𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — dean di laurentis x fem!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 — dean’s family weekend was supposed to be simple: follow the rules, keep up the act, and don’t make things weird. but after a charity gala, a slow dance, and one broken rule, pretending starts to feel a lot harder than telling the truth.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — fake dating, family weekend, one bed, charity gala, jealousy, slow dancing, mutual pining, emotional confusion, broken rules, 18+ mdni, explicit smut, protected sex, fingering, praise, dirty talk, soft but intense sex, aftercare, morning-after angst, all characters are adults.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: part three is finally here ♡ i swear, with the heat we’ve had in belgium, proofreading this part was a struggle, but i managed. i love allie and dean, but i think i love dean and y/n even more. this part is very much the calm before the storm, so… enjoy that while it lasts. i really hope you guys enjoy this one. tell me what you think <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ➯ you can find my taglists here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ➯ you can find dean’s masterlist here!
sneak peek | part one | part two
You woke up with Dean’s arm around your waist, which would’ve been less horrifying if you hadn’t spent most of last night thinking about kissing him again — not that you were thinking about it on purpose, obviously.
You weren’t going to spend the morning lying there, thinking about Dean’s stupid face, his stupid mouth, and the fact that he’d somehow made cuddling feel like a personal attack. You were a grown woman with a working brain and several survival instincts; you were also perfectly aware that Dean was exactly the sort of person your mother would warn you about after five minutes.
Unfortunately, none of that changed the fact that his arm was heavy and warm over your stomach, his chest was pressed against your back, and every slow breath brushed the bare skin near your shoulder, where your shirt had slipped sometime during the night.
You lay there very still, staring at the wall like it might tell you what to do.
Rule two wasn’t doing great either, thanks to the photographer telling Dean to kiss his girlfriend, and Dean looking at you like the fake part was suddenly the least believable thing in the room.
Rule three — the no-sex rule — was still technically intact, which meant you needed to move before your body decided to betray you.
You shifted carefully, lifting Dean’s arm with two fingers like it was a dangerous object; unfortunately, Dean had spent too many years getting hit by hockey players to be easily disturbed, so all he did was tighten his hold and pull you back against him.
“Where are you going?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
Your entire body went hot. “Probably prison.”
Dean’s mouth brushed your shoulder when he laughed, and you hated the way your stomach reacted. “What’d you do?”
“I woke up in a situation.”
“Pretty sure you climbed into my bed.”
“Right.” His voice was still lazy, amused, too warm. “Our bed. That’s very generous of you.”
You tried to turn your head enough to glare at him, which was difficult considering he still had you trapped against him. “Don’t call me girlfriend before nine in the morning.”
“What time is it?” he asked.
You glanced at the nightstand. “Eight thirty-seven.”
“Then I’ve got twenty-three minutes.”
He laughed, loosening his arm enough for you to roll onto your back. That was a mistake, because now you were facing him, and Dean looked unfairly good in the morning. His hair was messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep, one cheek faintly creased from the pillow; somehow, he still looked like the sort of guy who’d never had to try very hard to be forgiven.
He looked at you for a little longer than necessary, and for once, he wasn’t teasing or smirking; he was looking, and your throat tightened.
His mouth curved, saving both of you from whatever that had almost been. “You’re drooling.”
Your face fell immediately. “I’m not.”
“It’s actually kind of cute.”
“You’re saying that to destabilize me emotionally.”
“Maybe.” Dean propped himself up on one elbow, grin widening when you shoved at his chest and mostly hit the blanket. “Is it working?”
You sat up before he could say anything else that would make you want to throw a pillow at him or kiss him, two impulses that were becoming dangerously similar. You reached for your phone to check the time again, then remembered the schedule his mother had sent last night, because apparently, rich people treated family weekends like military operations with better catering.
“We’re supposed to have brunch with your parents in an hour,” you said.
Dean groaned, dropping back onto the pillow. “Cancel it.”
“You can’t just cancel brunch with your parents.”
Dean opened one eye, offended. “That was mean.”
“I might not,” he said, still not moving.
You climbed out of bed, trying to ignore the way his gaze followed you across the room as you grabbed your clothes from the chair near the window. You’d changed into sleep shorts and an oversized shirt the night before, but now even that felt like too much exposed skin, because Dean was watching you like he knew exactly how close his mouth had been to yours outside the ballroom.
“Stop looking at me,” you said without turning around.
“You are,” you told him, still not turning around.
“I can feel you looking.”
There was a pause, and when Dean spoke again, his voice was low enough to make your fingers still around the clothes in your hands. “Yeah?”
Your grip tightened around your clothes.
You hated him a little for that.
Fine, more than a little.
You turned around slowly, ready to say something sharp enough to make him stop. However, Dean was sitting up now, hair still a mess and sheets low around his waist, and whatever insult you’d prepared vanished when you realized he wasn’t smirking; that was the problem, because if he’d been smirking, you could’ve handled it.
