The Score

  “‘Slade’ likes to rewrite entire scenes during rehearsal.” She puts quotation marks around his name, which makes Fitzy chuckle.

  “I don’t think you know how to use air quotes,” he informs her.

  “No, I do. ‘Slade’ isn’t his real name. It’s actually Joshua Sandeski.” She snorts derisively. “This ass is so full of himself I’m surprised he doesn’t poop out little brown replicas of his smug face.”

  The guys hoot at the disgusting image she’s painted.

  “First day of classes, we all had to sit around in a circle and introduce ourselves to our fellow actors.” She glances at me. “Remember that?”

  “Oh, I remember,” I say dryly.

  “Anyway,” she tells Fitzy, “this jerk stands up and says, ‘I’m Joshua Sandeski, but I go by Slade. Refer to me as anything else and I will not respond.’ And he wasn’t kidding. Any time the teacher slipped up and called him Sandeski, he would flat-out ignore her.”

  “That’s the douchiest thing I’ve ever heard,” Dean remarks.

  Shit, his arm is moving again.

  “I think it’s ballsy,” Hollis disagrees. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m pulling a Slade and giving myself a solo name. From now on, you guys can only refer to me as ‘Thunder.’”

  I discreetly peek at the latest message, and my breath hitches.

  Him: My dick is so hard right now. I’m dying to be inside u.

  I don’t indulge him this time. If I don’t respond, he’ll eventually stop, right?

  Wrong.

  The messages keep popping up, each one filthier than the last.

  Gonna take it slow next time. Savor every single second.

  So fucking slow, baby. Just slide in and out of your tight pussy…

  Until you’re begging for more.

  I grab my glass and choke down some water. I’m aware of Dean’s soft chuckle, audible even with the music blasting in the bar.

  I won’t give u what u want, tho. I’ll keep feeding u my cock, inch by inch.

  And then I’ll take it away again.

  Every time u beg me to pound into u, I’ll go even slower.

  Gonna torment that sweet pussy all nite, baby.

  All. Fucking. Night.

  I shoot to my feet like someone lit a fire under my ass. “I need to use the ladies’ room,” I blurt out.

  Ignoring the broad grin stretching Dean’s infuriatingly sexy mouth, I dart away from the booth as fast as my high-heeled boots can carry me.

  Fuckity fuck. I’m so turned on my thighs are actually sticking together, and I’m worried there might be a wet spot on the back of my jeans. To make matters worse, Megan hadn’t even made a dent in her drink, which means we won’t be leaving any time soon. Which means I need to collect my composure and extinguish every spark of desire that’s burning like jet fuel through my blood.

  I hope to God that Dean quits sexting me when I get back.

  If he doesn’t, there’s a good chance I might orgasm at the table.

  *

  He keeps sexting.

  I keep ignoring him.

  Our battle of wills lasts for more than an hour, and I can’t say I’m not impressed by his persistence. Not to mention the sheer amount of dirty words he has in his vocabulary.

  When I notice Dean visibly squirming on his side of the booth, I flash him a cheeky grin and finally text him back.

  Me: Ur just torturing yourself, honey-pie. Better stop b4 the blue balls set in.

  I punctuate that with two emojis that seem fitting for the situation—a pair of blue circles.

  Dean sighs and rises to his feet, but not before he does some strategic rearranging down below. I think I’m the only one who sees him do it, and my smile grows impossibly wider.

  “I’m going to change up these tunes,” he tells the group. “Whoever keeps putting on Aerosmith rock ballads is bumming the hell outta me.”

  As he walks off, my eyes betray me by homing in on his backside. His black pants hug his taut buttocks like a glove, which makes me wonder, are cargo pants usually that tight? I didn’t think they were. Maybe Dean has a tailor on retainer who makes him special cargo pants that show off his ass? That seems like something he would do, vain bastard that he is.

  Either way, his ass is yummy. Damn it, everything about him is yummy. I can’t help but admire the way his broad shoulders fill out his long-sleeve Under Armor shirt, or how his blond hair is the perfect amount of tousled. Then I lose him in the crowd, and I feel a flicker of relief because now that he’s out of sight, I have some time to get my raging hormones under control. The respite is brief, though. When he returns to the booth, he’s still as gorgeous as ever and I’m still a horny bundle of nerves.

