The Score (Off-Campus #3)(29)

Still, despite the resentment his “forgiveness” had triggered, a part of me was relieved to hear it. God knows I’ve been feeling guilty about my night with Dean, so maybe absolution is exactly what I was seeking when I confessed my sin to Sean the other night.

That doesn’t mean I’m ready for a face-to-face with him, though. He’d asked if we could meet up for coffee, claiming he had more he needed to say but didn’t want to do it over the phone. I told him I’d think about it. Now, as another knock pounds on the door, I really hope he didn’t decide to force the issue.

I brace myself for a confrontation and open the door. But it’s not Sean. It’s Dean.

“Hey there, baby doll.” He flashes a grin and barrels his way inside. “Wellsy said you were sulking, so I stopped by to turn your frown upside down.”

“I’m not sulking,” I grumble.

“Even better. Saves me from having to do any work.” He unzips his jacket and tosses it on the arm of the couch. Then he strips off his sweater, leaving him in nothing but faded blue jeans.

I stare at him in disbelief. “Did you really just take off your shirt?”

“Yeah. I don’t like shirts.”

He doesn’t like shirts.

This guy…goddamn it, I don’t even know what I think of him.

He turns toward the sofa, and the way his tight butt moves beneath the snug denim reminds me of how firm it felt when I squeezed it. Then he lowers his long body on the sofa cushions, which causes the denim to stretch over his package, and now I’m reminded of the way my mouth had watered when Dean’s cock was filling it.

“Oh yeah, suck it, baby. Suck it like you own it.”

The raspy command echoes in my mind. My lips start to tingle, because damn it, I had sucked it. I’d sucked it like it was a lollipop and an ice cream cone and every other delicious treat imaginable, all rolled up in one hard cock.

Crap, I think I might be blushing, which is confirmed when Dean winks at me. Does he know I’m thinking about blowing him?

What am I even saying? Of course he does. A guy like Dean probably assumes that everyone, at all times, is thinking about blowing him.

He stretches one arm along the back of the couch and beckons me with the other. “You sitting or what?”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Aw, come on. I don’t bite.”

“Yes, you do.”

Those green eyes twinkle. “You’re right. I do.”

He looks way too comfortable sitting there on my couch. A blond Adonis with his golden chest and sculpted muscles and perfectly chiseled face. If the hockey thing doesn’t work out for him, he ought to consider going into modeling. Dean Di Laurentis oozes sexuality. He could slap his face on a laxative label and every woman in the world would be praying for constipation just to have an excuse to buy it.

“Seriously, Allie-Cat, sit down. You’re starting to make me feel unwelcome.”

“You aren’t welcome,” I sputter. “I was having a perfectly nice evening until you showed up.”

He looks hurt, but I don’t know if it’s genuine or if he’s putting it on. I suspect it’s the latter. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

Guilt pricks at me. Crap. Maybe it is genuine. “It’s not that. I do like you. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m not into casual sex, okay? Every time I think about what we did this weekend, I feel—”

“Horny?” he supplies.

Yes. “Slutty.”

I don’t expect the flare of irritation I glimpse in his eyes. “You want some advice, babe? Erase that word from your vocabulary.”

I suddenly feel guilty again, but I’m not sure why. Very reluctantly, I join him on the couch, making sure to keep some distance between us.

“I mean it,” he continues. “Stop slut-shaming yourself. And fuck the word slut. People should be able to have sex whenever they want, however many times they want, with however many partners they choose, and not get some shitty label slapped on them.”

He’s right, but… “The label is there whether we like it or not,” I point out.

“Yeah, and it was created by prudes and judgmental assholes and jealous pricks who wish they were getting laid on the regular but aren’t.” Dean shakes his head. “You need to stop thinking there’s something wrong with what we did. We had fun. We were safe. We didn’t hurt anyone. It’s nobody’s business what you or anyone else does in the privacy of their bedrooms, all right?”

Oddly enough, his words succeed in easing some of the shame that’s been trapped inside me since Friday night. But not all of it. “I told Sean,” I confess.

Dean frowns.

“Not about you,” I add hastily. “I just told him I had sex with someone else.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“I don’t know.” I moan. “I felt like I owed him the truth, but that’s crazy, right? I mean, we’re broken up.” Another moan slips out, this one more anguished than the first. “But we were together for so long. I’m so used to telling him everything.”

Dean absently rubs the cushion behind my head. The movement directs my gaze to his biceps, the delicious flex of muscle honed from years of physical activity. “Be honest,” he finally says. “Do you want to get back together with the guy?”