Hola! I'm back, double the size thanks to way too much Paella and one too many mojitos by the beautiful Barcelona beach. But you know me, my brain is always on the go when it comes to my lovely couples and I couldn't let this one go for some reason.

The love for Becca and Dean has been incredible and I honestly can't thank you enough. Even when Becca was the nameless girl in Simple Things and Frisk Me, you guys really spurred me on and we wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for that. Dean was one guy that I was so nervous about getting right - sometimes it's hard to get what I have in my head down on paper. And to be honest, this might have been the hardest story I've written so far. There's a lot of conversation in this and I always struggle with that. I re-wrote one particular part five times before it felt even close to what I wanted to get across. Super massive big hugs to LetItReign for answering my long and whiney email last night about this and reassuring me that it worked.

Simply put this is a very early prelude to Frisk Me. As I stated in my warning to that fic, what went on was completely consensual and based on a very trusting relationship the two had built up over time. So this is the foundations, shall we say. With some hints of what's to come...

WARNINGS: Smut, mild choking. References to role-play, mild humiliation, bondage, knife play.

DISCLAIMER 1: I only own Becca

DISCLAIMER 2: Lyrics & title taken from Baby D's Let Me Be Your Fantasy (note: upon Googling, I realised that there are two Baby D's. One is a rapper and one is a UK dance act from the 90s. I'm referring to the latter and really feeling my age lol)

Enjoy x

Come and feel my energy
Let's be as one in soul and mind
I'll fill your world with ecstasy
Touch all your dreams deep down inside

I desperately cling to sleep as I roll over, my mind slowly awakening. The sheets twist around my body, cool and tight, tying me to the bed as I stretch and reach for Dean. My hands claw at even colder sheets, one eye opening half a crack. I frown into the pillow, not believing my eyes and shift further across the bed, knowing that at some point I will find his solid frame. But I find nothing.

It's not unusual to find the bed empty – hell, for most of the time it's just me taking up all the space. But it's unsettling when I know that we came to bed together. This is confirmed not only by my very vivid memory of him hovering above me, but by the tingling that still remains on my neck from his three-day-old stubble and the throbbing that echoes on between my legs from when, on my request, he fucked me harder and faster.

He arrived at my apartment later than planned, mumbled apologies against my lip as I clung to his shirt and pulled him inside. We haven't seen each other in almost three weeks – work commitments for both us had resulted in one of us always being out of town when the other was home. We had gone two weeks before, but never three. Two was bad enough. Three was painful. No amount of texts or phone calls could make up for a lack of physical contact. I was hungry for him. So hungry that the first time was rushed against the wall, his fingers pushing aside my panties as I clung to him, a wanton groan spilling from my lips as he thrust inside me. There was a pause as we both steadied ourselves, his forehead pressed against mine, his hot breath warming my skin. My barely-there whimper had brought him to, a smirk spreading across his lips as he started to move, his fingers digging into my ass.

I sometimes wonder where he gets the energy from. He'd usually get home around midday on a Wednesday, catching an early morning flight from wherever he happened to be. He'd re-fuel, workout, catch a few hours sleep before meeting me later in the evening. But today was different – there was a phone interview, followed by a face-to-face. It meant that his flight home wasn't until midday and then that had been delayed resulting in a missed connection and another delay. There was no chance for sleep or even a shower until he arrived at mine.

I reheated leftovers for him whilst he occupied my shower and then we'd curled against each other on the couch, his arms automatically wrapping around me as I breathed him in for the first time in a long time. The second time was a more drawn out affair. Butterfly kisses across my stomach as my fingers curled around his still damp hair. Slow, steady licks as his thumb circled my clit. A firm arm across my hips as my head spun. Breathless whispers as he pushed inside me once again, slow at first.

"I missed you."

Three words floated back and forth, in between more sordid and explicit exchanges. But it's those three words that more recently have sparked far more heat in the pit of my stomach.

