If I thought the first drive back to Dean's on New Year's was tense, this drive has eclipsed that a thousand times over. Neither of us have said a word since pulling out of the parking lot behind On Tap. We're enclosed in a glass and metal tomb of silence, waiting for the other person to cave, not even daring to breathe too loudly.

Simply being in this vehicle with Dean is wearing away at my willpower from all angles. His car smells as good as he does; rich leather mixed with his cologne and a hint of spearmint. Factor in his proximity and it's impossible to think straight, especially with his large hand holding the gearshift inches from my knee.

Now I that know what those hands are capable of, some dysfunctional, hormone-riddled part of me can't stop imagining them all over my body again—even though the more evolved part of my brain knows that's a bad idea.

But I have no idea what Dean's thinking. He hasn't said a single word. It's not like him. I'd rather banter, spar, or even snipe at each other than remain frozen in this suffocating Cold War.

Five minutes away from my place, I can't censor myself any longer. "Why did you want to drive me home if you were going to give me the silent treatment the entire time?"

Dean's brow furrows, but he keeps his attention glued to the road. "Good question," he mutters, running a hand along his jaw.

I study his face, trying to read his expression in the dark, but it's indecipherable. "You're mad about me leaving in the morning?"

"Little bit."

Judging by his clipped tone, it's a severe understatement. But is he upset because he actually cares, or merely because he didn't have the upper hand? Normally, love 'em and leave 'em is his MO, at least from what I know.

I don't know how to respond to his admission, so I decide to drop it for now. Plus, I'm more concerned about what is or isn't about to happen in the immediate future.

My stomach twists into a pretzel as I imagine various scenarios in my head, trying to anticipate how this is going to play out. Is Dean going to drop me off and drive away? Walk me to the door of my building? Try to get me to invite him in? Do I want to invite him in? Sadly, yes. But I know I shouldn't, and that woman who interrupted us earlier is a stark reminder why. I can't promise that I won't, though.

At the age of 25, I could already fill an entire memoir detailing the bad choices I've made—and Dean is my favorite mistake.

A few minutes later, Dean pulls up outside my building and parks in a visitor stall. He partially answers my unspoken questions by killing the ignition and getting out of the car, slamming the drivers' side door shut behind him. I fidget with the strap of my leather purse, waiting to let him open the door for me, because he seemed mildly irked that I beat him to it last time.

Dean stalks around to my side and pulls the passenger door open for me. I slide out and come to stand beside him, hugging my arms around my body for warmth.

For a heartbeat, we stand facing each other on the sidewalk in front of my building. The yellow streetlight casts his face in shadows and his expression is still unreadable to the point where it's borderline frustrating. He's got some kind of wall up I can't seem to get past.

A cool breeze kicks up and I shiver slightly. Dean's mouth pulls into a frown and he steps closer, wrapping his arm around me. Immediately, warmth radiates from his large body, alleviating the chill in mine. Nestled up next to him, tension I didn't even realize I'd been holding begins to soften.

Dean inclines his head to the doors, gently tugging me toward them. "Come on."

"You don't have to walk me upstairs." I have no idea why I just said that. I want him to walk me upstairs, so why am I arguing? It's like my brain and body stop communicating properly when he's around.

"You don't have to invite me in, but I'm not dropping you off at the curb like some teenage punk. And you're cold, so let's go."

Despite my protest, we start walking toward the doors. Once Dean has his mind set on something, there's not a lot of point in arguing anyway.

Dean keeps his gaze fixed ahead while we wait for the elevator. Finally, it hits me that he looks conflicted—a feeling I greatly empathize with.

He draws in a deep breath and exhales with a weary sigh, turning to face me. His expression is softer than moments before, but also determined, like he just made a decision. He reaches up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. Something inside me melts a little. It doesn't make sense, but there's an ease in the way he touches me.

"Care to tell me what that was about the other morning?" Dean asks, taking my hand in his. His thumb caresses the back of my hand n a slow back and forth pattern.

"I don't know." It's a lie. A big fat lie. I know exactly why I left, but I don't want to get into that with him. What would be the point? For his to reassure me? That isn't his job. He's not my boyfriend.

The elevator doors spring open and Dean guides me inside, hitting ' on the way by. As the doors close, he spins me to face him. He tilts my chin up, peering down at me with molten desire. Dean's gaze falls to my lips, and his eyes darken further.

"Brooke." His voice is husky, stoking the lust brewing in my core. Ducking his head, his mouth comes to hover mere inches away from mine. I resist the urge to rock up onto my toes and capture his lips in a kiss. We linger in suspended animation for a couple of breaths and the urge to lean in closer intensifies.

