The Score

by Elle Kennedy

  “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 fucking 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.

  I waste no time snuggling up beside him and resting my head on his shoulder. His bare chest is warm and sturdy, and he smells heavenly. I don’t bother asking what kind of aftershave he uses, because it’s probably something I’ve never heard of that costs a thousand bucks a drop.

  We lie there for a while watching the show, which now features a whole slew of new characters who are causing trouble for Solange.

  “You know,” Dean muses, “if Marc had half a brain, he’d dump Christine and hook up with Monique.”

  “I like Christine,” I protest. “She’s sweet.”

  “She’s conning him, babe. Nobody is that sweet all the time.”

  “I am.”

  Dean’s snort vibrates against my cheek. “Yeah right. You’re maybe twenty percent sweet. Tops.”

  I pretend to be hurt. “Do you really think that?” I ask in a small voice.

  He strokes a soothing hand down my spine. “Naah,” he says gruffly. “Don’t worry. You’re one hundred percent sweet.”

  “Ha. I wasn’t worried in the slightest. Just wanted to hear you say that.”

  He chuckles and holds me closer. As the episode unfolds, we get more engrossed in it, falling silent to watch. Dean is absently caressing me, his long fingers grazing the side of my boob with each slow stroke of his hand. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, but it makes me feel…fine, it’s making me horny.

  “I’m telling you, she’s up to something.” Dean’s green eyes are focused on the TV, but his hand keeps stroking.

  On the screen, Christine sits at a table at an outdoor bistro, whispering into her cell phone. The conversation seems pleasant enough. Then again, it’s in French, so who knows.

  “I bet you she’s hiring a contract killer.” Dean’s thumbnail grazes my nipple.

  I’m now thoroughly distracted.

  He’s still talking away.

  “We need to find a version of this show with English subtitles.”

  His thumb moves away from my nipple, then eases toward it again.

  “I get you’re trying to learn the language, babe, but it’s driving me nuts not knowing what’s going on—”

  “Dean.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Stop doing that.”

  “Stop doing what?”

  “Touching my boob.”

  “Oh. Was I doing that?”

  I prop myself up on my elbow so I can see his face. His impish expression tells me he wasn’t as oblivious as I thought.

  “You knew exactly what you were doing,” I chide. “And now you need to stop doing it.”

  His tongue comes out to lick his lips. “Why? Is it getting you all worked up?”

  “Yes.”

  He responds with a deep chuckle, then rolls us over so we’re lying on our sides facing each other. He cups my left breast and squeezes gently. This time when his fingertips find my nipple, it’s with absolute purpose. He rubs the rapidly hardening bud. Then he releases my breast and slides his hand inside my boxers.

  I cast an alarmed glance in Beau’s direction. He’s not snoring anymore, but his eyes are still closed.

  “Beau’s sitting right there,” I hiss at Dean.

  “He’s asleep.” His fingers tease the waistband of my panties, then dip beneath it. When his thumb presses on my clit, I have to bite my lip so I don’t moan.

  “Dean,” I murmur nervously.

  “Allie,” he murmurs back.

  The pad of his thumb gently circles my clit, sending a hot shiver racing up my spine. He rubs and teases until I’m swollen, aching, and my hips involuntarily hitch forward, seeking deeper contact. He chuckles again.

  “Dean…” It’s a warning.

  “Allie.” It’s a taunt.

  His hand moves lower, the calloused palm scraping my pussy on its descent. One talented finger slips inside me. A cross between a breath, a sigh and a groan escapes my lips, but it’s instantly cut off when Dean presses his lips to mine.

  I kiss him back hungrily, helpless to resist him. Dean Di
Laurentis is in my blood now. I didn’t expect the intense sexual chemistry between us, but it’s here, and it’s addictive, and I don’t know how I can ever give it up. He grinds the heel of his hand against my clit, and the delicious pressure has my thighs clenching together. Pleasure gathers between my legs, making my entire body tremble.

  I’m far too aware of the sounds we’re making. Our heavy breathing. The wet glide of his finger moving inside me. I pray to God that Beau isn’t a light sleeper.