It's been six months and neither of us know what we're doing. This is unchartered territory for the pair of us. A late night phone call had turned into a more serious heart to heart, revealing in turn that we were alike in many ways. My last relationship had barely made it to a year and that was just after I left college, whilst Dean recalled something that passed for more than just sex in his early twenties. Since then, both us had flitted from one hookup to the next, some lasting a couple of months but never as long as six.

Six months. I stare at the dark, empty space next to me. Six months and all I want is him. Six months and I've only just started to feel comfortable referring to him as my boyfriend. An admission that took me by surprise when I was talking to a colleague about my weekend plans and it effortlessly slipped from my lips. And then there was the warm glow that spread through me when I was lying on his couch and overheard him confirming my entry pass to one of the pay-per-view events.

"Yeah man, I need one for my girlfriend. Rebecca."

I don't even think he realised what he'd said and there was no way I was going to admit the effect it had on me. I just kissed him a little longer when he returned to the couch, my lips curling into a satisfied smile when I nestled against him and felt his lips on my forehead.

I press my face into the pillow and breathe in his scent. It lingers long after he's gone. As do the occasional items of his. It just happened. He'd left one Friday morning, a long kiss that threatened to turn into so much more. I could still feel his lips on mine as I made my way into the bathroom. In the shower, blinded by steam, I'd fumbled for the shower gel, lathered up and then realised that I had picked up his instead of mine. It's remained there ever since, even replaced when it eventually ran low.

And then, a few weeks ago, I was running late for work and forgot to grab my previous night's shirt from the bedroom floor. When I returned later that evening, I found it amongst a pile of his own freshly laundered clothes, casually stowed away in his closet. And it remained there, much like the shower gel has in my apartment.

It's been a slow back and forth ever since. I walked into his bathroom to pick up my toothbrush, only to find it sitting next to his in the cabinet. The next week, I found I had tidied away his book into my own bookshelf. I fell asleep in his shirt, woke up to him kissing me goodbye at the crack of dawn and said shirt remained in my closet ever since. A jar of my favourite brand of coffee appeared on his kitchen counter, whilst I started to stock my fridge with his preferred beer. It just happened, with neither of us saying anything, just following each other's lead. Maybe we under-played the significance. Or maybe we played it just right. Just right for us, that is.

I'm fully awake now, thoughts of Dean and I still whirling through my mind as I roll away from the empty space and notice a faint glimmer of light from under the bedroom door. Untangling myself from the sheets, I fumble around on the floor and find his shirt from earlier.

My bedroom is at the end of a small alcove-like hallway that leads directly into the lounge and I pad quietly along it. I pause at the end, leaning against the wall as I see Dean stretched out on the couch, the only light coming from the TV which is mumbling softly. He takes up the full length and then some, his knees bent with his feet propped up on the opposite arm rest. His head, with its back to me, is resting on a cushion and his right arm. I glance at the clock above the TV and note, with a slight sinking feeling, it's approaching three in the morning.

"Hey," I murmur and his head twists round to face me.

"Shit, sorry Becca. I didn't mean–" he reaches for the remote, muting the TV completely. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

I move over to the couch. "You didn't."

He shifts on the couch, his half-buttoned jeans moving further away from his hips as he does. "Fuck," he mumbles under his breath and I realise he's clocked the time. "You should go back to bed, you gotta get up in like three hours."

I ignore him, choosing instead to join him on the couch. His legs spread slightly, letting me settle between them and on top of him, my head finding its place under his chin as his arm curls around my back.

"You sleep at all?" I murmur after a moment.

"A bit."

This isn't the first time I've found him at this time or in this position. Sleep, no matter how much he needs it, often seems to evade him. He's either too jacked up on adrenaline or spent so many days dependent on a couple of hours here and there, that his body refuses to believe he has the time for longer.

