consequences of a night out - pt. 1
dean di laurentis x fem!reader
summary: you wake up with your memory fuzzy, a haze of alcohol in the air, and a nameless man in your bed.
genre: spicy fluff
warnings: mentions of sexual activity/brief depictions of sexual acts
notes: not prood read. shortish. a continuation of that one shot because people were asking for it and i'm simply a servant to the people.
THE MORNING LIGHT SLANTED THROUGH the sheer fabric of your curtains, swirling a myriad of hues behind your sealed eyelids. The colors whirled together in a pirouette, prickling at the corners of your eyes until you were dragged completely from the comforts of sleep. You muffled a hoarse groan into the silk of your pillowcase, a lingering haze of patrón still clouding your mind, your limbs vaguely aching all over.
It was not entirely unusual for you to greet the day with such excitement. What did present itself with peculiarity however was the warmth spread across your back, the unfamiliar weight wound around your stomach.
As you stumbled towards consciousness and reality seeped through, you came to one very important conclusion:
There was a man in your bed.
A very naked man.
Shit.
In a slow flicker, the recollections of last night presented themselves, settling heavy into the air along with the scent of sweat and faded cologne—The fragile lace of your dress. The dense heat of the club. The dim lighting and how it’d angled across winsome features. The splay of hands across your waist, feeling now as though some distant dream.
How those very same hands had felt teasing your flesh, pinning you to the mattress.
How one of those hands rested still at the curve of your hip.
Tentatively, you carefully twisted your frame, turning until you were on your side, facing chiseled contours and tousled golden hair. You pried your memory for any echo of a name but it was to no avail.
The man was finely wrought—all defined aspects and strong delineations, with thick, blonde lashes fanning out against his cheeks as he resided still in slumber. This close you could even admire the faint speckling of freckles along his nose and notice even the subtle bump along the bridge of it. With streaks of sunshine hitting him, his skin glowed bronzen, smelling vaguely of cardamom and the remnants of your perfume.
So in your quiet perusal of his visage, you'd realized what the slight twitch of his bow-shaped lips meant. Your gaze tarried at the lines of his mouth as the man began to stir awake, recalling then the blazing path his lips had made along your thighs just hours before.
Languidly, he came to awareness, his eyelids moving in a tepid flutter. Then—before you had the time to steel yourself with a breath—drowsy emerald eyes held you in place. You watched his thoughts stutter in their course of processing the moment, your bodies woven together, the rise of your breathing. You observed the leisurely bloom of recognition over his expression, followed almost immediately by unmistakable amusement. Apparently waking up in a stranger's bed wasn't enough to rob him of his ego.
Unhurriedly, mischief began to rim the edges of his irises, punctuating the serrated grin taking form at his lips. The arm he had draped across your figure curled, tightening its grip and dragging you closer. You felt the muscles of his arm shift along your bare back as you were pulled atop him, the man situating you onto his chest.
Reason tore at you, offering whatever relic of sound logic still stood after the events of the previous night. But you found herself enjoying the gleam reflecting in his eyes, the unbridled warmth of all of him pressed against all of you. So, for now, you allowed him to handle you, for his touch to roam along your frame as if he were trying to remember the dips and swells of your silhouette.
And when his fingers coiled at your nape, tilting your face lower so that he could softly press his mouth to your—you allowed too for your eyes to gently seal. He kissed you in the manner of a person still half-attuned to sleep, with the slow and lazy sloping of his lips.
And then he almost reluctantly seemed to pull back, permitting you breath, sweeping the pad of his thumb along your plush lower lip.
“You’re beautiful in the sunlight,” he whispered as if it were more confession than thought. “Shitty club lighting doesn’t do you justice.”
The scoff that escaped you was in tune with low notes of amusement—despite yourself. You let your fingers card through his unkempt waves, tugging lightly at his roots. “Not so bad yourself, playboy,” you murmured with a matching grin adorning your features.
With his hand positioned on your jaw, he drifted his thumb from the pillow of your lip down to your chin, canting your face low enough for him to whisper against your mouth, “Round 2?”
You felt the offer rumble against you, felt the corners of your smile sharpen. Your reply tasted sweet on your tongue.
But then your phone exploded from off your nightstand with violent ringing. With one quick scanning of the illuminated screen, you knew you were surely about to receive a never-ending lecture if Evie discovered the exact predicament you were in.
You rolled off his chest, the sheets sliding from your frame and bunching at your waist as you sat upright, the cool air of your bedroom a stark contrast to the flush across your skin. Reaching forward to silence the incessant buzz of your phone, you tossed a playful grin over your shoulder. “Maybe some other time.”
You sensed him shifting from behind, felt the depth of his sigh stir strands of hair twined around your neck as he bowed his chin against the arc of your shoulder, trying to read the name glowing on the screen.
You jerked the phone from his line of vision, whirling to shove him back with a palm at his chest. The husky chords of his laughter filled the room as he raised both hands in the air—as though in surrender.
