The Score (Off-Campus #3)(44)
Or maybe it’s better if he skips that particular lesson. Besides, it’s an unfair indictment on my part, because it wasn’t Sean’s fault I slept with Dean. It was my decision to do it.
And now I’m making the decision to do it again.
Dean is five minutes late. I fidget impatiently on the couch while I wait for him, unable to concentrate on the episode of Solange that’s playing on the TV. I haven’t watched the show since the night Dean was over, and I’m startled to realize it’s not as much fun without him. I kind of enjoyed his running commentary, and how every five minutes or so he’d pause the show to announce, “Allie-Cat, I have no fucking idea what’s going on!”
It was…cute.
Oh brother. Did I really just use the word cute in conjunction with Dean? I jot down a mental note to never say that out loud. He’d probably accuse me of having a crush on him.
Footsteps thump in the hall, causing anticipation to rise in my chest. My heart does a silly, unwelcome flip when two knocks thud against my door. It’s a manly-sounding thump-thuuuump, and when I swing the door open, Dean is standing in front of me. He’s wearing faded jeans with a rip in one knee, a hunter-green cable knit sweater beneath his Briar jacket, and a black wool hat.
“Hey.” I’m suddenly feeling awkward about this whole situation.
“Hey.” He tugs off his hat as he strides inside. I notice his hair is wet, as if he’s just come out of the shower. His gaze travels to the television. “Oh shit, what did I miss? Did Marie-Thérèse manage to find a copy of Claude’s will?”
“I don’t know. I started the episode about three minutes before you showed up.”
“’Kay, well if you watch any more without me, shoot me a text to let me know what happens.” He tosses his hat and coat on the couch.
I swiftly pick them up. “Nope, these are coming with us. Boots too,” I add, gesturing to the black Timberlands he’s in the process of removing.
“Where are we taking them?”
“My room. I don’t want there to be any evidence of your presence in this room in case you forget something. This is a covert operation.”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Bond.”
In my bedroom, I drop his stuff on the desk chair. Then shit gets awkward again, because Dean is standing there. Five feet away. Smirking at me.
“What?” I mutter defensively.
He shrugs. “Nothing.” But he still doesn’t make a single move toward me.
“You’re just going to stand there? Come here and do something, damn it.”
The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Do what?”
I’m even more frazzled. “I don’t know. Kiss me. Take my shirt off. Anything.”
Dean crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Nuh-uh. If you want me, come and get me.”
Aggravation climbs up my spine. “So we’re playing games now?”
“Naah, no games.” He lifts one dark-blond eyebrow. “But I’m still not convinced this isn’t some sort of trickery on your part.”
“What, you think I invited you over so I could fuck with you?” I offer a saucy smile. “Sweetie, I invited you over so I could fuck you. Period.”
He chuckles, and the deep, husky sound goes straight to my core. Oh, screw it. If he needs me to make the first move, I’ll make the first move. It’s not like we both don’t want the same thing.
Without a word, I bridge the distance and sweep my palm over his cheek.
Dean gives a slight intake of breath. His face is completely clean-shaven, and I find myself longing for some stubble. I liked the way it felt against my skin last time.
But unlike last time, I’m stone cold sober tonight. There’s no way I can use alcohol as an excuse for what I’m doing right now.
I glide my hand over the back of his scalp and slide my fingers through his damp hair. As our eyes lock, I tug his head down and our lips meet in a featherlight kiss. No tongue. No urgency. It’s an exploratory hey-how-are-ya between our mouths, before I pull back to look at him.
Sweet Lord. His gaze contains so much raw, palpable heat it startles a gasp out of me. The next thing I know, Dean’s mouth crashes over mine again, and there’s nothing exploratory about this kiss.
It’s pure hunger.
His tongue thrusts into my mouth in a deep, punishing stroke. I hear myself moan, but Dean swallows the desperate sound with another greedy kiss, his warm hands clamping on my hips as he kisses me until I’m breathless.
My heart is pounding. Holy hell, I’m insanely turned on. So is he—I feel the proof of it when he grips my ass and yanks me against him, grinding our lower bodies together.
“You get me so fucking hard,” he growls.
He rotates his hips, bending slightly so his shaft lines up in the cradle of my thighs. Then he rocks forward and his erection rubs over my clit, triggering a shockwave of pleasure that sizzles along my spine.
“Naked,” I choke out. “Now.”
With another chuckle, he ignores the frantic request and kisses me again. His lips are as greedy as before, utterly dominating, and just when I think this frenetic, passionate make-out session couldn’t possibly get any hotter, Dean abruptly slows it down. His tongue tickles my bottom lip. His perfect teeth give it a tiny nip. Then he buries his face in my neck and lavishes it with soft, open-mouthed kisses that leave shivers in their wake.