Chapter Sixteen

Dean shook the droplets of water from his hair, stepping out of the bathroom in time to see Elizabeth pull a pair of panties up her legs. Her back was to him, so he was able to admire the way she wriggled her hips to get the pink fabric in place. For the second time he noticed faint bruising on the skin of her hips, and on her upper thighs. He knew without her turning around that there were more bruises on her front. Not to mention the large hickey he'd left right on her hipbone.

Were he a better man, he supposed he'd feel a little guilt over marking her so ruthlessly. As it was, though, he was a little proud of himself. Besides, she didn't seem to mind. Hell, when he'd kissed that hickey on her hip in the shower he was pretty sure she'd smiled. And it wasn't his fault if bruises showed so easily on her skin. Their last tumble above the sheets had been relatively gentle, considering how wildly they'd had sex other times.

Tucking his used towel around his waist, he crossed to her, sliding one hand up her back in a gentle caress as she pulled her bra straps up her arms. "Let me," he said, leaning to press a kiss to her shoulder. Fingers finding the hooks, he brought them together.

"I thought you were only good for taking them off." She held her damp hair out of the way, gasping when he reached around to gently cup her breasts.

"Bra removal is only a small percentage of what I offer," he informed her before kissing the top of her head.

"What else do you offer?" she asked. She turned to face him as she spoke, her hands landing lightly at his waist.

There was vulnerability in her voice and it made him pause. He leaned back slightly, meeting her eyes. He thought he caught a glimmer of hopefulness but she glanced away before he could be sure. "Hey," he whispered, raising a hand to cup her cheek.

"I guess I…" She groaned, letting her forehead rest against his chest.

"Lizzie, talk to me." Suddenly he was reminded of all the times in the past when he had avoided talking. When a woman looked worried or seemed scared that their relationship was in trouble, he always ran. To the next town for a show. Across the country for an audition.

Now, he was scared that she would be the one running.

Being scared terrified him.

"Talk to me, Sweetheart." He turned her toward the bed, with its tangled comforter and twisted sheets, and sat on the edge. He didn't force her to sit, merely waited for her to decide on her own. And breathed a sigh of relief when she dropped down next to him. "Alright, let me have it. What did I do?"

She cracked a smile. "Nothing. It's all me."

"Uh-oh. I've heard this before…"

"No, no, it's not that speech. It's not a speech at all, really. I was just having observations after getting out of the shower." Her hands were clasped in her lap, the thumbs bouncing against each other. "And… The observations led to questions."

"Okay. Do I need a pen and paper or is it an oral quiz?"

"Dean," she groaned, pushing at his shoulder with hers. "Don't crack jokes."

"Fine, fine. Ask away, Lizzie. Wait, hold on," he muttered, standing and looking around the room for his clothes. He was pretty sure he saw his own shirt, neatly folded and lying in her suitcase, but it wasn't the one he'd worn to the gym. Finally spying his gym stuff in a neat pile on the dresser, he wondered when she'd gathered them. He pulled on his shorts, tossed the towel into the bathroom, and sat down once again. "I figure these questions aren't the kind I want to answer while I'm naked."

"I don't know. I mean, they're for me, too, but some are for you. You don't even have to answer them, really, I—" She cut off when he cleared his throat. "Ugh. Sorry."

"What's got you so nervous? Is it dinner with Steph and Paul?"

"A little," she admitted, not objecting when he took her hand and held it between his. She turned it over, a smile touching her lips as his fingers lightly traced the lines on her palm. "What are we?"

"We…" he trailed, considering her question. "We are whatever you want us to be."

"What do you want us to be?"

He did not want to get into a deep, soul-searching conversation about their relationship. Soul-searching usually ended up with him finding out that he and the other soul-searcher were on opposite sides of the relationship spectrum. "Lizzie—"

"I like us," she blurted. "I like that you make me forget my troubles for a little while. I like that you let me talk about my troubles without making me feel stupid for having troubles to begin with. I like that you've brought out parts of me I never knew existed. I like you," she emphasized. "I like your corny jokes and you adorable smile. I like how your eyes change a little depending on your mood. I like how you just don't give a fuck. I like how you make me feel when you look at me. I like your touch," she whispered, flattening her palm against his. "I like your kisses and how my stomach does flips when you whisper my name. I love being intimate with you… I love how you seem to know my body so well. I love that you can make me smile and laugh no matter what's going on. I love how much better I sleep when you're in the bed with me…"

He wondered if she realized she'd switched from 'like' to 'love.'