  He resettles in his seat just as the current song ends and the opening strains of Dean’s selection blare out of the speakers.

  It’s Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me.”

  I can’t stop a burst of laughter, which earns me a strange look from Fitzy. “Did I miss the punchline?” he asks.

  “Nope. Sometimes I just laugh for no reason,” I say flippantly. “I’m weird like that.”

  Megan pipes up. “It’s true. She is.”

  I swallow another laugh and avoid Dean’s eyes as his song continues to play. I’m not surprised when my phone vibrates.

  Him: I could’ve gone with something a lil more subtle. But why play games? I’m goddamn aching for u, Allie.

  Shit, he called me Allie. He means business.

  I lift my head, and the intensity burning in his gaze makes my heart stutter, then propels it into a hard gallop. Dean is already insanely attractive to begin with, but when he’s turned on? He’s absolutely spectacular.

  With his smoky green eyes at half-mast, lips parted slightly, strong throat working as he swallows, I can almost believe he is aching. That he’s truly in physical pain from wanting me so bad. But this is Dean, for crying out loud. He probably springs a boner if a light breeze floats over his crotch. Seriously, just bump into him and you get him hard. The guy is obsessed with sex, and half the girls at this school can attest to that, because half the girls at this school have slept with him.

  Sure, it’s flattering to be on the receiving end of all that heady sexual energy. What woman doesn’t like feeling desirable? But I’d be an idiot if I believed even for a second that I’m the only woman Dean Di Laurentis is flashing those bedroom eyes at. Nope, I’m nothing more than another notch on Dean’s exorbitantly long belt.

  The reminder spurs me to my feet. “I’m really not feeling Cheap Trick tonight,” I say sweetly. “Think I’ll switch it up again.”

  My purposeful stride takes me to the jukebox across the room. It’s not one of those old-school ones, but a modern jukebox with a touchscreen and slots for both cash and credit. I feed a dollar bill into the machine and study my options. Jeez. Nearly every song that’s ever been written is available on this thing.

  I grin when one artist in particular jumps out at me. I scroll through her discography, select the title I’m searching for, and add it to the queue. The sidebar on the screen reveals there’s one other song ahead of mine, a Kesha track that sends a horde of college-age patrons to the dance floor. Which really just means they start dancing wherever they’re standing, because the area in front of the karaoke stage that usually serves as the dance floor has been taken over by a cluster of hipsters who are all engrossed by their cell phones.

  “Nice pick,” Tucker calls out to me. He’s been phone-obsessed tonight too, so I’m surprised that he’s suddenly being social.

  “Not mine,” I call back.

  “What’d you choose then?” Dean asks suspiciously.

  “You’ll find out soon enough, my pretty.”

  Three minutes later, the intro comes on, and a chorus of female whoops rings out through the bar.

  Dean glares at me.

  My song choice? Pink’s “U and UR Hand.”

  “Hell yeah!” Megan slams her glass down and hops to h
er feet, sticking out her hand to me. “We’re dancing.”

  I don’t have time to object, because she’s already dragging me into the crowd. Well then. I guess we’re dancing.

  As the bass line thuds beneath our heels, we throw our arms up in the air, shimmy our hips, and rock the fuck out. Meg’s red hair whips past my face as she spins around. I do a spin too, because it gives me the opportunity to sneak a peek at Dean. He wears a resigned look, but there’s also a flicker of amusement there.

  When we get to the part of the song where Pink—who is a goddess, by the way. A goddess!—says “buh-bye” to the creep she’s singing to, I shoot Dean a saccharine smile and flutter my fingers in his direction.

  The tip of his tongue touches his bottom lip as a slow grin curves his mouth. He gives a little wave in response. Well played, I can practically hear him drawling.