My fingers make sweeping strokes across his shoulder as his hand slides down to the small of my back. I know better than to drag him back to bed and force him to lie there; it won't help and it only means he'll toss and turn and disrupt my own slumber. But whenever I find him like this, I can't help but curl against him for a few moments before leaving him be.

"You really should go back to bed," he tells me again, his head shifting slightly as he moves his arm and I feel his fingers tuck my hair behind my ear. "I'll join you in a bit."

But I respond by nuzzling closer, grinning as he chuckles. "Fine, fine. You're better than a blanket anyway."

"Damn right, I am," I reply, pressing my lips to his collarbone.

He hums softly, his fingers still in my hair, working their way from root to tip.

But there's another reason I'm happy to stay where I am. I'll only have now and tomorrow evening with him before he goes back on the road. With his earlier delay, I'm desperate to make up for lost hours. I like the slow, easy moments between us. I had fallen asleep shortly after our second round antics, missing out on our usual sex-hazed whisperings. I like how unguarded they are, how open and honest we are with each other about anything and everything. I like the way he pulls me into his arms, ignoring how hot and sticky I've become. He soothes my post-sex hair, gives me soft, tender kisses on my swollen lips and lets his fingers roam in comforting patterns down my back.

I love how selfless he is. His determination to get me off is unwavering. He twists my body into all manner of positions, always prioritising my own satisfaction before his own. He's raw and uninhibited in bed, unashamed of his body and his desires. But mixed into the roughness of his actions or words, there's always an undercurrent of tenderness. He'll always start out at the lower end of the scale, waiting for me to demand more and only when he's sure that I want it, will he give it to me.

Yet I crave more. Not just of him, but of that. Whilst I thoroughly enjoy making the first move, catching him unawares, there's something to be said for the shiver of pleasure that courses through me when he finally takes control. The way he flips me onto my back with a growl, his hands pushing my thighs apart before finding my wrists and pressing them into the mattress. I strain against him, my body threatening to shatter as he pushes me closer and closer. The dominance he exerts over me has an unbelievable effect on my desire for him. And my desire for more.

I want to explore more with him. I want to push my boundaries with him. There are thoughts and desires that I have carried for years and never felt like I could share. Until now. They've been on the tip of my tongue for weeks, bursting to be told, yet I've held back. Because desire comes with fear. Fear of being laughed at. Fear of being judged. It's one thing to be pinned down in the heat of the moment. Another thing to request it from the offset. And whilst I have every bit of faith that he won't balk at that idea or others, it doesn't stop the niggling fear that makes me hesitate.

"What are you thinking about?" Dean murmurs, his hand shifting to squeeze my ass.

"Nothing." Chicken.

He chuckles. "Definitely not nothing. You had that look on your face."

"What look?" I raise my head and am met with his all-knowing smirk.

"The look you get when you're thinking about whether to tell or ask me something." He pauses, the hand in my hair now cupping the back of my head, forcing me to hold his gaze. "You've done it a lot recently. You got something on your mind?"

I bite my lip nervously. All the trust I have in him could be gone in a flash. The thought sends a sickening ripple of dread down my spine. Yet all the evidence suggests otherwise. He's never not given me what I want, even if those previous requests seem rather tame in comparison. His willingness to experiment makes me hope that telling him would result in something fantastically satisfying rather than embarrassment and humiliation.

"Something going on with work or your family...?" His words hang in the air, a prompt that I need to take. I shake my head and he frowns. "Something to do with us?"

I hold my breath, wondering how to even start.

"Is there something wrong?" His voice is awash with concern, his eyes wide and searching. "Becca..."

"When... When we're in bed," I begin and I can't help but smile at the huge look of relief that floods his face.

"Shit," he exhales and then he frowns. "Hang on, you've not waited all this time to tell me that I'm doing something wrong in the sack are you?"

"What?" I stare at him incredulously. "No, there's nothing wrong."

The all-too-familiar smirk is back and I admonish him with a pinch to his shoulder.

"Don't be cocky," I tell him and he chuckles.

"So when we're in bed..."