If he’d been smirking, you could’ve handled it, because smug Dean was familiar. Irritating, obviously, but familiar. What you hadn’t prepared for was Dean looking at you quietly, like he wasn’t entirely sure what’d just changed between you.
“Dean.” It was supposed to sound like a warning, but it came out too soft.
His eyes moved over your face, and for one stupid second, you thought he might actually say what you were both pretending not to think. Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, and both of you looked at it.
Dean let out a breath, almost like he’d been holding it, then reached for his phone. “My mom.”
You swallowed, looking away. “You should answer.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, but he watched you for one second longer before answering. “Morning, Mom.”
Whatever had been stretching between you loosened as soon as his mother’s voice came through the speaker, bright and cheerful and asking if you’d both slept well. Dean’s eyes flicked to yours immediately, mischief already creeping into his expression, and you pointed at him in warning.
His grin came back immediately. “We slept great,” and your face went hot.
His mother said something you couldn’t hear, but whatever it was made Dean’s grin get worse.
“Yeah, she’s awake. No, I didn’t wake her up. I’m a gentleman.”
You rolled your eyes hard enough that it almost hurt.
Dean looked far too pleased with himself. “She’s rolling her eyes at me right now, actually.”
“She says good morning,” he told you, still grinning.
His mother’s laugh came through the phone, warm and far too pleased, and you suddenly understood why Dean was like this: he’d been encouraged.
By the time he hung up, you were already in the bathroom with the door half-closed, your face in your hands.
“This is entirely your fault,” you called out.
“Most things are,” Dean called back.
“Good,” you answered through the half-closed door. “Glad we agree.”
Brunch, unfortunately, didn’t make things better.
Dean’s family had apparently decided the two of you were adorable, which was a problem because Dean kept leaning into it like he had no idea you were fighting for your life. His hand found the back of your chair whenever he stood, his knee brushed yours under the table, and when he noticed you eyeing the fruit platter but refusing to climb halfway across the table for it, he passed it to you without missing a beat.
They were tiny things, fake things, the kind of things Dean could easily explain away if you asked him to. Except none of them felt fake enough.
His mother watched the two of you over the rim of her coffee cup, smiling in a way that made you deeply suspicious.
“You two seem more comfortable with each other today,” she said.
You almost choked on your orange juice.
Dean, because he was a menace, patted your back like this was not entirely his fault. “Careful, sweetheart.”
You glared at him, which only made his smile turn angelic.
“We’re very comfortable,” Dean replied, giving your shoulder another innocent pat.
You kicked his ankle under the table; his smile twitched, but he didn’t break.
His father glanced over the top of the paper he was pretending to read, looking between you and Dean with quiet amusement. “That’s good. Comfort matters.”
Beside you, Dean went still in a way you didn’t understand. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice, but you were sitting close enough to catch the slight pause of his fingers against the rim of his glass before he forced them to move again.
You looked at him, but Dean kept his eyes on his plate. That was new. Dean didn’t avoid looking at people; if anything, he made a sport of holding eye contact too long.
His mother kept talking about the charity gala that night — donors, family friends, how lovely the ballroom looked after the decorators had finished — but most of it blurred together, because Dean had gone too quiet beside you.
When brunch finally ended, and his parents walked ahead to greet someone in the lobby, you slowed your steps just enough for Dean to fall into place beside you.
“You’ve been quiet,” you said.
Dean looked down at you like he was grateful for the easy joke. “You keep saying that like it’s illegal.”
“For you? Quiet feels suspicious.”
His mouth curved like he meant to make a joke out of it, but it didn’t quite work. “I’m fine.”
You snorted. “You’re much better at lying when you don’t mean it.”
“That’s offensive.” Dean looked genuinely insulted. “I’m an excellent liar.”
“You’re an excellent flirt,” you told him. “That’s a different skill set.”
Dean looked at you then, his attention sharpening just enough to make the hallway feel too narrow. “You think so?”
You stopped walking; after a beat, Dean stopped too. People moved around you toward the elevators, their voices echoing against the high ceilings, but for a second, the lobby narrowed down to Dean: his loosened collar, the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the look on his face like he wanted to turn the whole thing into a joke but couldn’t quite make himself do it.
“You know you are,” you told him.
“Yeah.” He swallowed, his eyes still on yours. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
You didn’t know what to say. Dean seemed to realize he’d let something slip, because his face closed up in that smooth, practiced way that made you wonder how long he’d been doing it. He nodded toward the elevators, like that settled everything. “Come on. We’ve got a few hours before my mother starts hunting us down with a seating chart.”
And just like that, whatever had been there was gone.
The next few hours should’ve been easy.
You showered, redid your hair twice, and texted Allie because you needed someone to remind you that Dean Di Laurentis’s mouth was not a life choice.
you: this is becoming a serious problem
allie: define “this” before I get involved
you: dean
allie: oh, babe. that became a problem the second you agreed to fake date him
you: deeply unhelpful
allie: doesn’t make me wrong
you: dean keeps looking at me
allie: with his eyes? terrifying
you: allie.
allie: okay, sorry. what kind of look?
you: like he keeps forgetting it’s fake
allie: and you?
you: don’t do that
allie: do you?
you: i hate you
allie: yeah, that’s a no
You tossed your phone onto the bed after that, mostly because Allie had no respect for your suffering.
