Page 36 of Shared Obsession

Bullseye

We head inside and settle into the living room, the energy softer than it’s been in days. Ayla starts holding her own little fashion show, slipping into outfit after outfit, twirling for us in the middle of the rug—utterly unselfconscious, giggling as she models everything from flirty sundresses to oversized pajama pants. She’s so open, so carefree in the moment, it’s easy to forget the reality waiting outside these walls. For a few minutes, we just let her be happy and cheer her on.

But the back of my mind won’t let go of the truth: there’s a bounty on her head, and the world is a lot less safe than this living room feels. I catch Dean’s eye and reach for his hand, squeezing it tight—a silent agreement. He’ll keep watch tonight, and I trust him with her more than I trust anyone. Dean disappears into the kitchen to make dinner—simple, nothing fancy, but it fills the house with warmth.

By the time we eat, Ayla’s changed into pajamas, cheeks pink from laughing so much. I push my food around on my plate, appetite gone, mind racing. She catches me staring, brows raised in concern. “What’s wrong?” she asks quietly.

“Nothing,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just not super hungry. After we eat, Alex and I are heading into town for some things. Anything you need?”

She grins, a little sheepish. “As much as I love smelling like a man, I think I’d like my own shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.”

“Noted,” I promise, offering a real smile this time. We clear the plates, and the normalcy of it all makes me ache a little—for her, for us, for the life we could have if things were different.

Alex and I slip out of the room, and I head to my bedroom to get ready. I pull on black jeans, lace up my boots, and shrug into a fitted black T-shirt before grabbing my leather jacket and helmet. I’m taking Dean’s bike tonight. Some fresh air sounds damn good—and a little time on the road never hurt anyone.

“Can we go on a ride first?” Ayla asks, eyes shining with anticipation. I glance at Alex, and he just shrugs with a crooked grin. “Go grab Dean’s helmet and let him know. We’ll bring you back in twenty minutes, promise.”

She darts off and returns a minute later, helmet in hand, now changed into jeans, tennis shoes, and a tight white T-shirt that hugs every curve, with a zip-up hoodie. When she pulls the helmet on, she’s a vision—nerves and excitement all tangled up, hair tucked away. I pat the seat behind me. “Climb on, beautiful. Hold on tight.”

Her arms wrap around my waist, and I can feel her laughter vibrate through her chest and into my back as we follow Alex down the winding road, the bike’s engine roaring beneath us. Winter has settled in, but the roads are finally clear—a thin dusting of snow glitters on the blacktop, and the edges of the woods are turned silver and white. The air is sharp and cold, carrying the scent of pine, frost, and distant woodsmoke. The wind whips Ayla’s hair out from under her helmet in wild streams. The open road calls, and I can’t resist showing off—popping the front wheel into the air just to hear her squeal, that sound pure, infectious joy, and it’s music to my ears.

We cruise for a while, the world blurs in a rush of bare trees and a pale winter sky, the sun dipping low and gold as the last of the day’s light fades. The snow along the roadside glows blue in the shadows, untouched and clean, and every so often, Ayla squeezes me tighter, her laughter carried away on the cold wind. The chill nips at our knuckles, but the thrill of speed and the warmth of her pressed to my back make it feel like freedom—just us, the road, and the bite of winter. I know I’ll replay this memory on every bad day to come: the feeling of her arms around me, the way she laughs without restraint, the way everything feels bright and alive even in the midst of the cold.

When we finally pull back into the drive, the sky is streaked with winter dusk, and the world is hushed beneath its thin blanket of snow. Ayla peels off her helmet, shaking out her hair, cheeks flushed red from the cold, eyes sparkling with life. She’s grinning like she’s on top of the world. I reach over to smooth a strand behind her ear, my hand lingering just a second longer, the intimacy of the gesture making my chest ache. “See you soon, gorgeous,” I tease, dropping a quick kiss to her cheek. She lingers for a heartbeat, her lips brushing my jaw in return, before Alex calls for me and we head off into the dusk, leaving her glowing in the pale, icy twilight.

Chapter Nineteen

Ayla

I watch them drive away, heart pounding, adrenaline still thrumming through every vein like an electric current. My skin tingles and my hands shake slightly, the rush of the ride lingering, Zayn’s arms and the wild wind still wrapped around me. I can’t wipe the grin off my face—every sense feels sharper, the air cooler, the world more alive. I want to shout, to run, to feel that freedom again. For a few minutes, it's like nothing bad could ever touch me. My breath comes fast, chest rising and falling as the thrill slowly fades, leaving a sweet ache of joy and a craving for more. When I finally step back inside, the cabin feels changed—quiet, a little empty, the silence suddenly huge around me. Dean was in the living room when I left, but now there’s no sign of him. The joy of the ride lingers, but it’s edged with a new, nervous energy, just out of sight.

“Dean? Where’d you go?” I call out, wandering through the cabin. There’s no answer. I check the kitchen, then peek out the back window and finally spot him—sitting on the patio couch, hunched over his phone, shoulders tight. I slip outside and settle next to him. For a minute, he doesn’t acknowledge me, his attention locked on whatever’s glowing on his screen. I nudge him lightly. “Hey. What’s up?”

