A/N: Thanks again to everyone reviewing and following. I don't get the chance to reply to every review but please know I take them all to heart. Some make me grin, some make me giggle, and some even make me think. Thanks so much! :)

Chapter Four

Elizabeth stared at the cigarette in her hand. It was easier than looking at Dean. Unsteady from the few drags she had taken, she wondered how he thought it would calm her down. She wanted to ask him if he was sure only tobacco was inside but doubted he would allow the subject change.

"Lizzie," he sighed.

"It only happened a couple times," she blurted. The ashes at the end of her cigarette sagged and she tried to look around him for the ashtray. It was impossible to see anything but him, though, so she could only watch as the ashes fell to the floor at her feet.

"Define 'a couple' for me."

"It hasn't happened in a long time." She knew she was defending John but didn't know it was wrong until Dean yanked the cigarette from his mouth.

"What. Did. He. Do."

Even though she had an inkling that his anger was directed at her husband, she shivered. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the cigarette between her fingers. "He lost his temper. I goaded it out of him. I should have—"

"Don't." His eyes closed briefly and she could sense his body tightening. Glancing to the hand on the wall, she saw it had curled into a fist.

"Don't what?" she whispered.

"Don't defend him. Don't you dare put the blame on yourself." He sucked angrily on his cigarette, directing the exhalation of smoke at the ceiling. "After what he's done, please don't try to make it all your fault."

"But it was," she insisted gently. "He'd just found out he was going to lose a match."

"You're kidding me. Does he have a fucking hero complex or what?"

"I don't know. He… He likes being the guy that wins. He likes the kids looking up to him. He—"

"Has a fucking hero complex." He gave his head a shake. "Tell me, Lizzie. Tell me what he did."

"It was just a slap," she sighed, tentatively taking another drag of the cigarette. It didn't burn this time.

"That sonofabitch," he whispered, tossing his cigarette aside. She only hoped it landed in the ashtray.

"He apologized, Dean."

"Yeah. Sure. Promised it'd never happen again. Showered you with love and presents to show you he loved you." Both hands on the wall, he shook his head. "Then he did it again."

She hated the scorn in his voice. She also hated the fact that he was right. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't have to," he was quick to assure. "You've got enough shit to deal with right now."

She nodded, watched another clump of ashes fall to the floor. Taking one more drag, she managed to inhale and exhale without coughing or choking. "I'm sorry I hit you, Dean."

"Eh," he grunted. "I probably deserved it."

Elizabeth felt the heat of his fingers above her cheek, but his hand dropped before fully touching her.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he said, stepping away. "I'm… I'm gonna go finish my shower."

She nodded, inexpertly tapping out the cigarette in the ashtray.

He turned at the door, scraping his wet hair back. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine," she promised, wondering if she had any gum in her purse. Looking up, she caught him watching her. "Really."

"Pick out which side of the bed you want," he suggested, and her gaze instantly went to the bed.

She'd forgotten they would have to share. Strangely, neither had suggested that one take the floor. And she didn't feel guilty about sharing a bed with him. They were friends…sort of. "Okay."

"Find something good to watch if you can."

"Dean." Despite everything, she wanted to laugh. "Next you'll be telling me I can have an ice cream if I behave."

He smiled, officially breaking the tension in the room. "Ice cream I can't give you. Maybe a snow cone?"

This time she did laugh. "Go shower."

"No offense or anything, but what the fuck are we watching?" Dean asked.

Next to him, Elizabeth sighed. "Rebecca."

"Never heard of it." He dumped Skittles into his hand. While he'd showered, she'd gone to the car to get the junk food they'd bought. She'd doubly surprised him by cleaning out the vending machines next to their room. The ice bucket was full, and she had found two cups for them to use.

"It was Hitchcock's first Hollywood film," she murmured. When he didn't immediately respond she took the bag of Skittles from him. "Psycho?"

"That one I've heard of." He reached for his drink, groaning when the movement sent his phone to the floor. He hadn't checked it since leaving the arena. Unlike Elizabeth, he didn't have people worrying about him. Well. He supposed Seth and Roman would worry, but not so soon.