  Meg and I keep dancing, and our twosome draws more and more attention, and more and more participants. Suddenly we’re surrounded by other girls who are digging the song as hard as we are. It’s pretty much an anthem for any woman who’s ever had to deal with a slimy jerk hitting on her at a bar, or plying her with drinks in the hopes of getting laid, or just plain annoying her when she’s trying to hang with her gal pals.

  A tiny Asian girl with multiple facial piercings and spiky pink hair bumps her hips to mine, and then we’re dancing back-to-back, smacking our butts together as we share a moment of female camaraderie. I’m laughing and breathless from how much fun I’m having, and this time when I seek Dean out, he doesn’t look amused anymore.

  Oh crap.

  He’s aroused again.

  His sultry eyes track every move I make. By the time the song ends, I’m burning up. Not from sweat or exertion, but from Dean’s gaze raking over me like flames licking through a hayfield.

  Once Meg and I return to the booth, I chug the rest of my water, then lift my hair up to fan my hot neck with one hand. My phone sits on the tabletop, and I instinctively tense when the screen lights up. A quick glance at Dean reveals he’s got his hand under the table again.

  I bite my lip and stare at my phone.

  Don’t read it, I order myself.

  I read it.

  Him: Next time u put on a show like that for me, u better fucking be naked.

  12

  Allie

  Megan and I get back to campus a little after midnight. My two-bedroom suite is shrouded in shadows when I creep inside. There’s no light spilling out from Hannah’s door, which tells me she’s already gone to bed.

  Making an effort to be quiet, I gather up my toiletries and duck out to use the bathroom we share with the six other girls on this floor. Ten minutes later, I tiptoe around my bedroom and change into my PJs, then shut off the light and crawl under the covers.

  I’ve never had any trouble falling asleep—I’m usually out cold the moment my head hits the pillow.

  Tonight, sleep eludes me. Dean’s sexts left me hot and bothered, and I spend the next hour tossing and turning in an attempt to get comfortable. But I’m not comfortable. My boobs are achy and my pussy is throbbing. Every time I roll over, my nipples scrape the mattress and the innocent friction makes them ache even harder.

  This is Dean’s fault. Why did he have to text me all those dirty, dirty things?

  A groan slides out. I roll over again, this time onto my side. Normally I like to sleep with a part of the blanket tucked between my thighs. Right now, having something jammed down there is an excruciating tease, and my hips involuntarily start rocking against the comforter.

  “Goddamn it.” My tortured voice echoes in the darkness. I roll onto my back and prop one knee up, because obviously I won’t be getting any sleep until I take care of business.

  “U and UR Hand” is proving to be a prophetic song choice.

  I grit my teeth and stick my hand down my plaid pajama bottoms. Unfortunately, I’m not one of those women who can rub her clit a few times and presto! Orgasm! Nope, I need a story, a delicious fantasy to take me over the edge. In recent days, my fantasies have featured my go-to celebrity crush: the perfection that is Ryan Gosling. So it’s Ryan I turn to now, in my grave hour of need.

  The fantasy always starts differently. I’m at a bar and we get our flirt on. I’m in a hotel room and there’s a mix-up that forces us to share a bed. I’m jogging on the beach in Malibu and look who I run into!

  But it always ends the same—with the Gos screwing me silly.

  I opt for the hotel room, since it allows for a plethora of Choose-Your-Own-Sexual-Adventure scenarios. Tonight, I’m sleeping naked because the air conditioning is on the fritz. I suppose I could just sleep naked without giving myself an excuse to do it, but I like my fantasies to be somewhat consistent with my real life, and since I’m not a naked sleeper in real life, broken air conditioner it is.

  Okay, where was I? I rub my index finger over my clit as I picture myself lying on a king-sized bed. I’m drifting off to sleep when I hear a beep. Someone swiped a key card in the door. I’m outraged! Did the concierge decide to send the housekeeper up in the middle of the night? Who could possibly be walking into my—well, look at that. It’s Ryan Gosling. He saunters into the room, bare-chested for some reason. His jeans ride so low I can see the glorious man-vee of his naked hips.

  He’s surprised to find me there, and we quickly determine there’s been a double-booking error. Then we have a five-minute conversation about our lives, in which he reveals that Eva Mendes broke up with him.

