Dean wiped blood off his knuckles with a kitchen towel that used to be white. Lisa’s kitchen. Lisa’s towel. The clock over the stove said 2:14 a.m. like it was judging him.
Ben was at a sleepover. The house felt too quiet without the kid’s sneakers thumping upstairs. Just the fridge hum and Dean’s pulse still jacked from a salt-and-burn that had gone longer than it should have.
Lisa stood in the doorway in a soft gray T-shirt and sleep shorts, hair pulled back messy, watching him like she’d been doing this inventory for months: not hurt bad, still standing, still hers for the night if he let himself be.
“You’re tracking grave dirt on my floor,” she said.
“Sorry.” He glanced down. “I’ll—”
“Dean.” She crossed to him, took the towel out of his hands, tossed it in the sink. Her fingers found the split on his cheekbone, gentle. “Sit.”
He sat on a stool at the island. She got the first-aid kit from under the sink like it lived there for him, which it kind of did. Antiseptic stung. He hissed. She didn’t apologize.
“You could’ve called,” she said.
“Didn’t want to wake you.”
“I was already up.” A beat. “I always am, when you’re out.”
That landed somewhere under his ribs. He looked at her mouth instead of her eyes. Safer. Not really.
She capped the bottle, set it aside, and stayed between his knees. Close. The T-shirt had slipped off one shoulder. No bra. He could see the shape of her through the thin cotton, nipples soft from the cool air, and his brain did the stupid hungry thing it always did around her—want mixed up with the urge to put the Impala between him and anything this good.
“Lisa—”
“If you’re about to say you should go, don’t.” Her hands rested on his thighs. Warm. Steady. “Ben’s gone till noon. You’re here. I’m here. Stop running the exit speech in your head.”
He huffed a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You got me pegged.”
“I’ve had practice.” She leaned in, kissed the clean edge of the cut, then his mouth—slow, sure, tasting like the mint tea she drank when she couldn’t sleep. He opened for her like he always did, hands finding her hips, pulling her closer until she stood flush against the stool and he could feel the heat of her through denim and cotton.
The kiss deepened. Her fingers slid into his hair, not careful of the grit still in it. He groaned into her mouth. She smiled against him.
“Shower,” she murmured. “Then bed. Or the couch. I’m not picky.”
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
He did. God help him, he did.
---
The water ran hot. Lisa didn’t wait outside. She stripped the T-shirt and shorts and stepped in behind him, pressed her front to his back, arms around his waist. Soap and her bare breasts against his shoulder blades short-circuited whatever clever line he’d been building.
“Let me,” she said, and took the washcloth.
She washed the hunt off him—neck, chest, the bruise blooming over his ribs—hands firm, thorough, not shy about drifting lower. When she soaped his cock he was already half-hard; under her palm he thickened fast, breath rough against the tile.
“Lisa—”
“I know.” She stroked him slow, wrist twisting at the head the way she’d learned he liked, other hand splayed on his stomach like she was holding him in place. “I’ve got you.”
He turned in the spray, crowded her to the wall, kissed her hard. Water sheeted off his shoulders onto her. She hooked a thigh over his hip; he felt how slick she was when his fingers slid between her legs, two fingers easing into her while his thumb found her clit.
She made a small sound into his mouth—pleased, open—and rolled her hips onto his hand.
“Missed this,” she breathed.
“Yeah.” His voice was wrecked. “Me too.”
He worked her until her thighs shook, until she bit his shoulder to stay quiet out of habit even with the house empty. When she came it was with her forehead against his collarbone and her cunt clenching around his fingers, wet heat that made his cock jerk against her belly.
She reached down, guided him between her legs, not inside yet—just the slide of his length along her folds, teasing. “Bed,” she said again, firmer. “I want you to fuck me properly, Dean Winchester. Not a quickie against tile like you’re already halfway out the door.”
He shut the water off with a slap of his palm.
---
They didn’t bother with more than towels. Her bedroom smelled like laundry detergent and the lavender stuff she kept on the nightstand. He laid her back on the quilt and looked at her—really looked—flushed skin, dark nipples, the soft curve of her stomach, the neat thatch of hair between her thighs still glistening.
“You’re staring,” she said, not shy.
“You’re worth staring at.”
She pulled him down. He kissed her breasts, sucked a nipple until she arched, trailed lower, shouldered her thighs apart and put his mouth on her like he meant it. Lisa’s hands fisted in the sheets. He licked slow, then focused, two fingers back inside her, crooked, working the spot that made her thighs clamp his ears.
“Dean—fuck—come up here—”
He wiped his mouth on his forearm, crawled up, and she reached between them to notch him at her entrance. Eye contact. No jokes for once.
“Yes?” he asked, because even now, even with her wet and open under him, he needed it.
“Yes. In me. Now.”
He pushed in on a long exhale. Tight heat dragged along every inch. Lisa’s head tipped back; her nails dug into his ass, urging him deeper until he bottomed out and they both went still, breathing hard.
“Okay?” he managed.
“More than.” She rolled her hips. “Move.”
He did—deep strokes at first, unhurried, the kind of pace that said he wasn’t bolting. The headboard tapped the wall in a soft rhythm. She met every thrust, ankles locking at the small of his back. Sweat slicked where their stomachs touched. He got a hand under her knee and opened her wider, changed the angle, and she gasped sharp.
“There—right there—”
“I feel you,” he muttered against her throat. “Christ, Lisa—”
She clenched around him on purpose and he almost lost it. He fucked her harder then, the careful edge fraying, hips snapping. The wet sound of it filled the room. She reached down and rubbed her clit in tight circles; he watched her face when she came the second time, mouth open, eyes glassy, cunt fluttering around his cock until he had to grit his teeth not to follow.
“On your back,” she said when she could speak, voice rough. “My turn.”
He flipped them without pulling out. She settled astride him, palms on his chest, and rode him with a steady grind that made his vision white out at the edges. Tits moving with each roll of her hips. Hair coming loose. Looking down at him like she could see every ugly thing he’d done and still wanted him inside her.
His hands gripped her waist hard enough to leave marks. She didn’t care. She took him deeper, faster, chasing something for both of them.
“Gonna come,” he warned, strained.
“Do it. Inside. I want it.”
That finished him. He thrust up hard, buried deep, and spilled with a broken sound that was half her name. Pulse after pulse. She kept moving through it, gentling, milking him until he was oversensitive and laughing weakly under her.
She eased off, stretched alongside him, one leg thrown over his. His come leaked onto her thigh; neither of them moved to clean up yet.
Porch light glowed faint through the curtains. Somewhere a dog barked once and went quiet.
Dean stared at the ceiling, heart still hammering, fingers tracing idle shapes on her shoulder.
“Stay till morning,” Lisa said into his chest. Not a question.
He swallowed. The old scripts lined up—job, road, things that go bump, you deserve better. He let them pass.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Her smile pressed against his skin. She laced their fingers over his stomach, sticky and warm and alive.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not done with you. Give me twenty minutes.”
Dean closed his eyes, grinned at the dark, and for once didn’t argue.