Dean was in the shower when you started getting ready for the gala, which should’ve been a relief; instead, the room felt too quiet without him. You could hear the water running through the bathroom door, the occasional thud of him moving around, and apparently, that was all it took for your brain and body to ally against your better judgment.
You blamed the kiss, or the almost-kisses, or the bed; maybe you blamed the way Dean had danced with you the night before, his hand warm against your back, his smile too convincing for something that was supposed to be pretend.
By the time Dean came out in dress pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, hair damp and towel slung around his neck, you were already in your dress, trying very hard to fasten the clasp of your necklace without looking at him in the mirror.
Dean went still in the bathroom doorway, and when you looked at him in the mirror, the necklace chain slipped loose between your fingers.
“What?” you asked, suddenly very aware of yourself.
Dean didn’t say anything, which should’ve been satisfying. Dean Di Laurentis rendered speechless felt like the sort of thing you were supposed to document for future reference, but instead, your face heated and your stomach twisted, because for once, there was nothing smug or playful or practiced in the way he looked at you. It was just quiet, careful, and dangerously close to wanting.
“Dean,” you said, careful now.
He blinked, like he had to force himself back into the room, then cleared his throat and walked toward you. “Your necklace.”
You looked down at the chain in your hands. “What about it?”
“You’re going to strangle yourself with that thing.”
“You’re making it worse.”
You huffed, but when he held out his hand, you gave him the necklace, because arguing with Dean while he was standing there half-dressed and damp-haired felt unsafe for your dignity.
Your breathing went shallow, which was embarrassing because Dean was literally fastening a necklace, not doing anything that warranted a full-body betrayal. Unfortunately, your brain had apparently decided to provide the image anyway.
Dean’s fingertips grazed the back of your neck while he clasped the chain.
You looked at him in the mirror, and Dean was already looking back at you, his hands still near your neck; neither of you moved.
“There,” he murmured, his voice rougher than before.
You touched the pendant at your throat, mostly because you needed something to do that wasn’t looking at him. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” But he still didn’t move.
His hand dropped from your neck, but he stayed close.
That was what kept happening: the act should’ve ended, the line should’ve been redrawn, and Dean should’ve gone back to being smug enough that you could breathe properly around him. Instead, he stayed.
You turned slowly, only to find him close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest.
“You should finish getting dressed,” you said.
His eyes flicked down to his unbuttoned shirt, then back to you. “I am dressed.”
His mouth curved. “Technically, more than half.”
His mouth curved like he wanted to make it a joke. “You nervous?”
“No,” you said, too quickly.
You frowned at him. “About the gala?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Your pulse jumped, and of course, he noticed; Dean noticed everything when it gave him the upper hand. Except this time, he didn’t tease you for it.
He only stepped back, giving you room at last, then reached for his tie from the chair like nothing had happened.
“Come on,” he told you, his voice lighter now. “Let’s go convince a room full of rich people that I’m boyfriend material.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out too soft to pass for a joke. “That might take a miracle.”
Dean looked at you as he looped his tie around his neck. “Good thing I brought you, then.”
The charity gala looked exactly like the sort of event Dean had probably been attending since he was old enough to be bribed into a suit.
The ballroom was all gold light and white tablecloths, polished floors, and champagne glasses, expensive perfume mixing with the scent of fresh flowers. A string quartet played near the far wall while people in gowns and tuxedos moved through the room, kissing cheeks and shaking hands and laughing politely at jokes that almost definitely didn’t deserve it.
Dean slid his hand into yours just before you stepped through the doors, and when you looked down, he squeezed once, so soft it felt less like part of the act and more like something meant only for you.
The question was casual, but his voice was not.
You looked up at him, surprised to find something sincere beneath all the charm.
“Yeah,” you said, still looking at him. “You?”
Dean’s mouth quirked. “I was born for this. Rooms full of people pretending to like each other and calling it networking.”
“That might be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’ve said sadder,” he said, as that helped.
“You’ve definitely said stupider.”
You smiled despite yourself, and his eyes flicked to your mouth before he looked away.
There it was again, that tiny slip, that almost-moment neither of you seemed able to stop creating.
You walked into the room with his hand in yours, trying not to think about it.
For the first hour, everything felt easy, which was exactly the problem, because fake dating Dean had started to feel easy, too. He introduced you to family friends as his girlfriend, one hand warm at your waist like the word belonged there, and you smiled until your cheeks hurt. Every so often, he leaned down to mutter something terrible in your ear about a donor’s toupee or a woman’s personal vendetta against the shrimp tray. You had to pretend not to laugh, because his mother was watching from ten feet away like she was collecting evidence.
At some point, Dean’s father pulled him into a conversation about law school contacts, and you ended up near the edge of the room with a glass of champagne you were mostly holding for aesthetic purposes.