"We can't talk about this here," I whisper. Because I know what talking is about to lead to.

"No," he murmurs, gently kissing me. "We definitely can't."

The moment his lips touch mine, my ability to resist vanishes.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him closer and he pushes into me. His warm, strong hand travels underneath my coat to grip my waist, his hold claiming and territorial. He gently holds my face with his other hand and I close my eyes as he pushes into my mouth, deepening the kiss and dragging me deeper right along with it. Somehow, it's reverent and dominant all at once.

I've forgotten where we are until the elevator chimes and the doors spring open on my floor. We pull apart breathlessly and he raises an eyebrow, gesturing with his hand.

"After you."

My heart tap dances as he places a hand along my lower back, guiding me out of the elevator car and down the hall to my apartment. I blamed the first incident on temporary insanity, but that excuse won't stick a second time. I can't justify this one even to myself.

When we arrive at my front door, I fight unsuccessfully with the stubborn lock for a few seconds. Dean nuzzles my neck, making my knees go soft. I shift my weight, hoping he doesn't notice the effect he's having on me, but its more obvious than I would like since I can't even insert the key into the lock fully.

"Need help with that?" He asks, nibbling on my earlobe.

"No. It just sticks sometimes." I fumble with the key again, stealing a glance in his direction.

Being in my hallway highlights the stark contrast between my ex Travis and my new, illicit hook-up partner. Travis was tall but he had no real muscle, or even fat, on his frame. It was the kind destined to develop a little potbelly in his thirties, the paunch growing a little more with each decade, while the rest stayed scrawny.

But Dean? He's all man. Big, muscular, and an imposing presence here in my doorway as he watches me. My hands are shaky and I'm trying to hide it. Struggling not because I'm drunk, but because I'm nervous as all get out. Finally, the key slides all the way in and the lock slides open with a blessed click.

Pushing open the door, I reach over and feel along the inside wall until my fingers land on the light switch. I flip on the under-counter lights in the kitchen, bathing us in a dim glow. Lucky, I cleaned before I left tonight. It's far tidier than it usually is. It's almost like I planned this.

Maybe subconsciously, I did.

Dean follows me inside, surveying the premises. I wonder if it's weird for him that he used to live here with Brendan. He shuts the door behind him, re-locking it, and his gaze darkens. Just as I finish slipping off my boots, he closes the distance between us. In a flash, our mouths come together again, greedy and wanting, making up for lost time after a night of forced separation.

We start to fumble with clothes impatiently, but neither of us can see what we're doing because we're still kissing madly. I try to undo his dress shirt and a button goes flying, skittering onto the tile floor.

"Shit. Sorry."

"It's fine," Dean says, muffled by my lips. "I'll put it on your tab."

His phone buzzes against my hip from inside his pocket. He pulls away from me and reaches into his pocket to check, silencing the call. That girl from earlier, probably. It should bother me more than it does. Even worse—on some level, it turns me on to know that someone else wants him, but he's mine.

For now, that is.

Because at the end of the day, Dean is no one's. Not really. Not for keeps. That makes this a dangerous tightrope to travel. If I trip and fall, I'll end up tangled in a net of feelings that I know he's not capable of returning.

Dean leans in to kiss me again but I dodge it, studying his face. "Are you still mad at me?"

"Furious." His lips tug. He grabs the back of my thighs and scoops me off the floor, pinning me against the wall. Tracing a path of kisses up my neck, he stops just behind my ear and inhales deeply, drinking me in. "You know, I was thinking about you all week."

My eyes flutter open, certain I misheard. "Is this Dean Hollis's version of sweet talk?"

Dean gives me a crooked smile that is far more effective than it should be. I like to pretend I'm impervious to his charms. But I guess if that were true, he wouldn't be standing in my entry with me pinned against the wall.

"It's the truth. But not everything I was thinking about was sweet." He cups my breasts and my eyes drift shut again, lost in the sensation. "A lot of it was very, very dirty."

I want to ask what his true feelings for me are. What exactly he thinks we're doing right now besides the obvious. But I hold off, afraid that too many questions will ruin this whole thing.

"In that case, let's take this to my room."

Dean chuckles, sliding me back down the wall to standing. "Cutting right to the chase, huh?"

He follows me into my bedroom and I switch on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a warm glow. Like the rest of the apartment, my bedroom is also cleaner than usual. All of the dirty laundry is actually in the hamper and there's nary a stray thong in sight. I even made the bed, and that only happens like, twice a year.

Okay, I totally planned this.

"Please. You knew what this was."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Actually, I'm not too sure what this is."

"What do you mean?" I stare back up at him, wishing I had something better to say. My usual snappy comebacks reserved for Dean are nowhere to be found.

