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.
Premise II: He wants to have sex with me again.
Premise III: The idea of having sex with him turns me on.
Conclusion: I should have sex with Dean.
All right, that one was easy enough. Now comes the complicated part.
Premise I: Casual sex makes me uncomfortable.
Premise II: I just got out of a long-term relationship and am not ready for another one.
Premise III: Even if I was, I wouldn’t want a relationship with manwhore Dean.
Conclusion: Um…?
I try another one:
Premise I: I don’t want a relationship with Dean.
Premise II: He doesn’t want a relationship with me.
Conclusion: We should have casual sex.
Another no-brainer, but it still doesn’t solve the Casual Sex conundrum. Really, though, if I stop to think about it, the only person dishing out any judgment here is me. Will a fling with Dean make me a slut? He certainly doesn’t think so. Neither would my friends, although I certainly don’t plan on telling them about it if I choose to fling Dean. Which raises the question, why do I want to keep it a secret?
I chew on the inside of my cheek as I ponder that. The answer continues to stump me, but the idea of everyone knowing I’m screwing around with Dean still brings a rush of discomfort. Fine. It’ll have to remain a secret. Maybe tomorrow I can give some more thought as to why I feel that way.
Well…shit. Have I actually reached a decision?
I’m already grabbing my phone, so…yeah, I guess I have.
I tap Dean’s name and enter one word in the message box: Okay.
You’ve got to give the man credit—he knows exactly what I mean, because he types back, When?
Me: Tmrw nite? Hannah’s staying at your place. U can come here. 8?
Him: Kiddie game starts at 6. Won’t be free til 9.
Me: Kiddie game?
Him: Don’t worry about it. Tell u tmrw.
Him: What changed your mind?
What changed my mind… Insanity maybe? An unhealthy obsession with sex? His awesome dick?
Me: Decided it was time 2 live the Life of Dean.
Him: Took u long enuff. So. 9 o’clock work for u?
I hesitate.
Me: Yes.
God, what am I doing? Maybe I have gone insane.
There’s a long delay before his next message appears. A borderline-hysterical laugh pops out of my mouth after I read it.
Him: I’ll bring the rope.