That was, unfortunately, when Nathaniel Pierce appeared.
You didn’t know him, but unfortunately, you recognized his type immediately: rich, polished, and smiling like someone had spent his entire life rewarding him for being mildly charming. He introduced himself as a family friend, though the way he glanced over at Dean made it clear he was less interested in being friendly than in being competition.
“So,” Nathaniel said, “you’re Dean’s girlfriend.”
“That seems to be the rumor.”
He laughed like he was already enjoying himself. “I have to admit, I didn’t think Dean was the serious girlfriend type.”
You took a sip of champagne, mostly to hide your reaction. “He’s full of surprises.”
“I’m sure.” Nathaniel’s gaze moved over you, not rude enough to call out but not subtle enough to miss. “Though if he ever stops surprising you, you know where to find me.”
Your brows lifted. Before you could answer, an arm slid around your waist, warm and familiar.
You felt him before he said anything, his hand settling against your hip, his body warm and tense beside yours.
“Nate.” Dean smiled like he wanted to bite someone. “Didn’t know you were still doing this.”
Nathaniel’s smile stayed in place, but only barely. “Doing what?”
“Flirting with women whose boyfriends are standing ten feet away.”
The air between them went tight enough that even you noticed. You looked at Dean, caught off guard by the edge in his voice. He was still smiling, perfectly polite to anyone who wasn’t close enough to hear the warning underneath, but you felt his fingers flex once against your waist.
Nathaniel laughed, but it came out too forced to sound careless. “Relax, Di Laurentis. I was just being friendly.”
“Yeah?” Dean tilted his head toward the other side of the room. “Try being friendly over there.”
For one long second, they just looked at each other, both of them still smiling like this was a normal conversation.
Then Nathaniel lifted his hands in surrender, his smile still too wide. “Good seeing you.”
Dean waited until Nathaniel was out of earshot, then looked down at you. The jealousy was still there, not hidden well enough for either of you to pretend otherwise.
You stepped out of his hold.
Dean’s expression shifted immediately. “What?”
“You don’t get to do that, Dean.”
His brows pulled together. “Do what?”
“That.” You gestured vaguely toward Nathaniel’s retreat. “The whole possessive boyfriend thing.”
Dean stared at you, genuinely thrown. “He was flirting with you.”
“So?” Dean repeated, as the word had personally offended him.
You lowered your voice because there were people everywhere. “We’re not actually together.”
Dean’s jaw tightened, and you saw it then, the moment your words landed.
“We’re here together,” he said.
“For the act.” In front of you, Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again.
You hated the flicker of hurt that crossed his face because you’d put it there, and what you hated even more was that part of you wanted him to argue; to say it wasn’t just for show, to say something.
Instead, Dean looked away first, jaw shifting like he was trying to keep himself from making things worse.
Your chest tightened. “Dean—”
But his mother appeared before either of you could fix or ruin anything further, smiling brightly for someone who’d clearly just walked into the wreckage of a conversation. “There you are. They’re starting the next dance, and your father owes me one, but he’s pretending to be busy.”
Dean’s expression shifted instantly, smoothing into something polite, and you hated how good he was at putting the mask back on.
His mother glanced between the two of you. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Dean answered smoothly.
“Fine,” you managed at the same time.
She smiled like she didn’t believe either of you. “Wonderful. Then dance.”
You blinked, already shaking your head. “Oh, I don’t really—”
“Mom,” Dean warned, but she was already pushing gently at his shoulder.
“It’s Sinatra.” She said it like that, and it explained everything. “Don’t waste it.”
Then the music changed, slow and familiar, and the room seemed to soften around it. You recognized the voice before you recognized the song: Frank Sinatra, low and sweeping through the ballroom speakers, the melody romantic and almost mournful. The kind of song that made the chandeliers glow warmer, and the room fall farther away, like everything outside the circle of light had stopped mattering for a few minutes.
Dean’s mother only smiled.
“The World We Knew,” she said, softer now, and then she was gone, pulled onto the dance floor by Dean’s father, who’d apparently accepted his fate.
You looked at Dean, and Dean looked back. Neither of you spoke. Then he held out his hand.
You looked at his outstretched hand. “Is this part of the act?”
His face was unreadable for half a second before his voice went quiet. “Does it matter?”
It should’ve mattered, and maybe it did. You took his hand anyway.
Dean led you onto the dance floor, and the second his hand settled at your waist, you knew this had been a mistake. Not because he was bad at it, but because he was good at it. He moved like he’d done this before and held you like he hadn’t held anyone quite this way, which was exactly the kind of thought that would get you into trouble.
“You know how to dance,” you told him, mostly because silence had started to feel too intimate.
“It answers most things.”
You couldn’t help smiling. “Of course it does.”
His hand tightened slightly around yours. “My mom made me learn when I was eleven. She said charm was only useful if I could survive a ballroom.”
“That actually makes her more terrifying.”