Leaving it on the floor, he leaned back against the thin pillow, grateful that no sounds had started up in the next room. He hoped that he hadn't just jinxed himself and took a sip of his drink, eyes on the screen.

"Who's she?"

Elizabeth groaned and fumbled between them. The remote landed in his lap. "You choose something."

"No, you wanted to watch this."

"I don't want to explain every detail though." Her smile was brief. "Go ahead. I can watch this anytime."

"Well," he drawled, already picking up the remote. "If you insist."

He aimlessly switched from channel to channel, pausing only long enough to disregard the program before forging ahead. Barely paying attention, though, he went through the entire channel selection twice. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he noticed that she had arranged a handful of Skittles in front of her. He continued to channel surf, focusing on how she organized the candies first by color, then from most to least. When she popped two reds into her mouth to even out the numbers, he chuckled.

"Find anything yet?" she asked, eyes on her task.

"Nope," he answered quickly, turning his attention to the TV. He stopped at a rerun of an old sitcom and, satisfied, tossed the remote aside. "How's this?"

She raised her head and nodded. "Sure."

Pushing his drink onto the nightstand, he looked on as she peered into the Skittles bag. "…Question."

"Hmm?"

"Do you eat every candy in order, or just Skittles?"

"Skittles, Starburst, Jolly Rancher…" She shook a green Skittle into her hand and added it to the lineup. "Anything with different flavors and colors."

"So it would piss you off royally if I helped myself to one?"

"Please," she muttered with a roll of her eyes. "I'm not that anal-retentive—Dean!"

He grinned, chewing the grape-flavored candy with relish. Soaring when she began to laugh, he reached for one of the bags of chips. "Don't worry. He died with honor."

"You're impossible."

"No," he disagreed, holding up a chip for inspection. "You're impossible. I happen to be very possible."

Her laugh was like music. She gave up organizing her candy and popped one into her mouth. Sobering, she arranged the candy into a circle. "It feels good to laugh. But at the same time it feels wrong."

"How come?"

"It's obvious my marriage is over."

Hoping she didn't expect him to offer sympathy, he merely looked at her. "Yeah?"

"I can forgive a lot of things. But not infidelity."

It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that she should have left long ago, but he bit it back and selected another chip.

"It'll be hard."

"Why?"

"We work together. I'm sure the rumors will start soon. If they haven't already." She picked up another Skittle. "You know how everyone is. If I don't say why we're splitting up, they'll think I've cheated. If I do say why, they'll think I made it up so I could have some of his millions."

"Who the fuck cares what they think?" he asked bluntly. "It's your life, not theirs. If you want to announce why you're leaving him, do it. It's not like his fucking around is some huge secret."

She stared at him. "What do you mean?"

Dean realized how sheltered she was from all the gossip. Tucked in Cena's private dressing room had perks, apparently. And it wasn't as though he went around asking for updates on the rumor mill. Hell, he tried to fucking avoid it as much as possible. But some things leaked through. People didn't know how to shut up, especially when the golden boy had been seen groping his assistant. Obviously, being under John's thumb protected her from all of that bullshit.

"Nothing," he muttered after a few minutes had passed.

"No, tell me."

"Haven't you had enough upsetting shit for one night?" He rubbed his jaw.

"Dean… Please."

"Why do you want me to tell you?"

"Because I know you'll tell me the truth. I hope you will, at least." She gathered the remaining Skittles and dumped them back into the bag. "If you're just going to fuck with my mind, then don't say anything."

Why did watching her mouth form dirty words make him forget what she was saying? Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he sighed. "They're just rumors."

"Dean." She turned to face him. "What did you hear?"

"It's just little backstage shit. Most of it is stupid, like somebody talked to somebody who talked to somebody else that saw him cop a feel in Catering. Or some bullshit like that. And I guess somebody saw him fooling around with…"

"You can say her name," she murmured.

He didn't want to. But he did anyway. "Melissa. And a couple of the Divas were talking a few weeks ago about how much he likes to eat pussy." He saw her flinch and looked down. "I could have worded that better. Anyway. They could have been making it up. I didn't ask."

"But he doesn't," she blurted. "He doesn't like the taste. He tried it a few times and told me he hated it."

"Fucking idiot," he muttered. "He must have been doing it wrong."

