Chapter 6

Oh, Dean is going to hate her.

If he doesn't already…

Monica sinked in the scenario yesterday. She was in the bad mood so she hadn't thought that Dean might saw her and Tristan. Did he misunderstood?

No, no...why do Monica have to explain it to him? It was morning and it's sunday. They have no classes.

She moves out of her room and happened to see Dean on the table, preparing breakfast. Is that breakfast for himself? As far as she know, Dean was just an independent guy who can stand and prepare for himself without thinking other people and so Monica is.

Dean holds out an empty glass and manages a tight smile when Monica arrived at the table. He projects a sympathetic look, dark eyes melting gentle against her face as he pours her a tall glass of maroon forgetfulness. He is serving wine in morning?!

"Really?"

Dean flashed an apologetic smile.

"It's just...I feel that I confronted you in a nice way. Wine will help..." He stared on his glass.

His gaze is so soft, so unlike the broken-glass minefield of Dean's entire existence.

"Did you prepare this?" Monica asked as she saw those meal on the table. Corned beef, egg, sausages, hotdog and tuna.

"Yeah...It's your all favourites" he drank one sip on his wine.

It's so stupid, she thinks, she don't just know how to react… feels like he understands.

They share a moment of quiet empathy and sip at their glasses together, but Dean was just so wasted with wine.

She watched Dean's white t-shirt disappear down a dirt path, and it's not nearly as awkward as it should be.

Suddenly, she missed his flirtatious touches, even it's just a first time she had slept with him.

She missed the way she'd batted her eyes and felt for a moment like she was seventeen again and kissing that shy, brilliant and bespectacled boy in her class of highschool and college.

"Why did you removed your shirt?"

"I missed you, but you were with that guy that day. We haven't talked a lot, you know?"

"Yes we didn't talk, but I was with a friend that day." Probably it was not important to tell him about her cousin.

Now he's naked, she wants a lot of things.

"Oh good" comes a low, reluctant chuckle, and Dean finds her eyes drawn again to her.

Monica's eyes are warm brown or black looking at his eyes directly with a look of ecstasy.

"Are you seducing me? Really? Under the morning light?" Dean just touched the side of her face.

"You said we can explore things"

She then closed her eyes when Dean was about to kiss her. He breathes it like a sigh, but it sounds incredibly exasperated. She feels his smile in the air like a kiss against her cheek and there is a surge of pleasure.

He felt her lips curving into a genuine smile, sees the pleased way that Monica returns it, shifts just slightly closer to him - is he imagining things? he can't be.

Dean was on the edge of fire, slowly bringing himself onto the blazing trap of Monica. Monica has nothing to lose, she just want to play before she graduate and settle down on her own.

The thought pierces the flustered haze he'd gotten himself into, she reminds of his ex girlfriend. Is there a resemblance between them? No absolutely not. They're unique on their own.

He stopped halfway, but continued afterwards, not knowingly, they were now on the bedroom.

The heat courses again downward, her thigh muscles tightening in delicious anticipation, and some carnal part of her is delighted when his hand rests against Monica's chest and he doesn't step back, just looks down at her owlishly.

There's something burning between them and Dean, she just wants to do something that will ease her irritation in these past few days. That's sex. A wonderful act of two person.

"You don't have paperworks before semester ends?" Monica asked

"We could procrastinate in this time, I'll do it later" he suggests, and that smile is playing at his lips again, devious now. "I'm sure I'll ace that after this"

Butterflies erupt giddy in her chest for a fraction of a second before Dean's hands surge up to cup her neck, her jaw, his lips crushing against hers like she's all he's been missing, like he's desperate for her and just her, her, this -

She thinks of Dean, vindictively, and winds her arms around his neck to pull him down, opening her mouth with a delicate groan. He tastes like rich wine and heady freedom, which spells nothing but trouble and hangovers later -

"Oh," Monica groans into her mouth, and she's got her fingers twisted in his hair, she's turned him forcefully to back him towards the bed.

She doesn't care. She's doing this. She's already committed to it.

They don't really need to exchange words for this, and Dean is vaguely amused as they fall back together, clothes flying off in a near-violent flurry of motion - she's never had casual sex before and now she's the one initiating it, taking Dean's cock firm in her hand and straddling his thigh, rocking down wet against it while she breathes and pumps and soaks in every rapid breath and beautiful, uneven gasp.

He couldn't even look her in the eye while she touched him and now this man is grabbing desperately at her hips, pulling her against him.

As much as they fumble, they aren't teenagers - they're just in a hurry to feel good and forget, both of them. Forget the time when Dean was hurt, and enjoy these plays set by Monica.

"Oh-" A gasp, it falls low and frantic from her wet and parted lips as his thumb rubs eagerly around her clit, her legs slipping further apart.

Fuck it. She wants this. Him. On the broad light, she feels that she's a queen.

Tonight she's being selfish. She doesn't care. All she want is him.

There are so many things she wants to do, and all at once, and the way he's looking at her from where he's propped against the headboard panting and jerking, shallowly and not entirely of his own volition, up into her hand…

"Please," she breathes, and she's never felt so vulnerable in her life.

He nods, and his fingers tighten; and the next thing she knows she's being rolled over and forced into the mattress, her body arching up bare against his, a moan torn from her throat as his head descends between her legs.

"Yes - God, yes, yes -!"

His hair is knotted around her fingers, his face is buried between her trembling thighs and no one has ever done this for her before, Dean has never done this for her before, and his tongue is flick-flick-flicking over that oversensitive nub and she grasps for the sheets, fingers scrabbling on the silky fabric, crying out shrilly as her heels dig into his back and she comes, she comes with her whole body seizing and her throat working, choking out some senseless stream of pleasure, her legs tight around him-

And he's licking his lips and looking up at her with such raw desire, lips swollen and shiny and sticky and hair a mess…

She practically yanks him up atop of her, nails biting into his shoulders.

"Fuck me," she pants, begs, demands, legs already wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, encourage him. "Fuck me."

He doesn't need encouragement. He's hard and throbbing and dripping against her thigh, eagerly pressing into her, their hearts hammering in the hot swirl of their racing breaths between them.

He throws his head back as he sinks into her, face twisting in unbearable pleasure, as though he's trying to hold himself back, trying to be easy about it. Florence isn't having it. She arches her back and pulls him down into her, insistent, muscles clamping around him, so tight, so full, more more more-

She needs it harder and faster and more and Monica can do nothing but gasp and pant and try to keep up, slamming down into her as fast as he can, trying to match her, trying to help her.

They're so close. Dean's name has temporarily been lost in her memory bank.

"Fuck!" Monica whimpers, "so close so close-"

"Fuck," she breathes or maybe screams, she can't really tell because her eyes are squeezed so tightly shut and it's like fucking lightning, and she feels her jerk and gasp and lose the battle, pounding into her short and hard and desperate as he spills, comes, collapses against her with his face against her neck, his breath against her straining nipples.

Still catching her breath, Dean reaches down to brush her fingertips against them, shivering at the stimulation, and Monica smirks and flicks his tongue out to follow their path.

She smacks him lightly, snorting despite herself.

The room is abruptly quiet, the moist heat lingering in the air. They cummed together  They still don't need the words. It's been a refreshing change of pace…

Dean thinks that she could get used to this.