The Score (Off-Campus #3)(48)

“Maybe.” Dean sighs. “Beau says they’re kinda strict. He went to all-boys Catholic schools his whole life.”

I bite my lip. “Maybe we shouldn’t take him home, then.”

“Probably not.” Dean leans forward and taps the driver’s seat. “Forget the first address. Just take us to Heyward Plaza, please.” He glances back at me. “I’ll let him sleep it off in the penthouse.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the hotel elevator. It’s weird, but a few measly hours at the nightclub, and somehow I’ve already forgotten that Dean lives in a fricking palace. I’m once again amazed by my luxurious surroundings, and so is Beau, whose blue eyes widen when he stumbles out of the elevator.

His jaw falls open as he stares at the endless wall of windows that overlook the sparkling city skyline. “Holy shit. I feel like a prince.”

“I know, right?” I say to him.

Still shaking his head in astonishment, he staggers toward the huge armchair near the C-shaped leather sectional and collapses on it. Within seconds, he’s snoring.

Dean wraps his arms around me from behind and kisses my neck. “Bedtime?” he asks.

I twist around. “I’m not tired,” I confess. “Do you feel like watching a movie?”

“Actually, I’ve got something even better.” He waggles his brows enticingly. “Go change into something comfy. I’ll get it set up.”

Get what set up? And I hope “comfy” actually means comfortable and that he’s not expecting me to come back in a lace teddy and garter belt.

I left my overnight bag in Dean’s room, so I quickly dash up the stairs to the third floor—I still can’t believe this place has three fucking floors—and change into cotton boxers and a tank top. When I return to the living room, I find Dean sprawled on the couch with the remote in hand. He’s shirtless. Shocking. But his low-slung trousers show off the sexy V of his hips, and my tongue tingles with the urge to lick all that delicious man flesh.

I moisten my suddenly dry lips and walk toward him. “What are we watching?”

“See for yourself.” He clicks the remote, and I gasp when the opening credits of Solange flash on the largest screen I’ve ever seen outside a movie theater.

“How is this on?” I exclaim. “Did you steal the DVDs from my dorm?”

“Nope. I called ahead before we left Briar and asked the concierge to track down season two for us.”

I’m dumbfounded. After I’d randomly stumbled on this show while surfing YouTube, I paid a girl in my dorm to download all the episodes and burn them for me. Solange is huge in France, but nobody here has heard of it, which means it’s nearly impossible to find online, and ordering the DVDs off Amazon is pointless because they only work on European players.

“You made one phone call and got your hands on an obscure French soap opera?” I stare at him. “Fuck. The Life of Dean is truly glorious.”

“Told ya.” Stretching out on his back, he raises one hand and beckons me.

I waste no time snuggling up beside him and resting my head on his shoulder. His bare chest is warm and sturdy, and he smells heavenly. I don’t bother asking what kind of aftershave he uses, because it’s probably something I’ve never heard of that costs a thousand bucks a drop.

We lie there for a while watching the show, which now features a whole slew of new characters who are causing trouble for Solange.

“You know,” Dean muses, “if Marc had half a brain, he’d dump Christine and hook up with Monique.”

“I like Christine,” I protest. “She’s sweet.”

“She’s conning him, babe. Nobody is that sweet all the time.”

“I am.”

Dean’s snort vibrates against my cheek. “Yeah right. You’re maybe twenty percent sweet. Tops.”

I pretend to be hurt. “Do you really think that?” I ask in a small voice.

He strokes a soothing hand down my spine. “Naah,” he says gruffly. “Don’t worry. You’re one hundred percent sweet.”

“Ha. I wasn’t worried in the slightest. Just wanted to hear you say that.”

He chuckles and holds me closer. As the episode unfolds, we get more engrossed in it, falling silent to watch. Dean is absently caressing me, his long fingers grazing the side of my boob with each slow stroke of his hand. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, but it makes me feel…fine, it’s making me horny.

“I’m telling you, she’s up to something.” Dean’s green eyes are focused on the TV, but his hand keeps stroking.

