beneath his fingers. His fingers curl inside me, adding to the pressure growing in my core. I grab at his hand between my legs, writhing against him, so close to the peak that I can almost see it.

Someone knocks and we both jump, tearing apart and exchanging looks of guilt and alarm. My heart was already speeding out of control, but now it's racing for a different reason entirely.

"Brooke?" Brendan calls though the door. "Vidya said she thought you might be in here. Are you okay?"

My stomach leaps into my throat. It's sweet that he's concerned about me while I'm basically humping his best friend's hand. I guess I have been missing for a while. Dean, too. Hopefully, no one does that math. Especially Brendan.

"Uh, yeah. Totally fine," I call out. "Just a second. Spilled something. Finishing uh, cleaning."

Dean and I both survey the bathroom frantically, but there's nowhere for him to hide; the white shower curtain is translucent and he's too big to fit anywhere else. Worst part is, I'm more worried about me being able to sell this than Dean. Fortunately or unfortunately, he's a great liar.

I tug my dress back down and readjust my underwear, then reach up to smooth my rumpled hair. Dean leans over the counter and studies his face in the mirror, scrubbing my sparkly pink lipgloss off his face. After another split second of frenzied grooming, we exchange a silent glance and deem ourselves orderly enough to pass inspection. Besides, delaying any longer will only raise more questions.

Fumbling briefly, I unlock the bathroom door and fling it open with far too much enthusiasm. I'm certain that what just happened must be written all over my face.

"Oh, hey Bren!" I pretend to look at the lock on the handle. "Was this locked? Weird, I must've bumped it." On a perkiness scale from 1-10, I've reached a level 12. Possibly 13.

From beside me, Dean does a weird cough-throat clear combo, like he's got secondhand embarrassment. I have firsthand embarrassment, which is even worse. Holy crap, Brooke. Chill out.

Brendan's forehead crinkles. "Uh... Everything all right?" His expression shifts, jaw tightening. A bolt of panic shoots through me. "You two aren't in here arguing, are you?"

Bless his innocent little soul. My brother may be five years older than me, but somehow he's far more sheltered, verging on oblivious. I'm not sure how he's so close with Dean, who's the polar opposite. Dean's middle names could be Shrewd and Cynical. Maybe also Corrupt.

"No, everything's fine. I spilled my drink." I gesture to my still-damp dress and hold up my empty glass as evidence because I feel compelled to prove this sequence of events actually transpired. "Made a huge mess all over the white marble tile. I was worried about it staining, so Dean was helping me clean it up."

It's technically the truth, or some flavor of it. My drink spilled on the hardwood just outside the bathroom, not the tile inside it. And Dean's 'assistance' involved licking gin and tonic off my neck. But Brendan doesn't need to know that. I can't quite believe it myself.

"Dean was helping you." Brendan's gaze lands on Dean and he doesn't seem at all reassured by what I just said. But instead of thinking the obvious, he still seems to think we were fighting. Given that we've basically squabbled for nine years straight, it's not an unfounded assumption.

No one in their right mind would ever expect the two of us to be making out in a bathroom. Including me, but I guess I'm not exactly in my right mind.

Dean meets his gaze evenly, poker face at full strength. "Well, it was my fault. I came in here to call Joshua and walked right into her. Distracted, I guess."

Joshua? Who's Joshua? I've heard the name in passing before, but the way Dean says it makes it seems more significant than some random friend. Wait, he doesn't have a secret kid or something, does he? I mean, he is 30. He could have a 10 year old running around, theoretically speaking. But Brendan would have told me that, right?

"What happened? Is he okay?" Brendan's tone softens, concern emerging across his face. He's kindhearted to a fault, which works in my favor right now.

Dean's impenetrable facade falters. A hint of emotion peeks through, but it's gone before I can pin down what it is. His eyes dart over to me, landing back on Brendan.

"He is now," Dean says evasively. "You know, same old shit."

It's clear he doesn't want me to know the details. Whoever Joshua is, bringing him up was definitely an effective distraction technique. It was a flip of the switch as soon as Dean dropped the name. Smart thinking on his part. Whether it was the real reason Dean was in here making a call, however, I can't quite tell. Like I said, he's a great liar.

"Well, at least he's okay." Brendan glances at me, then down at the floor. "Are we all good in here? Do you still need a hand?"

Dean lets out another strained cough, probably because his hand was up my dress less than two minutes ago. It's not lost on me that Dean isn't quite the smooth operator he usually is. If I didn't know better, I'd say I've got him spinning, and I derive far more satisfaction from that knowledge than I should. Because I still hate him, obviously. Even if he is a good kisser. And dangerously skilled with his fingers.

"We got it. I just need a refill now." I offer Dean a weak smile before turning to leave; he watches me, expression unreadable. "Thanks again for the help."

As I walk back out through the bedroom, they begin to talk in hushed voices. I can't make out anything they're saying. I'm tempted to linger and listen in, but I don't.

*

Can confirm: Brooke and gin is a fucking world class combination.

*

After whatever just happened in the bathroom, the only logical thing course of action is to head straight for the kitchen for another drink. After cramming my glass full of ice, I grab the bottle of gin and pour myself a double-strength refill, topping it off with a smidgen of tonic and extra lime. Really, it's mostly gin and lime.

I lean against the counter, taking several gulps, but the effervescent citrus cocktail does nothing to wash away the tornado of thoughts swirling through my brain.

What just happened?

And why was it so good?