When he finally looks at me, his eyes are darker than usual—not angry, but weighed down, a little sad at the edges. “Ever since you showed up, everything’s been different,” he says quietly. I nod, waiting, letting him talk. “I’m not mad at you, Ayla. I just… I’m not good with change. I’m trying to keep up, but sometimes it feels like the world is moving on without telling me.”

My head drops, guilt twisting in my gut. “I never meant for any problems.”

Dean’s voice goes soft but firm, almost commanding. “Look at me.”

I do.

Dean’s voice is rough, thick with emotion as he finally lets it all out. “You are something else, Ayla. You’re beautiful, smart, sexy as hell—and one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You make me feel things I didn’t even think I could feel again. You bring light into this place, into me, into all of us. I see how Alex is around you, how he softens, and Zayn…” He swallows, voice breaking. “I see the way he looks at you. He loves you. And that scares the shit out of me, because I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want to lose either of you.”

His shoulders hunch, and for a second, Dean looks so raw, so open, it almost hurts to meet his eyes. “After my parents died, every time someone got close, it felt like they’d get ripped away. Zayn’s been my anchor for years. I’m scared of what it would do to me if he slipped away, if I got pushed out. I know it’s not fair, but it’s the truth.”

My heart aches for him—all that fear, all that tenderness. I reach for his hand, squeezing it hard, grounding both of us. “Dean, I don’t want to take Zayn from you. I wouldn’t even know how. The three of you… You've become my safe place in different ways. What I feel for you is real, and it’s yours. Zayn’s still right here, with us, with you, and so am I. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I just want to be with all of you. We can figure this out together, because I am as confused and scared as you are. This goes against every rule I have ever been taught. Yet, it feels completely right.”

His eyes search mine—full of fear, longing, and hope—before his lips crash into mine, pouring all that emotion into a kiss that’s desperate, hungry, and utterly unyielding. Dean doesn’t wait for permission or reassurance. He just takes—his hands gripping my hips as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish, his mouth owning mine, breath hot and ragged. He lifts me up with ease, my legs wrapping tight around his waist, his grip iron as he carries me through the house, up the stairs, and down the hall to my room. There’s nothing gentle about the way he sets me on the bed, his hands already tugging at my jeans, stripping them down my legs in one swift motion, shoes flying off next. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t ask—he just takes what he wants, bearing me in seconds, the hunger in his eyes raw and possessive. The look he gives me—like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that will ever satisfy him—makes my breath race.

Dean dives between my thighs with a ferocity that steals my breath, tongue working my clit relentlessly, fingers gripping my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. His tongue flicks, then bites, and I cry out—a mix of pain and pleasure crashing through me. “Fuck, you are delicious,” he growls, his voice like sweet poison, and I know I’ll never get enough of him.

Dean slides a finger into me, slow and deliberate, curling it just right so my hips rock against his hand. Every slick, purposeful thrust has me gasping, my skin tingling with want. Just as I start to lose myself in the rhythm, he slips out, teasing my entrance, his touch featherlight and maddening. Then, with a wicked, hungry patience, his finger finds my ass. My breath stutters, eyes flying open at the unfamiliar stretch, but he murmurs soothing words, taking his time, letting me adjust. The sensation is intense—new, raw, and somehow exactly what I crave. He works me open slowly, his free hand gripping my thigh, grounding me as his lips and tongue find my clit again. The heat of his mouth, the relentless flick of his tongue in perfect rhythm with his finger, sends sparks through my whole body. Each circle, each gentle suck, makes my thighs tremble and my back arch, a rush of pleasure building higher and higher until I’m nothing but sensation, every nerve ending tuned to his touch.

It doesn’t take long before my orgasm builds—pressure coiling tight, pleasure winding through me until it’s almost unbearable. I can’t hold back, not with the way Dean works me, and as I crest, I cry out his name—“Dean, Dean”—the sound tumbling from my lips again and again, each moan higher and more broken than the last. My body shudders around his touch, the pleasure blinding, and still I keep moaning his name, the only word I can find as I come apart for him. He slows, coaxing me down from the high, his hand gentle as he strokes me through every aftershock, grounding me with soft murmurs and the warmth of his palm.

When my breathing finally steadies, Dean rises, shoving his jeans down in one swift, impatient move, his cock already flushed and straining. He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, then lifts me with a force that makes me gasp, slamming my back against the wall. His body is all heat and muscle, pressing me in, pinning me there, his eyes blazing with longing and the ache of wanting to be enough. One hand closes possessively around my throat, just tight enough to make my pulse race, while his other hand guides his cock to my entrance, the thick head rubbing against me before he pushes inside—hard, deep, claiming every inch.

My moans are swallowed by his grip, the pressure dizzying—each thrust slamming me harder into the wall, every movement more desperate, more intense. The roughness, the command in every touch and motion, makes my whole body thrum. Dean’s jaw is clenched, breath hot against my ear as he hammers into me, relentless. "You’re ours," he growls, voice thick with emotion and possession.