I’m still glaring at Dean when my phone vibrates in my purse. I absently fish it out and my breath catches when I see the message.
Him: Remember when I took that tequila shot off your tits?
I look up to find Dean blinking innocently at me. But I can see his arm moving under the table. Sure enough, a follow-up message appears.
When I poured it all over your nipples and licked up every drop? Mmmm. Getting hard just thinking about it.
Argh. I can’t believe he’s sexting me in the bar. During his friend’s birthday hang.
I grit my teeth and text him back.
Me: Cherish the memory, sweetie. Cuz it’s never happening again.
Him: U saying u didn’t like it when I was sucking on those sexy nipples?
The nipples in question tighten into hard peaks. I know the padding of my bra hides the traitorous response, but the way Dean’s smug gaze drops to my breasts tells me he knows.
I draw a breath and answer, Meh. It was all right.
His smile widens. “Naah,” he says in response to something Wilkes just asked. “I’m not worried. Yale’s goalie has nothing against G’s slapshot.” I guess they’re talking about their game against Yale on Saturday, but I’m too busy watching the subtle movement of Dean’s arm. He’s typing something else.
Him: Hmmm. I see. What about when I licked your pussy? Just all right too?
I ignore the sharp clench between my legs and scowl at him.
“Allie,” Megan says in exasperation.
“Sorry. What?”
“I was asking about your play. Rehearsals started this week, didn’t they? How’s it going?”
“Pretty good,” I answer in an absent tone. I can’t tell if Dean is typing something else. I hope not. “The guy who’s playing my dead husband is fun to work with. How’s yours going?”
“Shitty.”
“Aw, I’m sorry, hon.” I know Meg isn’t happy with the playwright she’d been paired with, and I don’t blame her, because he happens to be the most pompous asshole in the drama department. Everything he writes is pretentious and brimming with over-the-top angst. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Arthur Miller.
“‘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 her 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.