  Yes, there’s both dialogue and small talk in my sexual fantasies.

  Eventually I climb out of bed and—oh no! The sheet covering my naked body falls to the carpet. Ryan’s blue eyes widen with appreciation. His cock visibly hardens beneath his zipper.

  He licks his lips and steps closer.

  I teasingly glide my fingers down the valley of my breasts. His eyes burn like liquid sapphires.

  No, like emeralds. Because his eyes are green now. Why are they green?

  In the darkness of my dorm room, I release a low, irritated curse. For fuck’s sake.

  Why is Dean crashing my fantasy?

  My finger stills over my clit. Okay, well this is just rude. Ryan and I were about to jiggle down. Dean is not allowed to ruin that for me.

  I squeeze my eyelids shut and transport myself back to the fantasy. But I’m no longer in the hotel and Ryan is no longer with me. I’m at a hockey arena with Dean, and we’re making out on the ice.

  Stifling another groan, I shake myself out of the scene and once again order my hand to stop moving. Where on God’s green planet is this fantasy going? Ice is cold. Who wants to freeze to death when they’re getting it on? And why is Dean kissing his way down my naked body? His practice is scheduled to start any minute. The entire team is going to walk out and catch us—

  “I like the idea of getting caught.”

  The groan escapes before I can corral it. Dean’s raspy confession isn’t part of the fantasy—it’s one hundred percent real life.

  The night I’d asked him why he doesn’t have sex in his bedroom, his eyes had gone heavy-lidded, pure molten sex dripping from his voice as he’d drawled, “I like the idea of getting caught.”

  Yep, Dean Di Laurentis gets off on the thought of someone catching him in the act.

  And did he end the confession there? Of course not, because that would mean he hasn’t made it his mission in life to sexually torment me. Nope, he’d followed the first part with, “And once I get caught, I like being watched.”

  I’m lusting over an exhibitionist. Hell, maybe I’m an exhibitionist too, because rather than stop the fantasy, I let it play out.

  “You better come fast, baby.” Dean’s breath tickles my inner thigh. “Otherwise my teammates are gonna walk out of that locker room and see my face buried in your pussy.”

  My breathing quickens. I squeeze one breast, lightly toying with my nipple. My other hand strokes my clit in tight little circles. Oh God. I’m so wet. And my clit is
swollen with desire. I can practically feel Dean’s tongue swirling over it.

  “Oh, you like that idea, don’t you?” The pad of his finger grazes my opening. “Look how wet you are.”

  He pushes his finger inside me.

  No, I’m pushing my own finger inside me. My breasts have been abandoned and now I’ve got both hands between my legs. Rubbing my clit with one, fingering myself with the other, as I melt into the mattress and imagine Dean going down on me.

  “Gonna fuck you right here on the ice, Allie.”

  My toes curl. The pressure in my core is unbearable.

  In the fantasy, Dean rises to his knees. His chest gleams under the bright lights in the arena. His cock is long and proud. He wraps his fist around the base and leans forward, bringing it closer and closer to where I want it most.

  And then we hear it. Footsteps. Voices. Laughter. The players are coming out of the chute. Dean smiles wickedly. Then he plunges that hard dick inside me—

  And I come so hard I forget how to breathe. I lie on my bed, gasping, trembling. Stars flash behind my closed eyelids as the orgasm crashes through me in hot, pulsing waves.

  Oh my God.

  That was… it was… I don’t even have the words to describe it.

  And the sad part? The orgasm that just ripped me to shreds wasn’t half as powerful as the ones Dean gave me in person.

  I’m still shaking from the aftershocks as I fumble in the dark until my hand lands on the box of tissues atop my nightstand. I pull a couple out and use them to wipe between my legs. I can’t remember the last time I got this wet during a solo session.

  Think of how much wetter you’ll be if you fuck me again…

  Argh. I can practically hear Dean taunting me. Enticing me…

  I take a breath. Okay. I’m a pragmatic person. And I aced that Argumentative Logic course I took in freshman year. So maybe I need to rationalize this out.

  Premise I: Dean Di Laurentis is a phenomenal lay.