The Score (Off-Campus #3)(40)

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.





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.