Dean laughed softly, and something in your chest tightened at the sound. For a while, you let the room move around you while Dean kept you steady. Couples turned slowly under the gold light, glasses clinked from the tables, and Sinatra’s voice softened the edges of the room until the whole night felt dangerously easy to regret.
Dean’s thumb brushed once against your waist, and when you looked up, he was already watching you.
“You’re making this very difficult,” he told you.
Your breath caught, but you still asked, “The dancing?”
His mouth twitched, faint but there. “No.”
You swallowed his name like it might stop him. “Dean.”
“I know,” he said, but he didn’t look away.
“You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”
“You’re not supposed to be doing this.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “You mean dance with you?”
The words were out before you could stop them.
Dean’s expression changed, something vulnerable breaking through before he could smooth it away. For once, he had nothing clever to hide behind, and you wished he did.
He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your face. “Maybe you’re not the only one having a hard time remembering it’s supposed to be pretend.”
The room tilted slightly, not literally, probably, but it felt close enough. Your fingers tightened around his, and Dean felt it immediately. His eyes dropped to your mouth before lifting again, like being decent had suddenly become very difficult. You hated that his restraint made you want him more.
“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said, but his hand stayed at your waist.
“Then why did you?” Dean swallowed, his eyes still on yours.
For one second, you thought he might answer, but then the song ended. The room applauded politely, and just like that, the moment was over.
Dean stepped back, but his hand lingered in yours for one second too long. That was almost worse.
The rest of the gala passed in a blur of polite conversation and too much champagne, though you only had two glasses, because being drunk around Dean felt like adding gasoline to a fire you were already failing to control. Dean stayed close but careful, his hand brushing your back when needed, his smile there for everyone else and gone whenever he looked at you.
By the time you finally made it back to the hotel room, the silence between you felt unbearable.
You walked in first, slipping off your heels beside the bed and reaching for one of your earrings before you even turned around. You needed something to do with your hands, something normal, because Dean had shut the door behind you and was standing there in his loosened tie, still looking at you like the dance had never ended.
“You can stop looking at me like that now.” You tugged one earring free with more force than necessary. “No one’s watching.”
Dean was quiet for a second before he answered. “I know.”
Your fingers stilled around the second earring.
That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
He was supposed to smirk, say something obnoxious, remind you this was fake, and make it easy for you to hate him again.
Instead, he stood by the door, his gaze steady and his voice low, and suddenly the room felt much smaller than it had before.
You carefully set the earring down. “Dean.”
“I know,” he repeated, but this time it sounded different, like he was too tired to pretend he didn’t.
You turned to face him. “You keep doing this.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Doing what?”
He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “You think I’m the only one?”
You crossed your arms, mostly so he wouldn’t see your hands shake. “I didn’t ask you to get jealous.”
“No.” He took a step closer. “You just looked at me like I’d no right to be.”
“I know.” He took another step closer anyway.
“You don’t get to act as you mean it when this is supposed to be fake.”
Dean stopped a few feet away from you, close enough for you to see the frustration in his face and the way he was holding himself back. “You keep saying that.”
Your breath caught, and Dean saw it.
His voice softened, which made everything worse. “Tell me I’m the only one who forgot we were pretending.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
Dean’s expression shifted, like your silence had hurt him, even if it told him what he needed to know.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, but there was no victory in it.
You hated how quickly you reacted when he moved closer. The awareness of him had become unbearable, the space between you crowded with every almost-kiss, every touch that had lasted too long, and every time he’d called you his girlfriend and made it sound true.
“Rule three,” you said, because you needed to say something, and the rules were the only thing still standing between you and doing something that would change everything.
Dean stopped immediately, like the words had hit something solid in him.
His eyes searched your face, and all the heat in him turned careful. “Then say no.”
Your throat tightened because he’d made it sound simple.
He didn’t touch you. He didn’t smile.
“Say no,” he repeated, quieter this time, “and I’ll take the floor.”
Your heart twisted, and you hated him for that too: for making it impossible to pretend he was pushing you, for making the choice yours, for wanting you badly enough to shake and still being willing to walk away if you asked him to.
“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered.
Dean let out a slow breath.
You stepped closer before you could talk yourself out of it. “I don’t want you to sleep on the floor.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth before he forced it back to your eyes.
“You sure?” His voice was quiet—no joke, no tease, no easy escape.
You nodded, even though your voice shook. “Yes.”
Dean crossed the last of the space between you, and even then, he didn’t rush. His hand came to your waist first, warm and steady, and when he kissed you, there was nothing fake about it.
The first one had been necessary. This one was not.
This one was slow at first, almost careful, like Dean was giving you every chance to pull away. But your hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, and whatever restraint he had left snapped just enough for him to pull you against him.
The sound he made against your mouth made your fingers tighten in his shirt.
You backed into the dresser, and Dean followed, one hand sliding to your jaw while the other stayed at your waist, holding you close without caging you in. He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it too, as the dance, the gala, and every fake smile had only made it harder to stop.
Your fingers caught in his tie, pulling him closer.
