I shouldn't be here right now. And I definitely shouldn't have my head between Brooke's legs with her writhing beneath me, begging me not to stop. But now that we've crossed that line, I don't know how to go back. Actually, I don't think we crossed the line—we've erased it.

It's hard to care about the line when she's about to come all over my face, though.

I sweep my tongue against her clit again, deliberate and slow, watching her reaction. Brooke's breath catches and her back arches, silently begging for more. She's soaking wet already and all I can think about is how good it will feel to be buried deep inside her next.

Gripping her thigh with one hand, I slip a finger inside her, followed by another. When I curl them to stroke her g-spot in an echo of my tongue, her legs jolt and she gets even wetter. Jackpot.

"Dean." Brooke twitches, digging her nails into my shoulder. Another discovery in my recent crash course on Brooke Maccabe: she's enthusiastic in bed, which means her cues are easy to read. Not to mention, fucking hot. Hearing her soft moans mingled with her not-so-quiet cries is a massive turn-on.

Working in sync with my mouth, I continue to stroke her with my fingers, keeping a steady tempo to gradually bring her to the edge. Her breaths start to quicken, coming in smaller bursts. I slide my other arm underneath her and wrap it around, holding her in place. Splaying my palm on her lower stomach, I press down while my fingers stroke her, my tongue still devouring her.

Her entire body tenses and another breathy, desperate whimper escapes her lips. But this whimper is different; it's the little point-of-no-return sound she makes. When I suck on her clit, she unravels against me completely.

"Oh god." Her cry is breathy and desperate as her hips lift off the mattress, practically grinding against my face. "Dean. Dean. Dean." The last plea is loud enough to wake up her neighbors. Maybe the entire floor.

When I can tell she's past the peak, I gradually slow my movements, letting her down slowly until she begins to relax. Turning my head, I plant a kiss against her soft, smooth inner thigh and work my way up her body. Brooke props herself up on her elbows, watching me. Her cheeks are flushed, lips rosy, and she looks completely sated.

I lean over her, my lips brushing hers. Brooke's hand slips under my waistband, impatiently tugging down my black boxer briefs. I help her slide them down my legs and toss them off to the side. Our mouths come together, my tongue swiping across her bottom lip. Her lips part and her fingers dig into my back, trying to tug me closer. I almost let her, but stop short when I realize we nearly skipped a step.

"Brooke, baby." I stroke her cheek.

"Hmm?" Her eyelids flutter open but they're still heavy, her eyes smoky with desire.

"Condom."

"Oh yeah," she murmurs. "I think you fried my brain."

We pull apart and I hover over her, waiting for some direction. Her pale blue eyes widen, then her brow furrows. For a split-second, I almost think she's having second thoughts.

"I think I have some. Maybe?" Her expression turns bashful. "They might be expired."

I have encountered women who were embarrassed about having condoms. That's not uncommon. But Brooke seems embarrassed that she might not have any—probably because of the implication that she hasn't had sex in awhile... which makes me happier than it should.

Except for the part where I need to rail her five minutes ago and we might not have any protection. I'm so hard I could cut a fucking diamond at this point.

"Let me look," she adds.

I shift my weight off her so she can move. Her dark hair falls in a curtain over her face as she leans over, rifling through the nightstand on her side. What else is in her nightstand? Sex toys? My cock twitches at the idea. I would commit a felony to see Brooke using a vibrator.

After a second, Brooke heaves a sigh of relief. She pulls out a purple foil wrapper from the drawer and squints, reading the expiration date. "Not expired. Thank god."

Thank god indeed.

Working quickly, I tear open the wrapper and pinch the tip of the condom, unrolling it. My hands grip her hips and I pull her upright. Brooke lets out a little squeak of surprise as I flip her over, onto her knees.

We both let out a low groan as I slide inside her from behind. Being inside her feels even better than I remembered. She reaches over and grips the headboard for balance, pushing back against me with each thrust.

