“Dean? Are you awake?” Carly’s whispered voice came from the other side of the pillow wall she’d carefully constructed before climbing into the king-size bed. They’d been lying in the dark for nearly an hour now, the only sounds the ocean waves crashing against the beach, and the low hum of the ceiling fan. He’d wanted to turn the air-conditioning on, but Carly had asked to leave the sliding glass door that lead to the balcony open, wanting to hear the waves. He hadn’t been able to say no to her.

Then again, he’d always had a problem saying no, especially to women.

He blinked up at the ceiling, his hands folded over his stomach. “Yeah, I’m awake.”

The mattress shook beneath him as Carly moved, and then her face popped up over the pillows separating them. “You can’t sleep either?”

Her eyes were bright in the dim room. The only light was from the moonlight peeking around the curtains, and the light from the hallway spilling in under the door to their room. He turned and maneuvered himself up onto one elbow, facing her with his head propped on his hand. “No.”

She folded her arms on top of the pillows, resting her chin on her hands. Her hair fell in messy waves around her face, and he fought the sudden urge to reach out and push it back over her shoulder. “How come?”

He shrugged and couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes tracked the movement as it pulled his T-shirt taut against his chest. Shit. The truth would be a bad idea right now, wouldn’t it? He couldn’t exactly tell her that he’d been lying in the dark, wide awake, because of her. Because of how close she was, because they were in a bed together. Because his cock was hard and begging for attention it wouldn’t get—attention he wanted from her.

Lying in a bed with Carly, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to fuck her. Jesus. He really was a manwhore if he was thinking about one of his closest friends that way simply because she was in a bed with him. He shouldn’t want her, but he did. “Strange bed, I guess,” he said, shrugging again. Thankfully, he was covered by the blankets from the waist down.

She nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah. Same.” She didn’t say anything further, staring unfocused at something over his shoulder. Her thinking face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wanting to knock down that damn wall of pillows and pull her closer.

She continued to stare off. “I dunno. I guess I’m just feeling weird about this whole thing.”

“About telling people that we’re dating?”

She met his eyes in the darkness. “About lying to your family. I know it’s too late now, but I just . . .” She trailed off and flopped back down onto her side of the Great Wall of Feathers.

Guilt tugged at his chest. Sure, she’d started it by blurting out that they were dating to her douche ex, but he’d been the one to encourage her to see it through instead of correcting it when they still had the chance. Because he was a selfish, confused asshole.

He edged closer to the pillows and peered down at her. “You’re overthinking it. It’ll be fine.”

She nodded, but didn’t looked convinced with her brows still drawn together. Suddenly, she pushed up onto her elbow, mirroring his earlier posture. Her face was close, close enough that he’d only have to lean forward a couple of inches to touch his lips to hers and taste her. To see if she tasted as sweet as he knew she was, deep down inside.

“Can I ask you something?” she whispered, her breath fanning against his lips. His heart throbbed in his chest, his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers.

“Sure,” he said, his voice coming out huskier than he’d intended.

“Why do you do it? The sleeping around, I mean.”

Her question was like a bucket of cold water, and he laid back down on his side of the wall. Where he belonged.

Her face appeared above the pillows. “Sorry if that’s a shitty question.”

He shook his head. “It’s not. I’m just thinking about how to answer.” He sighed and tried to collect his thoughts, wanting to be honest with her. “It started in high school, after my mom died. I was just looking for . . . something. Comfort, I guess, or maybe a distraction. I liked the chase, liked how it felt. How it made me feel.” He glanced up at her. “Liked the sex, and making someone else feel good. It just . . . became a habit, I guess. Part of who I am.”

She made a soft murmuring sound. “And you’re happy with that?”

He opened and closed his mouth, struggling with what to say. If he said no, that he wanted something different, that meant opening himself up in a way he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with. But if he said yes, he’d be lying.

“Because if you’re not, it doesn’t have to be that way, you know,” she said. “You can be and do whatever you want, regardless of what happened in the past.”

He blew out a long breath. It wasn’t that simple. “Change is hard, Car. Bad habits are hard to break.”

“That doesn’t mean you just resign yourself to them, though, if you really want to change them.”

He stared up at the ceiling, not saying anything, feeling like a jerk. Although change was never easy, she was right. He wanted more out of life than just a string of one night stands. A lot more. “But say I did want to change,” he said slowly. “Maybe I don’t even know where to start.”