He wondered why he didn't panic at the sound of the word.

"I do, too," he said. Moron, he thought with an inward grimace. That was on par with Han Solo just saying 'I know' after Princess Leia had professed her love for him.

"The past few weeks have been crazy," she went on, either not noticing that his answer had been succinct or just not caring at the moment. "I don't… I don't want to do anything that'll screw us up."

"What could you do?"

"I don't know. Just… I guess I just wanted you to know that I don't want this to be some sort of revenge fling." The tips of her fingers traced his. "It didn't start like that, either."

"I know," he promised. "I would've been able to tell if it had been."

"Things are going to get crazy for me. Even for people not in the public eye, divorce is a big thing that's whispered about. With John being who he is, and with how it's all come about, I think it'll be messy."

"For him. It's his mess, Lizzie. You just got sucked into it." His fingers slipped between hers.

"You're right."

"I usually am." He brought her hand up, kissed it, then gave it a squeeze. "And if you're trying to scare me away, you're gonna have to do better."

"I'm not! I just—"

"Think too much. You, Elizabeth… Th'fuck is your middle name?" he grumbled.

Her nose wrinkled. "Annabelle."

"Annabelle…" He began to grin like the Cheshire cat. He could tell that she regretted telling him, but there was nothing she could do about it now. "Lizzie Belle—"

"Don't!" she cried in horror, clapping her free hand over his mouth. "Don't you dare! Lizzie's bad enough, please don't add the other to it. Please?"

Rolling his eyes dramatically, he nodded, brushing his lips over her palm. When she'd pulled her hand away, he began to grin again. "As I was saying… You, Elizabeth Annabelle Ce-Is it Cena?"

"Honestly, Ambrose, I thought better of you," she sighed, pushing his damp hair from his face. "You've been banging this chick for weeks and still don't know her name?"

She was definitely no longer the uptight bitch with the stick up her ass. The old Lizzie would have never teased him so. Laughing, he leaned in for a kiss. "Is it?"

"Yeah, it is. But not for long," she promised.

"What's it going to change to?" he inquired, sneaking another kiss.

"Richards."

"Elizabeth Annabelle Richards," he whispered.

"Mm-hmm…"

"Guess what?" He inhaled her aroma. Soap, citrus shampoo, and… He pressed his face against her neck and breathed deeply. Peppermint. Inhaling again so it was seared in his memory, he trailed kisses along to her shoulder, nudging her bra strap aside.

Her fingers were gently rubbing the back of his neck. "What, Dean?"

Sitting back, he met her gaze. And he knew with all certainty that he was a goner. "You're kind of stuck with me."

"Am I?"

"Yep." Dean offered no further explanation. He had a feeling she would understand.

"Guess what?" she murmured after a moment.

"What, Lizzie?"

Her smile lit up the room. "I like being stuck with you."

"You're not going to wear that, are you?"

The words were out of her mouth before she could censor them. Yet another side effect of spending too much time with the man. He was a bad influence. She already cursed more than she ever had before, she smoked… She had tons more sex. No, that was one of his good influences. And she supposed that it depended on the person whether or not speaking her mind was a good thing.

Dean, though, looked a little shocked at her outburst. "What's wrong with it?" he asked, his tone one of offense. "Paul didn't say I had to wear a fucking tux, just a jacket."

"But not with jeans," she sighed. True, they were black jeans, but they showed wear. And the belt. It was brown. The jacket was some mishmash color that couldn't decide if it was brown or gray. It made her eyes hurt. And— "Are you wearing a clip-on tie?"

"Well I'm sorry that I don't have fucking Armani or what-the-fuck-ever on speed-dial to help me," he muttered. "What's wrong with it, though? It's clean, and… Yeah, the jacket's a goddamn nightmare, isn't it?"

"It's definitely creeping into Willy Wonka territory." Stepping into her black pumps, she reached for her small clutch. "But you're in luck."