My hand grips her hip while my other hand slides up her back, wrapping in the roots of her hair at her nape. "Touch yourself."

Brooke complies, reaching down to stroke her clit and letting out a soft whimper. Just sight of her earns a tortured groan from the back of my throat. She turns her head and a knowing half-smile plays on her lips.

"You're so fucking hot." I tug on her hair harder, slamming into her and she arches her back.

Her grip tightens on the headboard. I can tell by the way her breath has quickened, turning shorter and more shallow, that she's getting close again. Watching her touch herself is hot, but I want to make her come again myself. And between the deep angle of the penetration and the view, the tingle in the base of my spine says not beating her to the finish line might pose a challenge.

Slowing my pace, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her upright so her back is pressed against my chest. She lets out an indignant groan at the interruption that quickly shifts into a moan of pleasure when my hand slides between her legs and finds her clit.

"My turn." My thumb presses against her swollen bud and Brooke whimpers, hips gyrating. She reaches up and wraps a hand around my neck. Leaning against me, she lets me support her weight as I rub her clit in tempo with each thrust.

Her fingernails dig into my skin and her body tenses. "Oh god. Dean, I can't—it's too—"

"Come for me, baby." I drag my tongue up the column of her neck and sink my teeth into her skin. Her breath snags, back arching, and when I thrust into her again, she cries out a desperate plea for me not to stop. Her pussy tightens around my cock and the rush of pleasure it creates sends me over the edge right after her. We move in perfect sync, riding out the final waves until we gradually slow down and a sleepy, sated daze settles over us both.

"Wow." Brooke exhales, flopping forward against the stack of white pillows in front of her.

I lean over her body, supporting my weight with my elbows so I don't crush her, and brush my lips along her spine. "More than wow."

We stay like that for a moment until we've caught our breath and I can tell we're both about to collapse. Reluctantly, I pull out and go to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. When I return, Brooke is in a tank top and underwear, her figure half hidden by the fluffy white blankets. Her cheeks are still flushed, eyes smoky, and for a breath or two, I'm awed by how beautiful she is. It's something I've never gotten used to, even after nine years; it still catches me off guard.

Then I realize these thoughts are a slippery slope. This entire situation is a slippery slope. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, other than having the hottest sex of my life.

I pull on my boxer briefs, sliding back beneath the covers with her. Brooke rolls onto her side to face me, a smile playing on her lips.

"I should make you mad more often." Her voice is husky, almost like she's starting to lose it.

"Good news is, you probably will." My callused fingers gently graze her bare skin as I gather up her dark silky hair, pushing it over her shoulder to expose her neck. She laughs softly, tilting her head so I can kiss the sweet spot right between her ear and her jaw. I don't know what it is, but Brooke always smells irresistible there.

My lips connect with her feverish skin and she hums in appreciation, running her fingertips up and down my arms. I move lower, planting a trail of kisses along the plane of her shoulder before lifting my head again to plant a soft kiss on her lips.

We break apart and I slide my arm around her to pull her closer. She nestles in, intertwining her smooth legs with my own. When my fingers run through her hair, her eyes drift shut and she lets out a contented, breathy sigh that mirrors the way I feel inside.

After a minute, Brooke's eyes pop open and we exchange a sheepish look because we're cuddling, and we only just realized it. It feels like we've broken some kind of unspoken rule. Or another unspoken rule, I guess, because we've broken several.

Something flashes behind her blue eyes, like she's having an internal debate with herself. I channel every ounce of poker experience I have to still my expression.

"Do you want to stay, or...?" She asks.

Usually, that would be a resounding no. I'm a big fan of sleeping in my own bed—ideally alone. Nothing about this is usual, though, including the fact that I'm not exactly eager to cut and run right now.

"Sure, I'll stay."

Brooke scrunches up her mouth in a way that's entirely adorable. "You don't have to."