A quarter of the way into my drink, it occurs to me that lowering my inhibitions with alcohol is probably the last thing I should do. Then again, so is Dean.

And yet, it looks like they're both about to happen.

Charity strolls up, interrupting my panic spiral. "Hey, there you are." The golden highlighter on her cheekbones and browbones glimmers in the kitchen light, making her skin appear luminous. "Our ride should be here in five. Peyton's just using the bathroom. Are you ready?"

The original plan was to hit our friend Tim's, which is within walking distance to both of our apartments. By leaving before midnight, we won't have to worry about finding a ride later when all the cabs will be busy. I say original plan, because now all I want is Dean between my legs instead.

Like I said, I have terrible taste in men.

But in addition to that, most of the guys I've dated—or hooked up with—have verged on incompetent in the bedroom. Still stuck in bad habits from college of sloppy kissing and half-assed foreplay. In stark comparison, I can already tell Dean knows exactly what he's doing. Reaching the finish line is the least of my worries with him. I mean, I have plenty of other issues when it comes to Dean, but I'm willing to shelve them for a few hours.

"Actually, I think I'm going to stay if that's okay with you."

Charity's brow furrows, probably because earlier I was all about making a brief appearance and getting in and out of here as quickly as possible. "Really?"

"Yeah." I nod. "Want to spend some more time with Brendan, that's all."

It's not untrue. It's just not the only reason, or even the biggest.

"Okay." Charity shrugs, seemingly appeased by my total bullshit explanation. She's got a thing for Tim, so she's probably more focused on getting to his place. "Text me if you change your mind."

After Charity and Peyton leave, Dean and I avoid each other, intentionally remaining separate orbits but exchanging several glances from across the room. Vidya and I spend a good half hour discussing wedding details while Dean, Brendan, and some of the other guys play cards. Then I demolish Brendan in pool and he insists on a rematch.

Brendan leans over and breaks the rack, then glances up at me. The pool balls scatter, two stripes sinking into the far corner and a solid in the opposite pocket. "You and Dean getting along okay?"

That's one way of putting it.

"We're managing to be civil," I say, lining up to take my shot. When the tip of the pool cue connects with the cue ball, it goes rolling off in the wrong direction like it's calling me out on my lie. "In fact, we were talking about the bachelor and bachelorette party while cleaning up earlier."

Relief washes over his face. "You don't have to be friends, but if you can just get along, it would make my life significantly easier."

"Promise to do my best."

"See?" He says. "That's all I ask."

Just before midnight rolls around, I switch to drinking water. I've only had two drinks, or maybe two and a half, factoring the strength of the second, but I don't want to get sloppy in light of whatever is or isn't going on with Dean. I'm hoping it's something, at least for tonight.

Dean may have a point. It probably is a bad idea, but after what happened between us earlier, I have to see this through to know for sure. You know, as an experiment. In the name of science.

I head back into the kitchen and hit the fridge's built-in water dispenser, releasing some ice cubes into my glass and refilling the rest with chilled water. What I really need is a cold shower. The dull ache between my thighs is no joke—I have the girl equivalent of blue balls.

Then the cause of my blue bean strolls into the kitchen and leans against the counter beside me, like everything is completely normal. His cologne drifts over, invading my senses and taking me straight back to our encounter in the bathroom earlier. I keep my eyes fixed on the water dispenser, watching the water pour into my glass. As it rises, so does my level of sexual frustration.

"Thinking about me, Lululemon?" Dean nudges me with his elbow.

I turn to face him, setting down my glass. I'm greeted by dark emerald eyes and sulky lips, a knowing look on his face. He's good looking to the point that it isn't even fair. It's like some kind of cheat code—impossible to resist.

"I never think about you."

His mouth tugs into a smirk. "There you go again with the lies."

Dean is right, that one's a whopper.

He looks over his broad shoulder, checking to see if anyone is watching. I steal a quick glance behind him to do the same. Much to my relief, everyone is gathered around the TV, too fixated on the impending midnight ball drop to be concerned with what we're doing in the kitchen.

"Need a ride home later?" He ask casually.

"Why, planning to finish what you started?" I take a sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass.

"I could." His expression is indifferent, working his poker face to the max.

"If you're not interested, I could always go home and finish it myself."

Dean's nostrils flare and he shifts his weight, visibly unsettled. Now I've got him. I used to mess with his head in smaller ways from time to time, but this is next-level and far more entertaining. Plus, given how wound up I am right now, it's only fair that he is, too.

"I'm interested in both of those things happening in my bed." His voice drops, the words practically caressing my skin. It's extra difficult to keep a straight face when there is a literal ache between my legs.

"Is that what you want? You didn't seem too sure a second ago."

His jaw sets. "Oh, I definitely want that."

Got him to admit it, so I win.

I think.

Over in the living room, everyone collectively starts counting down from ten. Our eyes stay glued to one another for the entire countdown, neither of us moving an inch. The countdown ends and the new year begins, accompanied by raucous hollers and cheering in the room beside us. For a brief, insane moment, I wish I could kiss him again.

Instead, Dean takes a step closer and wraps his arms around me, enclosing me in muscle and warmth for the second time tonight. The hug could could be construed as platonic from afar—but definitely isn't. My heart accelerates as his large hands slide lower, taking advantage of how my back is turned to the cupboards, facing away from everyone else.

"I might have to restrain myself right now," he murmurs quietly in my ear, reluctantly beginning to let me go. "But I definitely won't be later."

I mean...

Technically, I'm leaving you hanging again—just like Brooke was. But you did get a steamy kiss!