He could feel her eyes on him. “They say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So, I guess the first step would be to try something different. Take a new path, if that’s what you want.” She paused. “Is that what you want?”

He sighed, avoiding her question as he felt the knot of confusing emotion pull at the center of his chest. “What if I try to be different and I can’t do it?” He levered back up onto his elbow. “What if I hurt someone in the process? What if . . .” He shrugged.

“Someone hurts you,” she finished for him. She propped her head up on her hand and stared at him for a long minute. “You’re scared. You don’t like that your family sees you as a slut because you want more for yourself, but you’re scared to get hurt. Scared you might hurt someone else.”

He was a nail, and she was the hammer who’d just hit him right on the head with the truth. And he wasn’t sure which scared him more: getting hurt, or hurting someone else. Both made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

“This is a super fun conversation,” he grumbled, picking at a loose thread on one of the pillows between them. “Enough about me and my fucked up . . . whatever.” He leveled his gaze at her. “Since you’re in a caring and sharing mood, let’s talk about you.”

“Oh, yay,” she said drily, but stayed where she was, head resting on her hand.

“So, Dr. Mike, huh? Seems like kind of a dick to me.” And a blind one with bad taste if he found Carly lacking, but Dean kept that part to himself, surprised at how strongly he felt that way.

She laughed. “I guess. He didn’t at the time. And he met a lot of my ‘Carly needs a man’ criteria.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You have a list?”

“Well, it’s not so much a list as a set of desirable traits that . . . okay, yeah. It’s a list.”

“And what’s on this list? Tell me about Carly’s perfect man.”

“No. And it’s not about being perfect, it’s about being compatible with me. Because I’m awesome. I just need to find someone whose awesome works with mine.”

“You are,” he said, and her eyes met his. “Awesome, I mean. Come on. What’s on the list?”

She shrugged, her shifting legs making the mattress vibrate beneath him. “You know, typical stuff. Smart, kind, financially stable.” She nibbled on her lip again, and Dean felt the sudden urge to join in, fitting that lip between his, discovering its taste and texture. “Good in bed, good sense of humor.”

Something stilled in Dean, and while he didn’t like to brag, he knew that he fit all of those criteria. But he’d be a damn fool to let himself go there, because he couldn’t give her what she wanted. What she deserved. Even though he checked every single box on her list, he knew, deep down, that he wasn’t the man for her. He wasn’t ready for . . . for whatever came next when a manwhore decided his whoring days were over. He’d only hurt her, and the idea of hurting Carly . . . no. Bad, bad, bad idea.

He cleared his throat softly, sinking further into his confusion. “And what does this ideal man look like?”

“What he looks like isn’t as important as who he is.”

“So, he could be bald, with a beer belly, copious back hair, and missing a few teeth, and that’d be okay with you?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, no, but I—”

He cut her off. “So it does matter. At least a little. Come on. What’s your type, Car?”

“I don’t have a type.”

“What if I guess, or give you options?” For whatever reason, he wasn’t willing to let this go. He needed to know.

“Ugh, fine.” She gave in with a roll of her eyes and a hint of a smile.

“Long hair, like Brock O’Hurn?” he teased.

“You know who Brock O’Hurn is?”

“I do have Instagram, you know.”

“Right. No, not long hair. I prefer it short. And I tend to like darker hair.”

“Mmmkay, what about eyes?”

“Blue.” She answered so quickly that he’d barely finished saying the word “eyes” before she blurted out her answer.

“Nice teeth?”

“Yeah, but not overly white, you know? Normal-looking nice teeth.”

“Gotcha. What about his body?”

“I feel like we’re focusing a lot on the superficial stuff, here,” she said, scratching at her cheek.

“We’re talking about your ideal man, Car. It’s all relevant. Broad shoulders? Six-pack? What kind of neck?”

“What kind of neck? I can honestly never say I’ve thought about a guy’s neck before.”

“Well, then let’s figure it out. You like ’em skinny, or thick? Long or short? What about mine?” He craned his neck, tilting his head so she could see his perfectly normal neck.

“Ew, no, not like yours,” she said, her tone light and teasing.

“Hey! What’s wrong with my neck?” She was laughing too hard to speak, so he continued. “This is a perfectly good neck. I think you need to reevaluate your criteria.”

“For men’s necks.”

