The Score (Off-Campus #3)(83)
As the sultry, pulse-pounding beat snakes its way into my blood, I toss my hair and shake my hips and run my hands up and down Dean’s rippled chest. The strobe light flashes through the dark club, offering tantalizing glimpses of Dean’s chiseled features, his hypnotic green eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth.
We dance for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. The others join us on the dance floor, and I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun. I dance with Beau, who grabs my ass every chance he gets. I dance with Roy, who has some sick moves for a man mountain. I dance sandwiched between Dillon and Joanna. I dance with Dean, and the erotic grinding of his hips makes me hot and achy and utterly blissful.
Dillon and I sling back two shots at the bar, but I’m not drunk, just deliciously buzzed. Dean seems to be taking it easy too, but the others are definitely on their way to getting plastered. Especially Beau, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are bright as he vertical-sexes a gorgeous redhead on the dance floor.
Joanna begs off around eleven-thirty, saying she has an early rehearsal in the morning. Dillon and Roy follow suit soon after; the moment Dillon starts slurring her speech, Roy proves to be not only a responsible adult, but a conscientious boyfriend, and promptly whisks her away. Around midnight, after Beau staggers up looking more wasted than ever, Dean decides it’s time for us to go, too.
“Where’s your friend?” I ask Beau, peering past his shoulder in search of the redhead.
“Went home to her husband.”
I fight a laugh. Dean, who’s pretty much the only thing holding Beau upright at this point, snickers loudly.
We exit the club and step into the frigid night air. Beau is leaning on me now, because Dean is at the curb hailing us a taxi. With Joanna gone, I’m worried about Beau getting home safely, so I insist he share a cab with us.
“You should go upstairs with him,” I tell Dean. “Make sure he gets all the way to his door.”
A cab miraculously appears. I slide in first, followed by Beau, who groans, closes his eyes, and proceeds to pass out with his head on my shoulder.
Dean gets in and rattles off Beau’s address to the cabbie. He looks at his sleeping friend, then meets my gaze over Beau’s head.
“His parents are home, right?” I say slowly. “Will they freak out if they see him like this?”
“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 f*cking 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.