"I wouldn't know." He glanced up in time to see her shrug. "It was years ago and I didn't have anything to compare it to."

Surprised by her bluntness, he stayed quiet and digested the information. "Wait a minute," he said. He sat up, tongue darting over his lips, and stared at her. "You're saying that he hasn't gone down on you in years?"

"Ye-es." She dragged the syllable out slowly, brow furrowing.

"But he has…" Of all times for his verbal filter to kick in, he thought with a brief glance to the ceiling. Forging ahead, he met her eyes. "But he does make sure you cum. Right?"

Her cheeks colored and he knew.

"What a fucking joke," he snorted.

"I fail to see the humor."

"How long has it been?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How long has it been," he repeated slowly. "Since you came."

"Can we change the subject now?"

"No, we can't. I'm curious."

She began gathering all the candy and chips. Her cheeks remained a deep red as she slid off the bed to stow the food next to the TV on the dresser. She walked back over and began brushing her hands against the sheets.

Dean waited. He had a feeling that the longer he stayed silent the more agitated she would get. Laying back, one arm tucked behind his head, he watched her. Her lips pressed into a thin line, she picked up the remote and placed it at his side. He kept his eyes on her, though. Any minute now, he thought, she would—

"Ten months," she snapped.

"Seriously?"

"Yes I'm serious."

"Don't you masturbate?"

"Of course I do."

That was a surprise. He had really thought her too uptight to do it. "And you—"

"I manage to find…some pleasure," she said slowly. "But it's not earth-shattering." Her chuckle was sad. "It's not even room-shattering."

Dean pursed his lips in thought. "I don't believe it."

"What's so hard to believe? A lot of women have trouble reaching orgasm."

"Yeah, sure, if they're just starting out. Or with a guy who doesn't know what the fuck he's doing."

"I don't believe you're an expert," she snorted. She'd moved to the door, checking the locks.

"I've been around."

"That I believe."

His eyes continued to follow her. She obviously had a routine she followed before going to bed. She hung his towel in the bathroom. He felt bad when she began picking up the clothes he'd left on the bathroom floor, but she came back into the room with them already folded and placed them on top of his suitcase. She turned off the TV, made sure the curtains were closed. Then, finally, she got back into the bed. Unable to let the topic rest, he cleared his throat. "So he won't go down on you."

"Dean…"

"But I bet he made you go down on him."

"Do you want to watch some more TV?"

"Fuck the TV. Did he?"

"Dean—"

"And he's not man enough to use his mouth on you. What a fucking winner he is. Does he even try to get you worked up? Or are you supposed to be so grateful for his dick that you flow like a river when he pokes it against your back?"

"Stop!"

There was pain in her voice and it was like a punch to the gut. Regretting his words, he fought to find the proper way to apologize. "Lizzie…"

"Don't." Elizabeth punched her pillow and though her movements were gentle the bed shook. Back to him, she laid down, dragging the covers up to her ear. "Good night, Dean."

Defeated, he murmured a reply and turned to switch off the light. He barely heard the springs as he tried to find a comfortable position. Finally giving up, he propped himself up on his elbow, able to pick her out in the small bit of light that came in around the curtains. Without realizing it he moved closer, resting his hand between them on the mattress.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm an asshole. I just… I hate to see you hurting."

"Why?"

"Because it hurts me." Honesty was the best policy, right?

Again she whispered, "Why?"

"I'm crazy," he sighed. His hand crept forward. He couldn't see, but he sensed his fingers getting closer to her.

She huffed. "I knew that already."

He smiled and let his fingers graze her back. "I mean I'm crazy about you." She didn't speak and he closed his eyes, dragging his fingers to her shoulder. When she didn't shy away he allowed himself to hold on for a moment. "I have been since I met you."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"If not now, when?"

She didn't have an answer for that. Her shoulder slipped from beneath his hand and he knew she'd rolled over. "Can we talk about this in the morning?" she asked softly.

It was already morning. But he nodded even though she couldn't see him and began to draw his hand back. His fingers brushed over hers, though, and when they latched onto him he realized she'd been reaching for him.