“Yeah.”

She let out another giggle and then stifled a yawn. “I’m getting sleepy.” She moved back down onto her side of the pillow wall. A wall part of him wanted to knock down so he could tell her, show her, that he was all of those things on her list. And yet, he knew he couldn’t.

Fuck, why did he even want to? As Carly’s breathing grew slower and deeper on the other side of the pillows, he stared at the ceiling, trying to untangle it all. His response to her on the plane. Wanting to pretend they were a couple. Lying in a bed with her, hard and painfully aware of how much he wanted her.

Something invisible had shifted inside him, like tectonic plates moving under the earth’s core. He wasn’t sure when the shift had started, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was headed for an unavoidable earthquake. All he could do was try not to hurt anyone when it happened.

* * *

After a group breakfast the next morning, everyone decided to head for the beach. According to Rose, there were “cuties with booties you wouldn’t believe down there,” solidifying Carly’s belief that Rose was A) hilarious; B) fun; and C) definitely an ass woman.

She and Dean had headed back to their room to get their stuff and change into swimsuits, and as she’d tugged on her black-and-white striped bikini—her favorite—she’d paused, taking in her reflection in the mirror. Her snow-white skin stared back at her, and she wondered if it was too late to sneak off somewhere to get a spray tan. Good thing her bikini had those black stripes on it, otherwise she’d blend right in with the beach’s white sand.

She made a goofy face at herself in the mirror, eyes crossed and lips curled back over her teeth. Then she adjusted her bikini top and cracked open the bathroom door. “You decent?” she called, not wanting to walk in on Dean naked. Not because she didn’t want to see him naked—just the idea had heat flushing over her skin—but because she didn’t want to make things awkward. Well, more awkward, anyway.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said. She stepped out of the bathroom to find him looking out the balcony doors, wearing a pair of red swim trunks and nothing else. His back—hairless, thank God—was broad and roped with lean muscle, tapering down to a trim waist. He turned from the doors, rubbing a hand absently over his abs. All six of them. The muscles in his arm flexed as he moved.

Carly’s mouth went dry as she stared at the mouthwatering muscle in front of her. He was cut and strong everywhere—his arms, his pecs, his abs. And—oh, God, help her—he had that delicious V arrowing down over his hips and disappearing into his swim trunks. He had surprisingly little chest hair, with only a faint dusting of dark hair running from his belly button and down toward his . . .

“Car? Hello?”

She dragged her eyes back up to his, and at the cocky smirk on Dean’s face, she knew she’d been caught checking him out. She knew she should say something, but her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her brain had drifted down somewhere toward her hoo-ha.

“Like what you see?” he asked, making his pecs bounce a couple of times. His smile took on a goofy slant, his blue eyes sparkling with humor.

A laugh burst out of her. “Don’t do that!” Although, truth be told, she was grateful that he had, because it reminded her that he of the chiseled chest was still just Dean. The Dean who liked cheesy eighties music, who could recite pretty much any Mel Brooks movie verbatim, who could fit half a hamburger in his mouth if he really tried.

“Do what?” he asked, bouncing those chiseled pecs again in time with his words.

“That!” She laughed harder, pointing at his chest.

“What, this?” He did it again, and then he started laughing, too. His laughter was contagious, and she doubled over, wiping tears from her eyes. He’d managed to go from sexy to playful dork in about three seconds flat, and she had to admit that she was grateful. Drooling wasn’t a good look on anyone, including her.

Dean picked up the beach tote holding all their stuff and slung it over his shoulder, heading for the door. He handed her one of the beach towels as he passed, close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin on hers. “Cute bikini,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than it had been just a minute ago.

She draped the towel over her shoulder and followed him out the door, their flip-flops smacking in unison against the hallway’s marble floor. As though it was completely natural, he took her hand, weaving their fingers together. She opened her mouth to remind him that there was no one around, but then decided, screw it.

A little hand-holding had never killed anyone. As far as she knew.

“Do you practice that in your bathroom mirror?” she asked.

He glanced down at her and winked. “Nah. Just naturally talented.”

They stepped out into the sunshine, and she slipped her sunglasses on. Everything around them was lush, alive, and vibrant. The willowy palms, arching gracefully into the sky, fronds rustling softly. Shrubs exploding with color, a riot of pinks, oranges, and yellows. The intensely blue sky, dotted with the tiniest, puffiest white clouds. The warm, humid air, heavy with the scents of freshly cut grass and tropical flowers.