  “I always know when you’re getting close,” Dean whispers.

  “How?” The methodical thrust of his finger is distracting. I start to squirm, my inner muscles bearing down on him as the pleasure intensifies and dances along my heated flesh.

  “Your cheeks turn bright red, and your eyes…they glaze over.” His warm mouth skates over my jaw before traveling down my neck. “Your pulse throbs…right here—” He licks the center of my throat “—and your pussy squeezes me so fucking tight, like it’s trying to trap my finger inside of it.”

  My breaths go shallow. My mind is foggy. His deep voice and magical hand are all I’m able to focus on, but when he curves his finger and starts moving it faster, my brain shuts down completely.

  “That’s it,” Dean says hoarsely. “Come for me, baby.”

  I close my eyes and let the sensations take over, gasping softly as the pressure finally releases and I float away on a cloud of bliss. Sighing, I rest my cheek against his pecs, while lingering flutters of pleasure sweep through my body.

  “You guys know I’m awake, right?”

  Beau’s wry voice triggers a rush of horror mingled with the burn of embarrassment. I bury my face against Dean’s chest, too mortified to look over at the armchair.

  “And now I’m hard as a rock,” Beau adds in a jaunty voice. “So I’m just gonna go ahead and ask—any chance of a threesome?”

  My head lifts in indignation, but I can’t help but laugh when I see the intrigued gleam in Dean’s eyes.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I order, jabbing my finger into his chest. I sit up to fix Beau with the same stern look. “Erase that idea from your pretty head, Maxwell. Because it’s not happening.”

  His smile is downright saucy. “Tonight, or ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “Give me one good reason why not,” Beau challenges.

  “Because a) I don’t want to, and b) picture this—it’s ten years from now. I’m a Hollywood A-lister, a three-time Academy Award winner, the most sought-after actress ever to grace the silver screen…and then the latest issue of People magazine hits the stands. And you know what the headline reads?” I move my hand through the air as if I’m spelling out the headline—“Celebrity debauchery exposed. Allie Hayes, college threesome queen.”

  Beau spells out his own headline. “Super Bowl champ Beau Maxwell quoted as saying, ‘best night of my life.’”

  I sigh and turn to Dean, who’s clearly trying not to laugh. “And now it’s time for bed. Say goodnight to your friend Beau, sweetie.”

  “Good night, Beau,” Dean says obediently.

  24

  Allie

  Dean and I arrive back at campus at noon the next day. Since the team bus leaves at one o’clock for their game in Burlington, he should be hightailing it out of the parking lot if he wants to go home and change first. But he stays rooted in the driver’s seat.

  “What’s wrong?” I can’t decipher his expression.

  “Can I see you tonight?” His voice is husky, and there’s an inexplicable chord of…something…in it.

  “I have rehearsal, so it depends on when Steven lets us out. Call me when you’re back from Vermont and we’ll see where I’m at?”

  He nods. Still doesn’t move.

  “Do you mind helping me with my suitcase?”

  Another nod.

  I fight a pang of uneasiness as we get out of the car. There’s no one in the parking lot to see us unload my bag, but that isn’t what’s making me apprehensive. It’s the intensity Dean is radiating. It’s like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to broach the subject.

  “Everything okay?” I ask lightly.

  Those green eyes sweep over me so intently I feel self-conscious. I know my hair is a wavy mess, and I’m pretty sure there’s a tiny zit forming on my chin. I hope that’s not what he’s staring at.

  “All good, baby doll,” he finally says, snapping out of whatever deep thoughts he’d been having. “C’mere and give me a good luck kiss. We desperately need to win this game today.”

  My gaze flits around the lot. A slight frown touches Dean’s lips¸ and seeing it triggers a flash of guilt. We just spent three days together. We fooled around in front of Beau, for crying out loud, and I’m afraid to kiss him in an empty parking lot?

  I bridge the distance and lean on my tiptoes to brush my lips over his. “Good luck,” I whisper. Then I slip him a little tongue and smile when his breath catches.

  He groans softly. “Tease.”

