Damn him and his winks. Like I need anymore of a buzz right now.

When we pull into my driveway, my nerves reappear, uncertainty looming in the air. We glance at each other at the same time, and I lower my head, gnawing my lip between my teeth.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” Dean says, that raspy edge returning to his voice.

Walk me to my bedroom, you say?

I shake my head, knowing we shouldn’t. Knowing my stitched wounds will only rip wide open when he heads back to Bloomington come morning.

We saunter up to my front door, dead leaves crunching beneath our shoes. My heart starts to thump inside my chest as we linger on the porch, turning towards each other. The porch light illuminates the conflict in his eyes and the heady unknowns that are surely reflecting in my own.

Dean raises his hand to my face, his thumb skimming along my cheekbone and causing me to inhale a sharp breath.

“What do we do now?” I wonder out loud, nuzzling my cheek into his palm.

The gesture seems to awaken him and he moves in closer, until our bodies are almost touching. His hard gaze caresses my face, trying to read me. Trying to pull answers out of my eyes—like if he looks close enough, he’ll find them.

He will.

Dean lowers his hand to my neck, his fingers catching on my hair. He leans down to press a light kiss to my forehead, his lips hovering against my hairline as he whispers, “I’m not sure, Corabelle. All I know is that I want to kiss you more than I want air.”

My knees start to quiver and I tip my chin up to meet his eyes. “I don’t usually kiss on the first date.”

He tightens his hold around my neck, his fingers curling around the nape. “Would you consider making an exception?” he asks, inching forward until I’m leaning back against the brick pillar and Dean’s chest is pressed to mine.

I lick my lips, grateful for the support behind me. “I suppose I can be persuaded.”

“Yeah?” Dean moves in, dipping his mouth to my neck, breathing in my scent and peppering heated kisses up along my jawline. Our groins are touching, prompting a whimper to escape my throat. Dean lets out a small groan near my ear. “Tell me what I have to do.”

“You’re doing it.”

He raises his other hand until he’s cupping my face, then he pulls our mouths together, arching me back against the brick post. I cling to him for support, out of necessity, out of desire, and his tongue pushes past my lips, invading me and making me mewl. I expect the hunger and raw need to overtake us, but Dean remains soft and careful. His tongue kisses mine with gentle strokes, his hands clasped along my jaw, cradling gently—lovingly.

Dean pulls back and presses our foreheads together. “Inside?” he suggests breathily, my fingers curling around his leather coat.