“Hey,” you greeted, holding the phone to your ear. “...No, yeah I’ve been up.”
You caught the small lift of the man’s eyebrow at that statement.
Evie’s usually soft cadence was nowhere to be found, her ceaseless intonation droning on in your ear. You glanced towards the alarm clock on your nightstand, cursing yourself internally when you read the numbers 10:48.
You were supposed to meet at Malone's for 11.
And as you felt the warm touch of two hands slide along your waist, up towards your ribs before tugging you back into the confines of ruffled sheets and a haven of friction-filled bliss—you knew with unwavering certainty that you were completely and totally fucked.
DEAN DI LAURENTIS WAS STILL FAINTLY ENRAPTURED by the crystalline hues of your gaze—eyes so piercingly vivid that the poundage of your stare seemed to slice straight through his chest. When he’d first emerged from the binds of pacifying sleep, they’d been the first of your features to take his attention. Nobody should have eyes that color. Even now, with those bright shades of iridescent pigments framed by a sweeping of dark, long lashes, he’d become affixed to them, moving with all the desire to simply keep those eyes steadied on him.
“It was fun. Still feel like I’m a little drunk though,” you spoke desultorily to the person on the phone, fingers twisting the cloth of your sheets in a restless fidget.
Dean would be more than obliged to give your hands something to do.
With the formations of an idea sparking in his mind, a devilish grin spread across his lips, puncturing dimples into either cheek.
Christ—he’d recalled the way you'd said your name last night, your whisper brushing along the shell of his ear when he’d asked. How he knew at that moment exactly that he would be leaving that club with you at his side. You sat half-turned from his view, the arch of your spine on display instead. While he enjoyed the sight, he almost came to the dawning realization that perhaps this positioning was to encourage distance between you, to conceal that conversation you were having.
And Dean simply couldn’t have that.
But, out of pure generosity, he granted you the briefest moment of peace as he let himself fully absorb the sight of you, observing you in the dawdling stretch of light in the room.
Cascading waves of hair fell over your shoulder, subtly ruffled from sleep and all those other nighttime activities you both had indulged in. Your nose had a delicate upturn to its tip, your cheeks round and cherubic, your lips addictively soft. Your figure was surprisingly toned—smooth, velvety skin highlighting the obvious indentions of muscle all across your body.
Altogether, you were gorgeous. The kind of breathtaking looks that had made him willingly blow his entire wallet at the bar last night. What else was he supposed to do when faced with a woman like you?
And now you were poised beside him in bed.
Naked.
Still gorgeous—even more so if he was being entirely honest.
Slightly hungover.
Definitely trying to hide whoever you were talking to.
Well, that just wouldn’t do.
Shifting his body weight, Dean slid an arm around your waist, tugging you back into the rumpled bounds of your sheets. A quiet, surprised gasp parted your lips as your back collided with the mattress and he anchored himself between the brackets of your thighs.
Any fragment of shock faded into a whetted glare, sent downward towards his descending figure as his lips brushed down your chest, towards your navel.
God, you were so warm, smelling still of traces of perfume he had drowned his senses in. He might never rise from this bed.
“Yes, I’m wearing your favorite set,” you teasingly remarked to the person on the other end of the call, shaking your head vaguely as Dean felt your fingers comb through his tangled locks.
“Actually, you’re not wearing much of anything,” Dean quipped in between gentle presses of kisses along the outlines of your hips.
You pulled harshly on a fistful of his hair—enough to actually hurt this time, as though a warning.
Dean only smiled wider into your skin.
In a slow, tantalizing move, he dragged his palms up the sides of your upper thighs, pushing them over the width of his shoulders.
“No, I am not gonna be late…” Your voice trailed off as his mouth moved closer to the apex of your thighs. “Huh? No...That only happened twice.”
The distracted lull in your tone stoked a flame in his arrogance, the raw audacity he had to do such a thing to you when you were very obviously trying to keep quiet. It bolstered his confidence.
Dipping lower, he let his tongue lick a long stripe up your core, feeling an acute amount of pleasure at the way you began to writhe, trying to squirm away from the contact despite the subtle shakes of your legs.
“I am actively walking out the door.”
Actually, you were fastened to the mattress by the splayed hand Dean pressed onto your lower belly.
“Okay…okay, bye. Yeah, love you…”
Dean wondered what reason the person you was talking to would assume was why you were so seemingly out of breath.
The hushed clicking sound as the call ended only enticed the lazy rise of Dean’s gaze to meet your own.
Those intense eyes were roaming the planes of his face as though calculating, walking the fine line between surrender and withholdance. He could view the churning of your mind as you considered the blatant sway of what the consequences would be.
In the end, a whisper drifted from your tongue. “Can you make round two take ten minutes?”
“Fifteen,” he countered.
The spread of your grin nearly undid him.
“Deal.”