Dean huffed a laugh against your mouth. “Still bossy.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Dean kissed it off your mouth, which was rude, effective, and deeply unfair.
His fingers found the zipper of your dress and stopped there. When you opened your eyes, Dean was watching you, his breathing uneven, his forehead almost touching yours.
Dean’s voice was quiet. “Tell me now. If you want me to stop.”
Your chest ached at the softness of it.
That was unfairly attractive. The care. The restraint. The fact that Dean, who joked through almost everything, was looking at you like this was the one thing he refused to get wrong.
“Don’t stop,” you told him, holding his gaze.
Dean’s jaw tightened. Then he kissed you again, slow and hungry, one hand holding your waist as the other pulled the zipper down inch by inch, leaving your back exposed beneath his touch.
The dress loosened slowly, slipping from your shoulders as his hands drew it down, his fingertips brushing bare skin the whole way. He took his time with it, his mouth moving over your shoulder, your collarbone, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath your skin, until you felt exposed before you were even undressed. When the fabric pooled at your feet, Dean stepped back just enough to take you in.
For once, you wished he’d say something stupid.
His gaze moved over you, and for once, he looked almost helpless.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice came out rough.
It was simple. No smirk. No line. Nothing for him to hide behind.
You swallowed hard. “That was dangerously sincere.”
“It was.” His eyes stayed on yours.
You looked away because the room was suddenly too warm, and Dean was suddenly too close to all the things you were trying not to feel.
His fingers brushed beneath your chin, gentle as he turned your face back to his. “Hey.”
You made yourself look at him.
“I mean it,” he told you, his eyes steady on yours.
The next kiss was rougher because you needed it to be, all teeth and heat and his body pinning yours to the dresser. You needed heat over honesty, needed his mouth on yours, his hands dragging over bare skin, the solid weight of him against you before you could think too hard about what any of it meant. Dean seemed to understand, or maybe he needed the same thing, because he lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed without taking his mouth off yours.
You hit the mattress with a breathless laugh, and Dean followed you down, tie hanging loose, shirt half-open, hair falling over his forehead.
“This is a terrible idea.” Your hands slid into his open shirt anyway.
His mouth curved, but there was too much heat in his eyes for the smile to feel harmless. “Probably.”
“You’re doing a terrible job of talking me out of it.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.” His mouth brushed yours. “Not stupid.”
You laughed, and he kissed your jaw, your throat, the bare skin above your bra, until the sound broke into something much less composed.
Dean took his time with you, and that was the part you didn’t expect.
You’d expected confidence, because Dean had enough of that to supply a small country. You’d expected teasing, dirty comments, hands that knew exactly where to go; Dean Di Laurentis had never looked like someone who had to think too hard in bed.
You hadn’t expected patience.
He kissed you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be, like learning what made you gasp mattered more than proving he already knew. His hands moved over your body with a focus that made you dizzy, slow, and deliberate, and entirely too aware of every reaction he pulled from you. When his mouth moved lower, and his fingers slipped beneath the lace, dragging through the wet heat of you, the smug satisfaction that crossed his face should’ve made you want to wipe it right off.
Instead, you grabbed at his shirt and dragged him back up to kiss him, because if he looked at you like that for one more second, you were going to fall apart before he even touched you properly.
Dean laughed against your mouth, smug even now. “Impatient.”
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”
He sat back long enough to pull his shirt off, and you immediately regretted being brave, because Dean without a shirt was exactly as distracting as Dean with a shirt, only with fewer barriers and significantly more evidence that hockey was a public service.
Your gaze moved over him before you could stop it.
His grin returned, softer this time. “You good?”
His grin widened, gentle but entirely too pleased. “No?”
He laughed as he leaned down again. “That’s fair.”
After that, it got less funny. Mostly because Dean’s mouth returned to your skin, his hand slid between your thighs again, and suddenly the only thing in your head was the slow drag of his fingers against you. He was good, not in the careless, practiced way you’d expected, but in the attentive way that made every reaction feel noticed. He listened to every sound you made, watched every change in your face, kissed the inside of your thigh when your breathing hitched, and kept telling you how good you were until your fingers twisted in the sheets.
“You okay?” His eyes found yours, careful even now.
Your chest rose and fell too quickly. “If you stop now, I’ll be furious.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “Good to know.”
By the time he moved back over you, your body felt loose and overheated, your thoughts scattered somewhere between his mouth, the drag of his hands, and the way he kept saying your name as it belonged there. Dean kissed you again, slower this time, and you felt how badly he wanted you in the tension of his body, in the slight shake of his hand against your hip before he forced it steady.
“Dean.” His name came out unsteady.
His forehead came to rest against yours. “Yeah?”
You looked at him, and for one second, the fear came back.
Of the rule you were about to break the morning after. Of the fact that wanting Dean had started to feel less like a mistake and more like a truth you weren’t ready to say out loud.
He saw the fear cross your face immediately.
“We can stop.” His hand stilled at your hip.