Flirting with danger, Dean traced her palm with his thumb. He finally lay down fully, holding his breath. Her fingers squeezed his and then she was moving closer. As though he'd done it a million times he brought his arm up to accommodate her, surprised when her hand landed on his chest. Closing his eyes, he let himself enjoy the sensation, carefully tucking his arm around her.

"Lizzie," he murmured.

"Just hold me. Please." Her head joined her hand; her hair fell across his skin like a silken sheet. "You've comforted me a thousand times already tonight. Please, let me have some of that again so I can fall asleep."

He finally breathed, his arm relaxing around her. Making sure the covers were securely over them, he raised his hand. It hovered just above her head for what seemed hours. When it lowered, smoothing over her hair, he heard a sigh.

Her sigh. One of relief. "Thank you," she breathed.

Dean was sure she still had no clue. She probably hadn't believed him. Given his history with her, she no doubt thought he was fucking with her mind again. He continued to smooth her hair as her breathing evened out, then let his fingers curl in the loose locks. "Sweet dreams, Lizzie."

She awoke to the feel of his breath against her neck. Keeping her eyes closed, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the warmth. Sometime during the early morning hours they had rolled onto their sides. One arm was beneath her, fingers relaxed against her arm. The other arm was draped over her waist, his large hand resting protectively on her stomach. His head was tucked next to hers; she could almost feel his lips at the back of her neck.

Without meaning to she stretched her back, aware of his legs behind hers. The hand on her stomach moved, and she heard him groan softly. He pulled her back to him, his lips brushing her neck as he shifted his head. His fingers slipped beneath her t-shirt, searching, and she remained still, breath caught in her throat.

"Mornin'," he mumbled, stirring the arm beneath her.

"Morning," she whispered. His hand crept up, fingers brushing the bottom of her breast. Her breath came out as a gasp when he nuzzled her neck.

His hips were rolling against her, shifting her attention to the hard ridge pressing to the small of her back. Not wanting to but powerless to stop, she wriggled, tucking her backside firmly against him. "Mmm," he groaned against her neck.

"Dean," she gasped, surprised at the way her body responded to his lazy touches. His fingers continued to stroke the bottom of her breast; she felt her nipples tighten and harden, the gnawing in the pit of her belly giving way to a flood of warmth.

The arm beneath her moved, his hand coming to rest over her chest. The tips of his fingers danced over her nipples, causing her to moan at the friction. Diverted, she didn't notice his other hand had slipped away until he began to trace the waistband of her sleep pants.

"Dean." It was a whisper. A warning. A plea. She wasn't sure which. Not until his fingers began to gently pull at her aching nipple.

"If you want me to stop…"

"Please," she whispered, "don't."

He growled, hand pushing at her sleep pants. She lifted up to assist him, lips parting when he guided her back down. "It's okay," he promised, his voice still rough with sleep. "Just relax."

"Dean—"

"Shh." His hand slipped inside the pants, already stroking, diverting her attention yet again. "I've got you, Lizzie."

Turning her head to look at him, she sighed when his lips instantly covered hers. His kiss was slow, tender, lingering. She pushed her lower knee forward to grant him better access, moaning into his mouth as his hand covered her. His thumb traced circles on her abdomen. Lips moving to the corner of her mouth, he began to stroke her.

"Oh," she gasped, bewildered by her sudden desire for him. Her hips rocked on their own accord and she grasped his wrist, fearing he would stop.

"I'll get you there," he promised before kissing her again.

"You'll get tired," she whispered sadly.

"Then I'll just switch hands," he murmured. "Relax, Lizzie."

She couldn't. She'd had a taste of him. She wanted more.

His fingers moved slowly. Releasing her breast, he cupped her arm, holding her against his chest. Secure, she covered his hand with hers, trying to keep her breathing normal. His lips moved to her neck. Warm breath caressed her skin.

Her heart tripped in her chest. When he guided her onto her back she continued to hold onto his hand, hips wriggling. His mouth returned to hers. Trembling, she dropped her hands to the mattress, instinctively lifting her hips when he pulled at her sleep pants. A whine pulled from her chest when his hand left her. It returned quickly, the stroking motion increased, and she grasped his shoulders.

"Hear that?" he whispered, lips next to her ear. "Hear how wet you are?"