I tilt my head, studying her face. "Are you kicking me out, Lululemon?" It doesn't feel like she is; it feels like she thinks I don't want to stay, which isn't the case. But after what happened last time, it's hard to know for sure.

"No." She sounds uncertain.

"Are you asking me to stay?"

Brooke chews her full bottom lip. "No..."

Right. I'm pretty sure I can read between the lines on this one.

"I'll stay."

Something that looks like relief emerges across her face but she blinks as if to clear it, shaking her head.

"We're allowed to spend time together when we aren't having sex, Brooke. It's not like something bad will happen." Except for the unspoken risk of catching feelings, which I think we both may be worried about. Or at least, I am.

"I know." Brooke scoots over to the edge of the bed and stands up. Her skimpy pink thong shows off her long, toned legs and perfect, supple ass. Suddenly, my refractory period vanishes. "I'm freaking starving. Can we make some food?"

Dean makes a face. "Mayo on the bread?" His dark hair is tousled from earlier and somehow, I like knowing I did that.

"Mayo on the bread," I confirm.

I have a six foot two former professional athlete standing in my kitchen helping me cook a midnight snack. He's still in nothing but his black boxer briefs, which highlight his firm hockey ass—and other assets—nicely.

He reluctantly spreads the mayonnaise on the outsides of the whole wheat bread and places the cheese slices in the middle, sliding it over to me so I can put it in the frying pan when the first one finishes cooking.

"How is it I haven't heard of this weird family tradition?" Dean asks, leaning against the counter. My eyes meet his and then dip lower, tracing the lines on his perfect six-pack. And those v-cuts on the side of his torso... I want to lick them. I have, actually, but I want to do it again.

I return my attention back to the pan in front of me and peek at the sandwich, which is deep brown and just on the cusp of burning because I've been thirsting over Dean instead of paying attention.

"It's not weird, it's culinary science." Sliding the cooked grilled cheese onto a plate, I throw the second one on and it sizzles. "It makes it crispier or something. I don't know, my mom always did it. And you don't question Karen Maccabe."

"That's true," he admits. "She's an awesome cook."

Two grilled cheese sandwiches later, Dean admits that I'm right and that I do make the best grilled cheese in the world. Even if it is the only thing I can cook.

After one show on Netflix that we only half watched, we end up back in my bed. Half-talking, half-making out like teenagers, and me fully wondering what I've gotten myself into. My sheets even smell like his cologne. I'm going to be sniffing them for days until the smell fades. That's perfectly normal for a casual hookup, right?

I'm in trouble.

Dean's rough fingers trace along my ribcage, down to my hip. They begin to slide to the center of my body and he tilts his head, ducking to kiss me.

Our cozy little bubble pops when my ringer goes off, blaring from the nightstand beside us at DEFCON-level volume. We jolt apart and I wrap the top sheet around myself, scrambling to retrieve it before it wakes up the entire building. Somehow, I always forget to turn the volume down when I get home.

At this hour, it's either yet another drunk dial from my ex or some kind of faux-mergency with one of my friends—like the time Charity got stuck in her bandage dress and couldn't unzip herself. I'm really hoping it's the latter.

But when I check the caller ID, it's even worse than I could have imagined.

"It's Brendan." I frown, watching the display flash as I sit up against the headboard beside Dean. Is Brendan calling because he knows I'm with Dean? The expression on Dean's face says he's wondering the same thing. But how would Brendan have found out?

Paralyzed with momentary indecision, I silence the ringer and immediately feel guilty. Calling at this hour is unusual for him. Something must be going on.

"He never calls me this late," I tell Dean. "Or this early, I guess." Still wrapped in the sheet, I move to the edge of the bed, staring at the blinking screen. "I have to take this."

Dean nods solemnly, miming a zipping motion. "I won't say a word."

We exchange a worried glance as I swipe accept and do a silent prayer. "Hey." I force myself to sound casual, and not at all like I'm half-clothed, post-coitus with his best friend. "What's up?"