"Fuck yeah I'm lucky. Look at you. You look amazing, Lizzie." He caught her by the upper arms and kept her at arm's length so he could look her up and down. She thought she saw his shoulders rise and fall with a sigh of appreciation. His smile turned winsome. "Do we have to go?"

"Yes we do." She had a feeling that the dinner would be important in more ways than one.

"You've got your hair up." His index finger curled in a loose tendril that rested against her cheek. "Your tits are covered – Good choice. I've always liked that you don't put them on display all the damned time. I like the length, too. It shows off your legs and is sexy as fuck, but at the same time it's… What's the word?"

"Modest?" she supplied, her voice soft. Practically glowing under his praise, she felt as though she would float away if he let go of her.

"That's the one. And this is a nice touch." He fiddled with the woolen wrap she'd selected to ward off the chill of the evening. "It's almost as soft as your skin."

"I'm glad you approve," she said. Double-checking the contents of her purse, she motioned to his clothes. "As I was saying, though, you're in luck, because I need to stop and pick up something before we meet Stephanie and Paul."

"You're taking me shopping." His voice was deadpan, his expression one of disgust. "I knew when you told me what time you wanted to leave that something was up, but I never imagined—"

"It won't kill you," she promised. "We can get a decent suit off-the-rack."

"We can?"

"What about that suit you wore to the Slammys? You were panty-dropping gorgeous that night," she informed.

"I know I was." His grin was pure pride. "But it was a one-night deal. I got to wear it and take a few pictures, then back it went for some other slob to wear."

"Well, we'll get you something similar." Her eyes dropped to his shoes and she inwardly cringed. "And we'll grab you a new pair of shoes, too."

"Are you going to make me drop my pants so you can check my underwear for skid marks?" he snorted.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do I need to?"

He suddenly laughed. "I don't know how you did it, Lizzie, but you just managed to look both disgusted and demanding at the same time. No worries, though, I put on a brand new pair." He dropped his voice, adopted a Southern accent. "Only the best for you, Sugar."

"Let's go," she decided, snorting on a laugh. "There's a cab waiting."

"What do you need to pick up?" he asked once they were settled in the cab.

"Oh, this and that." It was growing dark already. Winter had most of the country firmly in its grasp and seemed unable to let go. A fresh dusting of snow had fallen since she had returned to the hotel from Headquarters. The forecast she'd overheard while getting dressed had called for a few more inches overnight.

"What are you missing that you need before dinner?"

"Oh… Just a couple little things." She shrugged, smiling when the cab stopped and cut off his next question. Leaning forward to slip the driver a decent tip so he would wait for them, she felt Dean adjusting the wrap on her shoulders, then he was opening the door.

"Let's do you first," he decided once they'd escaped the freezing temperatures of the great outdoors.

"Oh no you don't." Taking his hand, she led him in the direction of menswear. He followed along almost obediently, grumbling under his breath. She knew he was putting on a show, though, for if he'd wanted to he could have easily dragged her in the opposite direction.

It took her a few moments of holding up and shoving back before she found a small range of sizes from different designers that would fit him best. The salesman took off the offending jacket with a look of disgust while Elizabeth handed several jackets over for Dean to try on.

"Do you know your measurements?" she asked, glancing to rack after rack of pants. Nodding when he rattled off the numbers, she began thumbing through, handing over several pair.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked softly.

"I'm doing this because you are a handsome man in perfect physical condition and deserve to be able to show off your hard work in a suit that fits. I'm doing this because a well-dressed man is a professional man, and when dining with the boss you have to look your best." She removed the clip-on tie and trailed her index finger down his torso. "I'm doing this because I like perfectly wrapped gifts. And once dinner is over, I plan to unwrap you and play with you all night long."

"All night long?" he repeated, transferring the load of items over one arm and reaching for her. His normally light eyes had darkened to sapphires.

"All night long," she confirmed. "Here comes the salesman. Behave, let him do his job, and when I come back I want my panties to start dropping at the sight of you."

"Well, okay, if you insist," he whispered. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not selfish. You need something to unwrap tonight, too." She sneaked a kiss, the heat of his palm on her backside like a branding iron. "What's your favorite color?"

"On you? Blue." He squeezed, then released her when she stepped back.

"Behave," she reminded before turning and heading away.

His low chuckle followed her. "We'll see, Lizzie Belle."