You shook your head, holding his gaze so he would believe you. “I don’t want to.”
His eyes closed for a second, and when he opened them again, they were darker, softer, far too honest.
“Tell me again,” he whispered.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Dean kissed you as he believed you, then reached blindly for his wallet on the nightstand without taking his mouth far from yours. You looked away while he got the condom, not because you were embarrassed exactly, but because there was something too real about the ordinary practicality of it. Then he was back over you, and there was nothing ordinary about the way he looked at you.
“Still with me?” His eyes searched yours.
You nodded, then remembered he needed words. “Yes.”
His mouth brushed yours, his voice low enough to wreck you. “Good girl.”
The words should not have sent heat through you as fast as they did.
His breath caught, and then he was smiling against your mouth like he knew exactly what that had done to you. “Oh?”
“Dean.” It came out too breathless to be a warning.
“I said noted,” he reminded you.
You would’ve argued, but then he moved, slow and careful, and whatever you’d been about to say disappeared beneath the feeling of him.
Dean watched your face the entire time, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like he needed something to hold onto as much as you did. When your breath caught at the stretch, Dean stopped immediately, his jaw tight as his eyes searched yours.
You nodded quickly, your fingers tightening around his shoulder. “Yeah. —Give me a second.”
“You can have as long as you need.”
You turned your face slightly, hiding against his neck. “You’re being too nice to me.”
Dean went still above you.
Then his mouth brushed your temple. “Get used to it.”
You laughed, though it came out shaky.
Dean moved only when you asked him to, and the first few times were slow enough to make your chest ache. It was intimate in a way you hadn’t prepared for: the eye contact, the quiet sounds, the way Dean held himself back, as if taking care of you mattered more than losing control.
Eventually, Dean’s restraint slipped, and the slow, careful pace turned into something rougher. Not completely. Never enough to make you feel unsafe. But enough that his breathing went rough, his grip on your hip tightened, and every measured movement started to feel a little less controlled.
The room became warm and tangled sheets and Dean’s voice low against your ear, telling you how good you felt, how pretty you looked under him, how long he’d wanted this. How badly he was trying not to lose his mind over it. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and his composure cracked, his breath catching hard against your neck.
“Fuck.” His head dipped for half a second. “Don’t do that unless you want this to get embarrassing for me.”
Despite everything, you smiled. “You mean embarrassingly quick?”
His eyes lifted to yours, and there he was again: pure Dean, cocky enough to make you feel steadier somehow.
“Careful.” His mouth brushed yours. “I’m still very committed to proving a point.”
“That we should’ve broken rule three earlier.”
You laughed, but it broke into a moan when his hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding exactly where you needed him. He swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you through it as his fingers kept moving, and the pressure built so fast you had to cling to him.
“Dean,” you gasped, and he heard it immediately.
His pace faltered just enough for his eyes to find yours, one hand still firm at your waist, the other braced beside your head like he was holding himself back by force. “I’ve got you.”
Your chest tightened around the words, which was deeply inconvenient considering your body was already busy falling apart for him. “You always say things like that.”
Dean’s mouth brushed yours, not quite a kiss, not quite anything gentle enough to survive. “Yeah?” His thumb moved between you again, slow and deliberate, and your whole body clenched hard enough to make his breath catch. “Maybe I mean them.”
Not just his hand, though that was not helping. Not the way he moved inside you, careful until he wasn’t, controlled until the control started slipping at the edges. Not the praise against your mouth or the weight of him over you, or the rough sound he made every time you pulled him closer. It was the softness underneath all of it, the part he kept letting you see by accident. The way Dean looked at you was like he was done pretending, like this had stopped being about rule three the second you said yes.
The pressure broke all at once, sharp and overwhelming, pulling his name from you in a sound you would’ve been embarrassed by if you’d been capable of embarrassment. Your nails dug into his back, your thighs tightening around his hips, and Dean held you through it, mouth pressed to your temple, voice low and wrecked as he told you he’d you, that you were okay, that you were so fucking pretty like this.
He followed not long after.
You felt the moment he lost the last of his control: the way his body went tense over yours, the way his hand gripped your waist, the way he buried his face in the curve of your neck as he could hide there. Your name left his mouth rough and unsteady, like something he’d been trying not to say all weekend and had finally run out of strength to keep in.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The room was too warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, the air between you ruined in a way that felt impossible to fix neatly. Dean’s weight was still over you, not crushing, just there, solid and familiar and dangerous for reasons that had very little to do with sex anymore.
Eventually, he lifted himself onto one elbow, just enough to look at you.
His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his mouth swollen from kissing you, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis didn’t look smug or polished or like trouble in an expensive suit. He looked young. Unsteady. Like someone who’d finally broken the thing he’d been joking around for days and had no idea what to do with the pieces.
“You okay?” His voice was quiet.
You nodded, still trying to remember how breathing worked.
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no teasing in them. “Words.”
Your heart twisted because, of course, he remembered. Of course, he was still careful now, when it would’ve been so much easier for him not to be. “I’m okay.”