"Brooke?" On the other end of the line, Brendan is breathless and frantic. My stomach clenches. If this is about me and Dean, he is way more upset than I expected. Dean leans over, resting his elbows on his thighs as he watches me, waiting.

"What's wrong?"

The crease in Dean's brow deepens and he slides closer, putting an arm around my waist.

"It's Vidya." Brendan draws in a shaky breath over the other end of the line. "We're at the hospital. We were—we went back out to get something to eat. A drunk driver hit my car while Vidya was driving."

It's like a bombshell detonates. Everything goes sideways. "Oh my god." I stand back up, trying to gather my bearings. "Are you okay?"

Only half-dressed, I survey the room frantically, trying to find the rest of my clothes. I need to get dressed, I need to get out of here, and I need to get to Brendan. But where is all my stuff?

A scan of the room reveals that my bra is strawn over the lampshade haphazardly. Dean catches on and gets out of bed, helping me locate the rest. He hands me jeans, a jolting reminder that my legs were over his shoulders less than two hours ago. I step into them quickly and throw a sweater over my tank top without bothering to find my bra.

Dean wordlessly mouths, 'What is it?' I shake my head, waving him off.

"I'm fine, but Vidya was hurt. They hit the driver's side where she was sitting. Car's totaled. She's... still with the doctors. And they won't let me see her. Can you come here?" His voice cracks and my heart wrenches. He sounds more like a lost little boy than my 30 year old big brother.

"Yes, of course. I'll leave right now. Is she okay?"

Dean's expression shifts into concern as he watches me.

"I mean, I think so. But she has a concussion and they're taking her for an x-ray of her arm right now. You should see the car. It's looks like a crumpled tin can. I can't believe we walked away from that. The asshole was driving a truck."

"Did you talk to mom?" I ask. "Do you need me to call her?"

"I just did. She's on her way. Vidya's parents are still in London..." I wait for him to finish, but he doesn't.

"I'll be there right away." I frantically comb my fingers through my hair, certain it's sex hair to the extreme. "I'm sure everything will be okay."

It's a hollow promise. Really, I have no idea. It just seems like something Brendan would say if the situation were reversed.

Seconds after we end the call, Dean's phone rings. As Brendan relays the same information to him, he pretends like this is the first time he's hearing it, and I feel even guiltier than ever before.

*

It's not until we're in Dean's car, exceeding the speed limit by a significant amount, that I realize showing up together will raise questions. Brendan called him immediately after hanging up with me, and the timing is way too suspicious.

"Oh my god." I nearly jump in my seat at the revelation that we are utterly screwed.

He steals a glance at me quickly. "What? Did Brendan text you?"

"No. It's not that. But we can't exactly walk in there holding hands." I bury my face in my hands, trying to conjure up a believable cover story on the spot. Maybe Dean started moonlighting for Uber on the side. Or maybe I did. No, that won't fly. I'm still reeling from Brendan's call and I can't think straight. "What if they notice we drove there together?"

Dean draws in a deep breath and falls quiet for a moment. I watch him, his chiseled face illuminated by the dim blue dashboard lights. Finally, he shakes his head. "They probably won't notice right now." He seems calm and collected considering the double-whammy of the situation. Always the voice of reason. Unlike me.

"And if they do?"

He signals to merge off of the freeway, doing a quick shoulder check. "We'll just say I picked you up because had been drinking earlier."

"Are they going to believe that I'd text you in my hour of need? And you just happened to be right around the corner?

Dean reaches over and places a broad hand on my thigh, rubbing in small circles with his thumb. "Look, I don't live that far away from you. And it sounds like Brendan's a bit of a mess—understandably so. I doubt they'll question it. No one is going to be standing in the parking lot watching us pull in."

I draw in a breath, holding it. My brain knows he's right. My gut is still terrified.

"Okay," I say. "Just play it cool."

He shoots me a sidelong glance. "I'm not the one we need to worry about."