When we reach his room, Dean sits on the bed and pulls me between his legs. He trails his fingers across my collarbones and slips them under the straps of my dress. “They’ve been falling down all evening. It’s been such a distraction.” He meets my stare, his eyes blazing with need. “May I?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He coaxes the straps down, and the bodice of the dress falls to my waist. “Damn, Solange. You’re beautiful. It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time.” He grunts his approval, then leans forward and brushes his lips against my belly, caressing my breasts so lightly that I press into his touch, aching for more.

“Dean, please,” I beg.

It’s a vague request, sure, but he has to know I’m dying here.

“Please, what?” he asks, his voice tight and commanding.

Goose bumps dot my arms. Dean likes to be bossy in the bedroom. Knowing this about him is a huge turn-on. Still, I can’t have him thinking I’m a pushover. “Can we move this along?”

“No problem. Step out of your dress.”

I shimmy the fabric to my ankles and kick it off. “Done.”

Now I’m naked and horny, and this gorgeous man is just staring at me.

Slowly—far too slowly for my taste—he rises off the bed, then shucks off his own clothing in three easy steps. Instead of touching me, he sits back down and strokes himself, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world or a bare woman at the ready.

“This is called delayed gratification,” he says. “You’ve probably come across the term in your travels.”

I refuse to respond. The more I engage, the longer he’ll draw this out.

“Do you see what you’ve done to me?” he says as he fists his dick and strokes it. “Just by asking me to lift your dress. This is because of you. All you.”

I can’t help staring at the way his big hand grips his cock. The way he slides his fingers down to the root, draws on his balls, and tightens his hold as he meanders back up to the crown. God, I want him in my mouth. “May I taste it?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and widens his legs. “Fuck, yes.”

I drop to my knees and rest one hand on his thigh.

“Hang on,” he says, opening his eyes and reaching for the clip securing my ponytail. “I want your hair brushing against my body.”

Once my curls tumble to my shoulders, I draw him inside my mouth.

“Solange,” he breathes out. “Yes, baby. Yes.”