"I like what we do."

"Yeah?" his voice drops an octave. "I like what we do too, darlin'."

"I mean... I really like what you do. To me." I go to move my hand to his chest and realise I'm shaking.

"What I do to you?" He pauses and then there's a flicker of realisation in his eyes. "Like when I do this?" His hand taps my ass gently.

"Or when I do this?" His fingers curl around a handful of hair, tugging my head back.

A thrilling tremor runs through me. "Yes..."

He nods slowly. "I know."

"You know?"

His fist loosens in my hair, his hand back to cupping my head, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he pulls me to him. "You go fucking crazy, darlin'."

My whimper is lost in his kiss.

"So..." he breathes as he release my lips. "You want it rougher?"

"Sometimes."

"I can do that..." he gives me an easy smile and then: "You sure that's all you want? No other itch you need scratching...?"

Tell him.

"I..."

Tell him.

"I have... I have this fantasy."

His fingers stroke the back of my neck. "Go on."

"There's... There's a cop," I start, my gaze dropping to his chest. "And he handcuffs me..." My voice is small, trailing off.

Dean's hand on my ass is rubbing slow, soothing circles, whilst his other moves to my chin, raising my head once more.

"And then..." he prompts.

"He cuts my clothes off. Teases me. Fucks me. Cums on me." My voice is barely a whisper, my eyes starting to water as I stare into his dark and unreadable orbs.

"That's one hell of a fantasy, darlin'," he finally says. "You got a lot going on in there..."

Silence fills the room as I close my eyes and try to keep breathing. I wish I hadn't said anything. I wish I had left well alone.

"You ever done anything like this before?" Dean's voice is soft, calm.

I shake my head, my eyes still closed.

"So maybe... Maybe we start off small."

My eyes flicker open and I'm greeted with a soft smile. "Small?"

"Y'know, work out what works... Work out what you really want me to do."

"You... You'd do that?"

"I'd do anything for you, Becca." His face is full of sincerity. "You know that, right? Anything."

I nod into his kiss. It's slow and warm, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he parts my lips with his tongue. His grip on my head tightens as he holds me to him, refusing to let go for the time being at least.

"You know you can tell me anything too," he murmurs as we break apart. "I'm not gonna judge you. You've been gracious enough to accept me for who I am... So it's the least I can do to return the favour." His thumb grazes my bottom lip. "Only wish you'd told me sooner."

"Dean... I'm sorry, I just didn't–" I start but he cuts me off.

"Why are you apologising? I'm not mad. I'm glad you told me. The fact you trusted me enough to tell me? Darlin'... You have no idea what that means to me."

My chest tightens. I trust him with my fucking life. I...

"I only wish you'd told me sooner," he continues, tugging my lip gently. "So that we could've started sooner..." His eyebrows wiggle suggestively and I can't help but let out a small giggle.

"I'll make sure you get what you want," he whispers against me. "Although you sure you want me to cut off your clothes? I broke the zip on your jeans the other week and if looks could kill..."

"Firstly, those were two-hundred dollar jeans and secondly–"

"And you looked fucking fine in them. And then out of them."

"And secondly," I scowl at his smirk. "I'll be wearing something I don't mind getting torn."

His lips brush against my nose. "I look forward to it. I can just see you spread out on the dining table..."

My skin heats, a familiar throb between my legs.

"Your hands behind your back," his hands are quick to move, grabbing my wrists and twisting my arms until they settle in the small of my back. "Your pouty lips all swollen from my dick... Your tits all sticky from my cum... Your ass all red from my hand."

"Fuck... Dean..."

"What?" His eyes widen with mock-innocence. "Bed?"

"Asshole."

He chuckles as he releases my hands, helping me off his body and then standing and stretching himself. His arm slides around my shoulder as he shuts off the TV and we walk blindly back to the bedroom.

"Just giving you some ideas, s'all," he murmurs as he settles into bed, pulling me close. "Sweet dreams..."