His face softened, and he kissed you once, slow and gentle, which somehow felt more dangerous than everything that had come before it. The sex, at least, had given you something to do with your hands. This just made your chest hurt.
Then Dean pulled away carefully, disappearing into the bathroom before you could figure out what to say. The loss of him was immediate and ridiculous. You hated that too.
He came back with a damp towel a moment later, his expression focused in a way that made your throat feel tight. He cleaned you up gently, one hand resting on your thigh like he was making sure you knew he was still there, and you stared at the ceiling because watching him be careful with you was starting to feel like a personal attack.
You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to cry or kiss him again.
When he finished, Dean tossed the towel aside and climbed back onto the bed, then stopped.
He hovered there for half a second, looking down at you like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do now. As if he’d spent the entire night touching you, kissing you, taking you apart with his mouth and hands and body, but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you after.
That was so unfair, you almost hated him for it.
You lifted the blanket without looking at him. Dean slid in beside you immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission, his arm coming around your waist with a carefulness that made your chest ache all over again.
His chest pressed against your back, just like that morning.
Except now everything had changed.
And somehow, horribly, nothing had.
Dean’s thumb moved slowly against your hip. His mouth brushed your shoulder once, then again, soft enough that you could’ve pretended it was accidental if you needed to.
“Still okay?” he asked quietly.
You closed your eyes. “Yeah.”
His arm tightened just slightly, not enough to trap you, just enough to make you feel held. “Good.”
You let yourself sink back into him.
Just for a minute, you told yourself.
Just until your heart calms down, just until you could remember that this was fake, that rules existed for a reason, that sleeping with Dean Di Laurentis in a hotel room during a fake dating weekend was objectively one of the worst ideas you’d ever had, there would be consequences eventually. There had to be. People didn’t cross lines this big and get to pretend the floor was still exactly where they’d left it.
But Dean was warm behind you, careful and quiet and too much like something you weren’t allowed to want.
So you let yourself pretend.
Just long enough to fall asleep.
Morning arrived with sunlight and consequences.
You woke before Dean, which felt unfair, considering he’d been the one to ruin your life first. His arm was still around your waist, his face tucked close to the back of your neck, his breathing deep and even against your skin. At some point during the night, he’d tangled his legs with yours, and the intimacy of it hit you so hard you went completely still.
It wasn’t the sex. Not really.
The sex had been confusing and reckless and very much against the rules, but you could almost explain that away if you hated yourself enough. Tension. Attraction. Too much champagne. Too many almost-kisses. A weekend of pretending, finally catching up with both of you in the worst possible hotel room.
This was Dean holding you in his sleep like it was normal. This was waking up safe and warm and wanted, with no audience and no excuse. This was the kind of thing you couldn’t blame on the act, because no one was watching.
Carefully, you shifted under his arm.
Dean stirred behind you. “Mm?”
His arm tightened for one sleepy second, pulling you closer on instinct, and your stupid heart nearly climbed out of your body and offered itself to him with both hands.
Then Dean woke up properly.
You felt it happen: the change in his breathing, the stillness that moved through his body, the way the room seemed to remember itself around both of you. His hand was still on your waist, but now he knew it was there.
For one long second, neither of you said anything.
Then Dean cleared his throat softly.
“So,” he said, voice rough from sleep, “we’re definitely blaming the wine, right?”
Not because they were cruel. Cruel would’ve been easier. Cruel would’ve given you something clean to react to, something sharp enough to cut the whole thing loose.
This was worse because you heard the nerves underneath it.
You knew Dean well enough by now to recognize the joke for what it was: too quick, too light, thrown between you like a life raft because casual was what Dean did when things got too real. He was trying to make it easier. Trying to give you both a door to walk through before either of you had to admit there was something to leave behind.
But all you heard was regret.
Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt.
You sat up, pulling the sheet with you, and Dean’s hand fell from your waist. The loss of it was immediate, which made you hate yourself a little.
“Right,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “The wine.”
Dean sat up behind you. “I didn’t—”
You hated that phrase the second it left your mouth.
The same lie people used when things were absolutely not okay, but saying so felt too humiliating. The kind of lie that made everything easier for the person hearing it and worse for the person saying it.
You reached for your shirt from the floor, keeping your back to him as you pulled it on. Your hands were steady, at least. That felt like a small victory, even if the rest of you felt like it had been turned inside out.
Dean said your name quietly.
For one night, sleeping with Dean had made everything feel simple. Not fake. Not real. Just simple. His hands, his mouth, his voice saying your name like it meant something. His arm around you afterward. His breathing against the back of your neck.
Now morning had come, and apparently both of you were still better at pretending than telling the truth.
“We should get ready,” you said, standing before he could answer. “Your parents wanted breakfast before we leave.”
Dean didn’t say anything.
That almost made you turn around.
Instead, you walked into the bathroom and shut the door softly behind you. Only then did you let yourself breathe.
Outside, Dean stayed quiet.
And somehow, that hurt more than if he had knocked.
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