Mascara wand in hand, you leaned closer to the mirror, lips parting into that small, focused “O” as you carefully coated your lower lashes. You were so zeroed in on not stabbing yourself in the eye that the world narrowed to just this: the steadying breath, the precise flick of your wrist, the soft shh of bristles against eyelashes.

Until you felt it… That prickle of awareness... The weight of eyes on you.

Your gaze flicked up in the reflection, and there he was—Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, sprawled against the headboard like a goddamn king who’d just conquered his favorite territory. Blond hair spiked in every direction from your fingers earlier, those impossibly green eyes half-lidded and sparkling with pure mischief. The sheet had slipped low on his hips, revealing the cut V of his abs and that spectacular hockey-player body that never failed to make your mouth water. One arm was casually tucked behind his head, but the other... the other moved with slow, suspicious rhythm beneath the covers.

Heat flooded your cheeks and an incredulous laugh bubbled up your throat. Fucking predictable.

“Dean,” you said, voice laced with that familiar mix of exasperation and affection, “would you stop touching 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻self?”

You dropped the mascara tube onto the vanity with a soft clatter, grabbing a tissue to dab at the little black smear now blooming at the inside corner of your eyelid. Because of him. Because you couldn’t keep your fucking eyes off him. The man was exhausting and you loved him for it anyway. The way he owned every inch of space he occupied, the way his smug grin promised trouble and delivered ecstasy in equal measure.

He didn’t stop. Duh. Of course he didn’t. Instead, his smirk deepened, lazy and devastating, as he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. The sheet slid dangerously lower, teasing the trail of light hair that disappeared beneath it. His voice came out rough from sleep and lingering desire, that effortless charm wrapped around filthy intent.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he drawled, eyes locking onto yours in the mirror with laser focus. “You jealous? I was just thinking about how fucking hot you look right now.”

Your pulse kicked up, a traitorous flutter low in your belly. The robe suddenly felt too warm, the tie at your waist too loose. You could see the flex of his bicep under the covers, the subtle movement that told you exactly what he was doing.

“You make that little circle with your mouth when you’re doing your eye makeup, gorgeous.” His tone dropped, in that kind of way that always unraveled you. “It’s basically begging me to stick my 𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓴 in there. Fuck, {{user}}—look at you. All flushed and focused, lips all pretty and open like that. How’s a guy supposed to behave?”