The Score (Off-Campus #3)(17)

Still, despite the resentment his “forgiveness” had triggered, a part of me was relieved to hear it. God knows I’ve been feeling guilty about my night with Dean, so maybe absolution is exactly what I was seeking when I confessed my sin to Sean the other night.

That doesn’t mean I’m ready for a face-to-face with him, though. He’d asked if we could meet up for coffee, claiming he had more he needed to say but didn’t want to do it over the phone. I told him I’d think about it. Now, as another knock pounds on the door, I really hope he didn’t decide to force the issue.

I brace myself for a confrontation and open the door. But it’s not Sean. It’s Dean.

“Hey there, baby doll.” He flashes a grin and barrels his way inside. “Wellsy said you were sulking, so I stopped by to turn your frown upside down.”

“I’m not sulking,” I grumble.

“Even better. Saves me from having to do any work.” He unzips his jacket and tosses it on the arm of the couch. Then he strips off his sweater, leaving him in nothing but faded blue jeans.

I stare at him in disbelief. “Did you really just take off your shirt?”

“Yeah. I don’t like shirts.”

He doesn’t like shirts.

This guy…goddamn it, I don’t even know what I think of him.

He turns toward the sofa, and the way his tight butt moves beneath the snug denim reminds me of how firm it felt when I squeezed it. Then he lowers his long body on the sofa cushions, which causes the denim to stretch over his package, and now I’m reminded of the way my mouth had watered when Dean’s cock was filling it.

“Oh yeah, suck it, baby. Suck it like you own it.”

The raspy command echoes in my mind. My lips start to tingle, because damn it, I had sucked it. I’d sucked it like it was a lollipop and an ice cream cone and every other delicious treat imaginable, all rolled up in one hard cock.

Crap, I think I might be blushing, which is confirmed when Dean winks at me. Does he know I’m thinking about blowing him?

What am I even saying? Of course he does. A guy like Dean probably assumes that everyone, at all times, is thinking about blowing him.

He stretches one arm along the back of the couch and beckons me with the other. “You sitting or what?”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Aw, come on. I don’t bite.”

“Yes, you do.”

Those green eyes twinkle. “You’re right. I do.”

He looks way too comfortable sitting there on my couch. A blond Adonis with his golden chest and sculpted muscles and perfectly chiseled face. If the hockey thing doesn’t work out for him, he ought to consider going into modeling. Dean Di Laurentis oozes sexuality. He could slap his face on a laxative label and every woman in the world would be praying for constipation just to have an excuse to buy it.

“Seriously, Allie-Cat, sit down. You’re starting to make me feel unwelcome.”

“You aren’t welcome,” I sputter. “I was having a perfectly nice evening until you showed up.”

He looks hurt, but I don’t know if it’s genuine or if he’s putting it on. I suspect it’s the latter. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

Guilt pricks at me. Crap. Maybe it is genuine. “It’s not that. I do like you. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m not into casual sex, okay? Every time I think about what we did this weekend, I feel—”

“Horny?” he supplies.

Yes. “Slutty.”

I don’t expect the flare of irritation I glimpse in his eyes. “You want some advice, babe? Erase that word from your vocabulary.”

I suddenly feel guilty again, but I’m not sure why. Very reluctantly, I join him on the couch, making sure to keep some distance between us.

“I mean it,” he continues. “Stop slut-shaming yourself. And fuck the word slut. People should be able to have sex whenever they want, however many times they want, with however many partners they choose, and not get some shitty label slapped on them.”

He’s right, but… “The label is there whether we like it or not,” I point out.

“Yeah, and it was created by prudes and judgmental assholes and jealous pricks who wish they were getting laid on the regular but aren’t.” Dean shakes his head. “You need to stop thinking there’s something wrong with what we did. We had fun. We were safe. We didn’t hurt anyone. It’s nobody’s business what you or anyone else does in the privacy of their bedrooms, all right?”

Oddly enough, his words succeed in easing some of the shame that’s been trapped inside me since Friday night. But not all of it. “I told Sean,” I confess.

Dean frowns.

“Not about you,” I add hastily. “I just told him I had sex with someone else.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“I don’t know.” I moan. “I felt like I owed him the truth, but that’s crazy, right? I mean, we’re broken up.” Another moan slips out, this one more anguished than the first. “But we were together for so long. I’m so used to telling him everything.”

Dean absently rubs the cushion behind my head. The movement directs my gaze to his biceps, the delicious flex of muscle honed from years of physical activity. “Be honest,” he finally says. “Do you want to get back together with the guy?”

I slowly shake my head.

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.” I think about the nonstop arguments Sean and I had since the summer, and I feel even more confident in my decision to end it. All those spiteful comments he’d hurled my way…mocking me about my dreams…giving me ultimatums for the future…

Sean might have forgiven me for what I did after our breakup, but suddenly I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him for what he did before it.

“We weren’t right for each other anymore.” I swallow the pain in my throat. “If it was possible to stay in college forever, then yes, Sean and I would probably be together. But it’s time to grow up, and we want completely different things for the future. Or at least I think we do. This breakup is screwing with my head. I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

“That’s your problem. You think too much.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Gee, is that your advice? Stop thinking?”

“Stop obsessing.” Dean shrugs. “You broke up with the guy for a reason—a damn good reason, if you ask me—and now you’ve gotta follow through on it. Quit talking to him and quit second-guessing yourself.”

“You’re right,” I say grudgingly.

“Of course I am. I’m always right.” With an arrogant smile, he moves closer and rests one big hand on my knee. “Okay, so here’s our plan for tonight. First we’ll bone down to take the edge off. Then we’ll order a pizza and replenish our energy, and after that, round two. Sound good?”

Exasperation rises inside me. Every time I think there’s more to Dean than simply being a sex-obsessed horndog, he goes and proves me wrong. Or actually, he proves me right.

“Have you considered seeing a psychiatrist about your delusions?” I ask politely. “Because, sweetie, there’s no chance in hell of us boning tonight.”

“Fine. How about we go down on each other instead?”

“How about you leave?”

“Counter offer—I stay and we dry hump.”

God, this guy is incorrigible. “Counter offer—you can stay, but you’re not allowed to talk.”

He counters with, “I stay, I’m allowed to talk, but I won’t hit on you.”

I think it over. “You stay, you can’t hit on me, and you have to watch my show without a single complaint.”

A broad grin stretches across his face. “I accept your terms, madam.”





9




Allie


“So what are we watching?” Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Shirts glances at the television screen. It’s paused to the opening credits of the episode I was about to play before Dean showed up.

“Solange,” I answer.

He wrinkles his nose. “What’s Solange?”

“It’s a French soap opera I’m watching so I can learn to speak the language.”

Dean snickers. “You know there’s a French department at this college, right? Classes you can take?”

“Yeah, where all you do is conjugate verbs and learn how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is. I’m all about immersion. If I hear people talking in French for long enough, I’ll pick it up a lot faster.”

He raises his eyebrows. “How’s it going so far?”

“Not great—” He snickers again “But I’m only on season one,” I protest. “I’m sure after a few more seasons, I’ll be fluent.”

Dean looks at the screen, then back at me. I can tell he’s debating whether he made a grave error by coming over tonight. But he surprises me by saying, “All right. Catch me up. What’s this show about?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Really?” I beam at him, because this is the first time anyone has offered to watch this show with me. My friends refuse to, though to Hannah’s credit, she did manage to sit through the pilot. Afterward, she informed me that she’d rather have crows peck at her eyes than watch the next episode. Honestly, I don’t blame her. It’s not a good show. I know this. But what started off as a language exercise ended with me getting totally hooked. It’s like crack to me now.