"I want an explanation for why you vanished the next morning." His rough palms slide down my hips and travel beneath my skirt, cupping my behind. "You ghosted me, Lululemon."

"Bet that doesn't happen often."

Still looking at me, he slowly unzips my skirt and it falls to the floor in a heap. "That doesn't happen ever."

I begin to unbutton his pale blue dress shirt, revealing the expanse of sculpted, golden skin that's been headlining my fantasies for the past week. He shrugs it off and pulls my sweater off over my head, leaving me in nothing but a bra and underwear. Another stroke of luck—or more covert planning—they match. Pink lace for the win.

Or maybe Dean wins, because I'm nearly naked and he's still half-clothed. Again.

"You'll live," I tell him.

"Maybe I won't."

I start to unbutton his jeans but before I can, he grabs my wrists with one hand and brackets my jaw, leaning in to kiss me. He reaches behind me, unfastening my bra with his other hand, and releases my wrists to slide off my bra. This has turned into some kind of sexual chess; a power struggle. And fucked up as it is, it's adding to how turned on I am.

I capture his bottom lip, biting it. He groans in response, picking me up and laying me back against the mattress, settling in between my legs. The length of him presses up against my center and his hair falls into his eyes as he looks down at me.

"Oh, I'm sure you have some sexy nurse on speed dial just waiting to fix you."

He kisses me again and this time, he nips my lower lip. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough that there's a brief zing of pain.

"Maybe I don't want that," he says. "Maybe I want you."

It catches me by surprise, but I guess it shouldn't. He just wants me in bed; par for the course with him, until he gets bored and moves on, which I expect to happen in the very near future.

"You've got me now. Besides, not like it was a big deal." I reach down and finally manage to undo his fly, sliding my hand inside to grip him. His eyes shut briefly in response before focusing on me again. "It was just sex."

And good sex, at that. Maybe even amazing sex, if I'm being honest. Hence why we're here. Again.

"You still haven't answered me." Dean shifts on the bed and repositions himself beside me, placing a hand on my top hip. His deep brown hair spills over his forehead. "Why did you do that?" His eyes search my face as if it might tell him the answer.

"I don't know."

His hand slides from my hip and slips past the waist of my lacy underwear. My breath catches as his fingers travel past the desired destination and instead move lower, tracing along my inner thighs. He strikes the skin between my legs as he explores, intentionally neglecting my clit.

I start to get impatient, squirming against him, and finally his fingers slip between my folds, stroking where I'm overheated and aching for his touch. Pleasure rocks through me and he does it again, amping up my desire for him with each precise movement.

"Jesus, you're wet," he murmurs. "Keep talking. You still haven't given me an explanation. I'm not letting you come until you do."

That may be a surprisingly effective truth serum, because I'm so wound up I'm halfway there and waiting any longer feels like a death sentence.

He slides one finger inside, followed by another, creating a sudden fullness that leaves me even hungrier for him. His fingers feel good, but I know what feels even better.

"I didn't think you would care. It was just—" I twitch as he presses my clit with his thumb, sending a shockwave of sensation through my center. "A one-time thing."

Dean seems somewhat satisfied with my answer, because he starts to kiss his way down my body. He pauses to lavish attention on both of my breasts, nibbling and licking until I'm nearly begging for him to repeat that on me a little bit lower.

Just when I'm verging on desperate, he releases my nipple and presses his lips against my ribcage, then my stomach, traveling lower with each kiss. I arch my back and thread my fingers in his silky hair, silently urging him on, but he's content to take his time teasing me.

He drags his tongue along my inner thigh, planting an open mouthed kiss on the thin fabric between my legs, continuing to lick down my other thigh. Up and down, back and forth, his lips and tongue slowly tease every single inch between my legs except where I want him most.

Dean glances up with a cocky grin. "If it was a one-time thing, what are we doing here?" He hooks his fingers underneath the pale pink fabric and slides my thong down my legs, tossing it aside.

Fair point. But indulging in this kind of fun too often will lead me directly down Attachment Boulevard and straight into Heartbreak City, Population: Brooke.

This is the last time. It has to be.

He grins my thighs, parting me to him. When his tongue finally sweeps against the swollen bud of nerves between my thighs, a delicious rush of pleasure rocks through my core. My legs twitch slightly, fingers tugging the roots of his hair, and his mouth closes over my center. I whimper, already beginning to fall apart beneath him.

Checkmate.

"Fine. A two-time thing."

I'm trying to convince myself as much as him.

Maybe some Dean POV for sexy time? Guys are always harder to write for that, but I think I can make it work.