On the screen, Christine sits at a table at an outdoor bistro, whispering into her cell phone. The conversation seems pleasant enough. Then again, it’s in French, so who knows.

“I bet you she’s hiring a contract killer.” Dean’s thumbnail grazes my nipple.

I’m now thoroughly distracted.

He’s still talking away.

“We need to find a version of this show with English subtitles.”

His thumb moves away from my nipple, then eases toward it again.

“I get you’re trying to learn the language, babe, but it’s driving me nuts not knowing what’s going on—”

“Dean.”

“Mmm?”

“Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Touching my boob.”

“Oh. Was I doing that?”

I prop myself up on my elbow so I can see his face. His impish expression tells me he wasn’t as oblivious as I thought.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” I chide. “And now you need to stop doing it.”

His tongue comes out to lick his lips. “Why? Is it getting you all worked up?”

“Yes.”

He responds with a deep chuckle, then rolls us over so we’re lying on our sides facing each other. He cups my left breast and squeezes gently. This time when his fingertips find my nipple, it’s with absolute purpose. He rubs the rapidly hardening bud. Then he releases my breast and slides his hand inside my boxers.

I cast an alarmed glance in Beau’s direction. He’s not snoring anymore, but his eyes are still closed.

“Beau’s sitting right there,” I hiss at Dean.

“He’s asleep.” His fingers tease the waistband of my panties, then dip beneath it. When his thumb presses on my clit, I have to bite my lip so I don’t moan.

“Dean,” I murmur nervously.

“Allie,” he murmurs back.

The pad of his thumb gently circles my clit, sending a hot shiver racing up my spine. He rubs and teases until I’m swollen, aching, and my hips involuntarily hitch forward, seeking deeper contact. He chuckles again.

“Dean…” It’s a warning.

“Allie.” It’s a taunt.

His hand moves lower, the calloused palm scraping my pussy on its descent. One talented finger slips inside me. A cross between a breath, a sigh and a groan escapes my lips, but it’s instantly cut off when Dean presses his lips to mine.

I kiss him back hungrily, helpless to resist him. Dean Di Laurentis is in my blood now. I didn’t expect the intense sexual chemistry between us, but it’s here, and it’s addictive, and I don’t know how I can ever give it up. He grinds the heel of his hand against my clit, and the delicious pressure has my thighs clenching together. Pleasure gathers between my legs, making my entire body tremble.

I’m far too aware of the sounds we’re making. Our heavy breathing. The wet glide of his finger moving inside me. I pray to God that Beau isn’t a light sleeper.

“I always know when you’re getting close,” Dean whispers.

“How?” The methodical thrust of his finger is distracting. I start to squirm, my inner muscles bearing down on him as the pleasure intensifies and dances along my heated flesh.

“Your cheeks turn bright red, and your eyes…they glaze over.” His warm mouth skates over my jaw before traveling down my neck. “Your pulse throbs…right here—” He licks the center of my throat “—and your pussy squeezes me so fucking tight, like it’s trying to trap my finger inside of it.”

My breaths go shallow. My mind is foggy. His deep voice and magical hand are all I’m able to focus on, but when he curves his finger and starts moving it faster, my brain shuts down completely.

“That’s it,” Dean says hoarsely. “Come for me, baby.”

I close my eyes and let the sensations take over, gasping softly as the pressure finally releases and I float away on a cloud of bliss. Sighing, I rest my cheek against his pecs, while lingering flutters of pleasure sweep through my body.

“You guys know I’m awake, right?”

Beau’s wry voice triggers a rush of horror mingled with the burn of embarrassment. I bury my face against Dean’s chest, too mortified to look over at the armchair.

“And now I’m hard as a rock,” Beau adds in a jaunty voice. “So I’m just gonna go ahead and ask—any chance of a threesome?”

My head lifts in indignation, but I can’t help but laugh when I see the intrigued gleam in Dean’s eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” I order, jabbing my finger into his chest. I sit up to fix Beau with the same stern look. “Erase that idea from your pretty head, Maxwell. Because it’s not happening.”