"Yes," she hissed. Uncomfortably warm, she turned her head to suck in a deep breath. On their own, her hands trailed down his bare chest, then further. Just as her fingers brushed the waistband of his sweatpants his hand caught her wrists, gently steering them above her head. Surprised, she met his eyes. "Don't you want—"

"This is about you," he reminded, fingers tapping the inside of her wrists. "Not me."

About to answer, she instead sucked in a breath, hands returning to his shoulders. He spread her, fingers sliding over her entrance. Arching her hips upward, she dug her nails into his skin, breath pulling from her lungs when his fingers glided up to her clit. "Shit," she whined as a tremor rocked through her.

"Is that it?" he asked, tugging at her shirt as his fingers worked over her clit. "Is that what you need?"

"More," she requested, shameless.

His body shifted; he straddled her thigh and she heard him groan. He gently palmed her bared breasts then, pulling at one nipple, he dipped his head to catch the other between his lips.

"Dean," she cried, hands sliding into his hair. The tender warmth was becoming a raging fire. He rolled her nipple between his teeth, sucked lightly, flicked it with his tongue, then began to suck hard. She writhed, eyes closing. Pinned beneath his body, she squeezed her thighs together, whimpering at the unrelenting muscle between them.

A finger entered her, joined quickly by another. He moaned around her nipple, pumping slowly, his thumb rapidly working back and forth over her clit. Biting down on her nipple, he released it and turned his attention to the other.

She hadn't been this close in a long time. Panting now, she curled her fingers in his hair, body growing taut as his fingers continued to fuck her slowly. "Please," she gasped, trying to rock her hips. "Oh god, please, please…"

Dean propped his hand next to her head and, releasing her nipple, moved his lips to her cheek. "You can do it," he whispered.

"Don't stop," she begged, tears gathering in her eyes at the thought of him ceasing his actions.

"Come on, Lizzie." He nipped at her earlobe. "Do I need to work it faster?" he asked. As he spoke, his fingers increased their speed. In reply, she shuddered, crying out. "Does your clit need it slower?"

"Oh, fuck," Elizabeth growled, legs tangling around his. The faint flutter of his thumb against her clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through her.

"Come on," he urged softly, raising his head. Their eyes locked and her heart pounded. His hand shifted, thumb tenderly stroking the side of her neck. "I want to see how beautiful you are when you cum. Let me see, Lizzie. Please."

"So close." Her voice was a high-pitched whine. "Don't—"

"I won't," he promised, his voice sounding far away. "I won't stop."

She heard what sounded like waves crashing in her ears. Immediately her body seized up. Tightening her thighs around his, she held her breath as the pleasure ripped through her. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She screamed. Her head fell back and she saw stars as the bliss took over, crying out his name repeatedly.

So warm. So peaceful. So damned good. Still trembling, she was only vaguely aware of him moving above her. She could still feel his fingers pumping, his thumb fluttering. In the haze of her mind she realized he'd meant it when he'd said he wasn't going to stop. Her body jerked in surprise when his breath fanned over her thigh. "D-d-d-d," she stuttered. Her tongue was too thick to speak properly. She eased her grip on his hair, whining when he pulled out his fingers.

A squeal filled the room at the first touch of his tongue. Heavy arms draped over her hips, holding her still while he explored. Releasing his hair, she groped for his hands, grasping them just as his tongue flicked over her clit. The tremor that zipped up her spine was more powerful than the earlier ones and all she could do was hold on. But, she realized when his tongue dipped lower, he wasn't attempting to make her come again. He was gentle and thorough as he licked her clean, occasionally moaning. When she thought she would die from the added pleasure he gave her one final, tantalizingly slow lick and shifted to press a kiss to her inner thigh.

"Damn," she whispered. Dazed, she turned her head to stare at him when he moved to lie next to her.

He licked his lips. Reaching to pull her shirt back down, he traced her navel with the tip of his index finger. A smirk touched his lips, and she glimpsed the dimple as his arm slipped around her waist to pull her close. "For the record, Lizzie, you're delicious."

"Thank you," she murmured. Her hands rested on his chest and she smiled, realizing their legs had tangled. "For not stopping." Pressing a kiss to his lips, she burrowed closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. "Thank you. For everything."