“Yeah. Go ahead and pick something to watch,” he answers. “I’m just popping upstairs to jerk it and then I’ll join you.”
“Okay, I think I’m in the mood for—wait, what?”
But he’s already gone, leaving me gaping at the empty doorway. He’s popping upstairs to do what? He was joking, right?
Despite my better judgment, I picture it. Dean up in his room. One hand wrapped around his dick, the other hand…cupping his balls? Clutching the sheets? Or maybe he’s standing up and gripping the side of his desk, his features drawn as he bites his bottom lip…
And why am I trying to solve the mystery of how this guy masturbates?
Shaking myself out of it, I click the remote until I find Netflix, then start browsing the latest movie titles.
Less than five minutes later, Dean saunters back into the room. Thankfully he put on some pants. Except he ditched his boxers in the process, which I know because his sweatpants are riding so low on his hips I can almost see…places I have no interest in seeing.
His chest is still bare, and there’s a slight flush to his cheeks.
“Did you seriously jerk off just now?” I demand.
He nods as if it’s no biggie. “What, you think I can sit through a whole movie with blue balls?”
I gawk at him. “So you can’t have sex with anyone while I’m in the house, but you can go upstairs and do that?”
A wolfish grin stretches his mouth. “I could’ve done it down here, but then you would’ve been too tempted to take over for me. I was trying to be nice.”
It’s hard not to roll my eyes. So I don’t bother fighting the urge. “Trust me, I would have kept my hands to myself.”
“With my cock right there in the open? No way. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself.” He arches a brow. “I have a great cock.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure you do.”
“You don’t believe me? I can show you a picture.” He reaches for the phone on the coffee table. Then he stops and grabs the waistband of his sweatpants instead. “Actually, I can show you the real thing if you want.”
“I don’t want. In the slightest.” I gesture to the TV. “I picked that one. Have you seen it?”
Dean grimaces at the movie poster on the screen. “For chrissake, that’s what you chose? There’re like three new horror movies we could watch. Or Jason Statham’s entire filmography.”
“No horror movies,” I say firmly. “I don’t like to be scared.”
“Fine. So let’s do an action movie.”
“I don’t like violence.”
His cheeks hollow in frustration. “Baby doll, I am not watching a movie about—” He squints at the screen “‘a woman’s life-changing journey after being diagnosed with a terminal illness.’ No fucking way.”
“It’s supposed to be really good,” I protest. “It won an Oscar!”
“You know what else won an Oscar? Silence of the Lambs. Jaws. The Exorcist.” He sounds smug. “And they’re all horror movies.”
“We can argue about this all night, but I’m not watching anything with blood or sharks or explosions. Deal with it.”
Dean’s teeth are visibly clenched. Then his jaw relaxes and he releases a heavy breath. “Fine. If I have to suffer through this crap movie, I’m smoking a joint first.”
“Whatever gets you through it, sweetie.”
He walks toward the doorway, grumbling something under his breath.
“Wait,” I call after him. I quickly fish my phone out of my jacket pocket. “Can you take this with you? I might give in to texting temptation if I’m left alone with it.”
He gives me a weird look. “Who you trying not to text?”
“My ex. We broke up last night and he won’t stop messaging me.”
There’s a pause. “You know what? You’re coming with me.”
I barely have time to blink before Dean crosses the room and tugs me off the chair. When my feet connect with the hardwood floor, I lose my balance and stumble right into his massive chest, my nose bumping one defined pec.
I quickly steady myself, armed with a glare. “I was comfy, you ass.”
He ignores me, half-leading, half-dragging me to the kitchen. Since he didn’t even let me grab my jacket, I start shivering the second we step through the back door.
Dean’s bare chest gleams under the patio light. He doesn’t seem bothered by the cold, but his nipples pucker slightly in the chilly night air.