When they joined the main path, they took a right, heading for the beach. A swath of mangroves separated the beach from the rest of the resort. A pretty wood bridge arched through the lush vegetation, ending in the white sand of the beach. They crossed it, boards creaking softly beneath their feet as they were momentarily engulfed in the shade of the mangroves.

Directly in front of them, close to the water, stood a large, elegant, raised gazebo. She nudged Dean. “I think that’s where the wedding’s going to be. I heard someone mention it at dinner last night.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Nice spot.” The wedding was to take place in a couple of days, at sunset, with the ceremony in the gazebo, followed by a catered twilight reception on the beach. Carly couldn’t imagine a more romantic setting for a wedding. A lump formed in her chest, and even though she didn’t really know Luke and Christie, she had a sudden burst of happiness for them. She’d always been this way when it came to weddings. The idea that two people could love each other so much that they would stand together in front of friends and family to say, “Yes. I choose you, now and forever. You are my person, no matter what,” always got to her.

Probably because she wanted it so badly for herself. Wanted not just a boyfriend or a lover, but a partner, in every sense of the word.

The beach itself was wide and open, all white sand, palm trees, wood and straw umbrellas for shade, and beach loungers. A cabana-like bar sat near the beach’s entrance, by the bridge, along with a beach volleyball court. The scents of salt and sunscreen hung in the air, and Carly took a deep breath, soaking it all up.

Dean led them toward their group and then dumped their stuff onto an empty—and thankfully shaded—beach lounger. With his olive complexion, she knew Dean tanned easily, but her . . . not so much. She had two modes: ghost or lobster, and there was no in between. Her skin already felt warm, so she plunked down onto one of the loungers and fished her bottle of SPF sixty out of the beach bag and began applying it. Several others from their group were spread out on loungers, talking or reading. Luke and Ethan stood near the water’s edge, playing tag with the lapping waves.

“You want a hand with that?” asked Dean, tipping his chin at the bottle of sunscreen in her now greasy hands. “I’d hate for you to get burned.”

“Uh, sure,” she said, not sure at all. But before she could say anything else, he’d moved from his lounger to hers, straddling it to sit behind her. His thighs brushed against hers, and she’d been so focused on the feel of his legs around her, the heat of his body behind her, that she hadn’t even felt him take the bottle from her.

But he must’ve, because suddenly, his big hands were on her, gently rubbing the sunscreen into her shoulders, his hands big and warm. “You have really nice skin,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. Her nipples tightened in response, and she hoped her bikini top hid her body’s response to him.

“I . . . um . . . thanks,” she said, the last word coming out on a sigh as he dipped his fingers underneath the straps of her bikini. He worked his hands lower, down her back, almost to her bikini bottoms, massaging her as he went. She held her breath, wanting him to touch her more. She shouldn’t want it, but she did. The tips of his fingers trailed just under the edge of her bikini bottoms, and she almost gasped. She clenched, suddenly aware of a hot, insistent throbbing in her clit.

“You keep this up, I’m going to start wearing sunscreen to work,” she joked, trying to regain her footing. As though if she could make it funny, it wouldn’t matter so much that having Dean’s hands on her was turning her on. Big time.

“Oh yeah? You gonna start wearing this bikini to work, too?” He toyed with one of the straps, the backs of his knuckles dragging over her skin.

“I’d probably get better tips.”

“True. But I’d probably end up punching some dude for staring at you, so you’d have to use all those tips to bail me out.”

She smiled and tipped her head forward. It should feel weird to flirt with him like this. They were friends and co-workers, and weren’t actually dating. And maybe if they’d been in a familiar setting, it would’ve felt weird. But everything about this was new, and it only felt . . . good. Right.

Too bad it was all make believe. And she knew better than to catch feelings for Dean. Knew better than to jeopardize their friendship just because his hands felt amazing on her, and he made her laugh, and was a pretty great guy. None of that changed the fact that he wasn’t relationship material. He was like the faux leather of relationship material. Looked good from far away, but once you inspected it closely, you could tell it wasn’t meant to last, that it would only be temporary. Not like the real thing.

And she wanted the real thing.

