His fork dives into his breakfast, and he takes a bite, chews, then swallows before he adds, “You know, there’s one surefire way to deal with that predicament.”

My nose crinkles. I don’t want to hear about weird remedies. Call me suspicious. “And what is that?”

Dean leans a little closer. “Do it again.” He takes another bite. “And again.” One more bite. “And again.”

Admittedly, I could go for that. “There’s only one little problem with that cure.”

“Your incessant need to top?” he asks with an arch of his brow.

“No,” I say emphatically. “Also, hello? It’s not incessant at all. Do I or do I not recall your dick in my ass last night?”

Dean pretends to consider this deeply. “What do you recall about it?”

I move closer to Dean. “I recall loving every single second of it,” I say, and his eyes darken, locking with mine.

“Every second?”

“Every single second,” I repeat, a little surprised at the strength of my own reaction to him topping me, at my own desire to try that again, to explore that possibility with him in bed, something I honestly never wanted with anyone else. “I did.” I slide my hand over his, running my finger over the veins, a spate of nerves reappearing briefly in my chest. But fuck them. Fuck those nerves. I shed them like I do in games—there’s no place for nerves in my world. “I want to again.”

“You do?” His voice sounds raspy.

I swallow, then nod. “I do. With you. Only with you. It felt fucking incredible.” I run my thumb along his knuckles. “But I don’t think it was just the physical.”

“It wasn’t . . .” he says.

I have to finish the thought. I’m the one who set that rule— of how we would be in the bedroom.

I required control.

I’ve needed control in the bedroom because it gave me control of my identity, control over how I was seen, some kind of control over my career.

But I don’t need to control everything with Dean, and there’s one reason for that. “No. It wasn’t just physical. It’s . . .” I stop, breathe in, dig deep into my fears, but face them anyway, speaking from the heart. “It’s because I trust you.”

He turns his hand over and holds mine. “You should trust me.”

I do. More than I expected to. And it feels damn good. “So what are we going to do about it?”

Dean’s lips quirk up. “Of your newfound interest in switching?” He grins wickedly. “Explore the fuck out of it.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Dickhead.”

“You’re so sweet, Fitz. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not sweet. Because you’re the sweetest.”

“Switching is easy. I’m talking about the big issue.” I gesture broadly, like that can encompass the endless miles between London and New York. “The nearly four-thousand-mile thing. Because that’s the real problem with your proposed cure for my new affinity for switching,” I say, then take another bite of this decadent meal. “Also, dude, you can cook.”

“Thank you.” Dean takes a bite too, then finishes before he adds, “And it’s three thousand, four hundred, and fifty-nine miles. To be precise.”

I murmur my appreciation for his due diligence, then do my favorite imitation of him. “Is that so?”

“And about six hours and fifty minutes by plane,” he adds.

I set down my fork, raise my coffee cup, and take a long drink, then give an appreciative hum. “Someone has been doing research.”

“You said it yourself. I’m the thinker.”

“Did you make a pros and cons list too?” I return to my breakfast, but as I lift a forkful of strawberries, I have the strangest sensation—sort of like déjà vu, but not quite. It feels like I’m remembering something that is going to happen. Or rather, that I can start to see it lying ahead, like when I envision the trajectory of objects on the ice.

“Sometimes I make pros and cons lists,” Dean answers. His voice is distant as my mind latches onto this image. It’s hard to make out—the picture is hazy around the edges—but it feels like something I want.

I shake my head, trying to make sense of my brain. “Do you ever have forward vu?”

“Come again?”

I make a rolling stay with me here gesture. “Like déjà vu, but for something that’s going to happen.”

His brow furrows. “That’s a premonition. Are you having premonitions?” He sounds concerned.

I shake my head adamantly. I probably sound crazy. “No. It was more like a feeling, a sensation of something that could happen.”

His voice goes serious. “And you felt it just now?”

“Yeah, I did.”

He simply nods and takes another bite. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” The question sounds more defensive than I intended.

He laughs lightly, then sets down his fork. “Fitz, you brought it up. I’m simply remarking that it’s interesting.”

I scratch my jaw, trying to sort out these nascent ideas, these stick figure sketches in my head. “Yeah, sorry, babe. I think I’m just distracted. The flight and all. My mind is kind of like a train station right now.”


Tags: Lauren Blakely Romance
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