Her back was covered now, sunscreen fully applied, but he didn’t take his hands away, continuing his leisurely massage. “Mike and Ashley are watching us,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. She opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and found he was right. From about ten feet away, Mike and Ashley were watching them, their faces unreadable thanks to their sunglasses. Not just watching. Staring.

Dean’s mouth brushed against her neck, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. “Let’s give them something to watch, since they seem to be expecting a show.”

“What?” The word came out high and breathless, and it was her last coherent thought before his hands settled on her hips, and he trailed hot, gentle kisses from the base of her neck up toward her ear. Electricity jolted through her body, and she let her head fall to the side, giving him better access. Unable to help it, she let out a tiny moan, because, holy shit, his mouth felt good on her.

He moaned against her skin and with a firm grip on her hips, pulled her back against him, the skin of his chest warm against her bare back. Her toes curled into the sand as he continued his unhurried path up and then back down her neck.

“You taste good,” he whispered against her skin, and she felt as though everything inside her was alive and pulsing, heat and lust spiking her blood pressure. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this with him. They were just friends. It wasn’t real. And yet she knew she was wet, her inner muscles clenching as his teeth scraped over her earlobe.

Apparently, arousal made her stupid, because she opened her mouth, feeding the flames instead of dousing them like a woman with two working brain cells would’ve done. “Don’t stop. God, that feels good.”

He slid a hand up from her hip and into her hair, tugging lightly as he exposed the other side of her neck. Sparks danced across her scalp and her eyes drifted closed as he brushed his lips over her skin, dropping slow, hot kisses on her neck. Her insides felt like a kaleidoscope, bright colors all swirling together, contracting and expanding in a gorgeous, dizzying rhythm. She moved against him, unable to hold still, and she felt his cock, thick and hard, pressed against the small of her back. Her stomach bottomed out. Oh, God. This was in serious danger of spiraling out of control. Time to pump the breaks.

She looked up, trying to regain her focus with Dean’s talented mouth still on her. “They’re . . .” Her voice came out rusty, and she licked her lips and then swallowed. “They’re gone. Not watching anymore.”

“Huh?” He lifted his head from her neck and slid his hand from her hair. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” For a moment, neither of them spoke or moved. His heart beat against her back, and she was relieved to find that hers wasn’t the only pulse that had picked up. He cleared his throat. “Sorry about the, uh, the . . .” He cleared his throat again.

“No, it’s okay, it happens. Well, I assume it happens, but I don’t actually have a . . . Or I’m not saying that guys always . . .” Her words tumbled out, one after the other, in an awkward rush. “Really, I’m flattered.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound. “You should be.”

“Maybe you should go jump in the ocean.” She moved to scoot off the chair, but his hands tightened on her hips. Fresh heat sizzled over her skin.

“I, uh, need a minute here.”

“You need me to be your boner shield?” she asked. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his. He shot her a crooked smile, his eyes bright.

“Please. And don’t say boner.” He rested his forehead against her shoulder, and she both heard and felt him take a couple of deep breaths. “Kris Bryant. Bryce Harper. Clayton Kershaw. Andrew McCutcheon.”

“Are you reciting National League MVPs?”

“Uh-huh. Buster Posey. Ryan Braun. Albert Pujols.”

“You missed Joey Votto. How come I shouldn’t say boner?”

“Because we’re not in high school.”

“So, what should I call it?” She glanced over her shoulder, but Dean’s eyes were closed as he silently prayed to the boner-relieving baseball gods. The sudden urge to tease him overtook her, maybe because she felt somewhat discombobulated by what had just happened between them, and she needed to go back to the way things were before he’d put his mouth on her skin and tilted her world. “How about ‘blue steel’?” His mouth twitched, but he was still focused on deflating the situation in his swim trunks. “No? Hmm. What about ‘the purple hammer?’”

He cracked an eye open, and she could see the smile he was fighting back. “That’s at least ten times worse than boner.”

“Oh! How about the ‘raging salmon?’”

He broke and let out a laugh, and the last of the sexual tension seemed to dissipate. “You’re a weirdo.”

“I know.” She smiled, relieved to be back on familiar ground. “How’s the raging salmon situation?”

He flashed her a smile. “All clear. Swam back upstream.”

It was her turn to laugh. She’d been about to make another boner joke—the world could always use more boner jokes—when a man wearing a blue polo shirt emblazoned with the resort’s logo and a pair of white shorts approached. He held a ball in one hand.

“Volleyball, my friends?”