  My smile widens as I take a step back. “Thanks for the ride. And the night out.”

  “And the dirty, dirty sex,” he reminds me.

  “One dirty would’ve sufficed.” Except nope, I’m wrong. What we did this weekend requires at least two dirties. Four would probably be the right amount.

  “You sure you can manage that thing?” he asks as I roll my overstuffed suitcase toward the path.

  “I’m fine. It has wheels.”

  “What about the stairs?”

  “It’s fine,” I insist. “Go, Dean, otherwise you’ll miss your bus.”

  Just as I give him a gentle shove to spur his sexy ass into gear, a familiar voice echoes behind us.

  “Hey, Allie.”

  My hand freezes against Dean’s chest. I quickly let it drop to my side, then turn around to greet the approaching figure. It’s Jim Paulson, one of Sean’s frat brothers. My nerves flutter in my belly as I wonder how much he heard. And saw…

  Shit. Did he see me kiss Dean?

  “Hi,” I say, forcing a smile. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

  “It was all right.” Jim’s gaze flicks toward Dean. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey,” Dean says tightly.

  “Where are you guys coming from?” His unmistakably suspicious gaze lands on my suitcase.

  “New York,” I answer casually. “Dean’s from Manhattan and I’m from Brooklyn, so we carpooled. Go, environment!” I pretend to wave a little flag, but Jim doesn’t even crack a smile.

  “Cool.” He continues to study me. “Uh, so yeah…nice seeing you.”

  His parting smile is friendly enough, but as I watch him walk away, I can’t control the ball of dread that lodges in my throat. Fuck. I have a very, very bad feeling about this encounter. There’s no doubt in my mind that Jim will tell Sean about it. A part of me doesn’t care, because Sean’s not my boyfriend anymore.

  Even so, the anxiety eddying in my stomach refuses to go away, and I know I’m going to be worrying about this all fricking day. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  *

  The shoe drops at one in the morning. It drops hard. No, it drops loudly. As in, I’m rudely awakened from a deep sleep to noisy pounding on the door.

  I sit up and frantically look around, because it takes my not-yet-alert brain a few seconds to comprehend what’s going on. Once it registers that the sounds are coming from the front door, I fly out of my bedroom and stagger into the common area. Two shadowy figures stumble out of Hannah’s room at the same time. My sleepy roommate and her boyfriend halt abruptly when they spot me.

  Bang.

  Bang bang bang.

  “What the hell?” Garrett sounds groggy as he turns his head toward the noise.

  My pulse speeds up when I hear Sean’s voice.

  “Allie!” he shouts from behind the door. “I know you’re in there! Let me in, goddamn it!”

  Just like that, Garrett is wide awake and marching to the door. I squeak in alarm, but he doesn
’t open it—he simply pounds his fist against it a couple times. “Shut the hell up, asshole. You’re going to wake up everyone on the floor.”

  “Like I give a shit!” comes Sean’s furious reply. “I need to talk to Allie.”

  “Then pick up the phone and call her like a normal, sane person,” Garrett snaps. “And do it tomorrow morning. Allie’s asleep.”

  Hannah moves beside me and rests a hand on my arm. My skin is ice cold and I know she feels it, because she gives a soft, comforting stroke. “Garrett will get rid of him,” she whispers.

  But she’s underestimated Sean’s stubbornness. “She’s not asleep,” he snaps back. “I know my girlfriend—”

  Ex-girlfriend! I almost yell.

  “—and she’s standing right behind the fucking door, I know she is.” The pounding picks up again. Bang. Bang bang bang. “Allie! Open the door! We need to talk!”

  I flinch. Hannah wraps one arm around my shoulders.

  “Bang on this door one more time and I’m calling the fucking cops,” Garrett hisses out.

  Bang bang bang.

  My throat squeezes shut. Goddamn it. He won’t go away. I know he won’t, and I’m suddenly overcome with visions of campus security and a police brigade swarming Bristol House like a SWAT team taking out a bank robber. Which wouldn’t just be mortifying, but completely disruptive. From that point on, everyone in this dorm will think of me as the chick with the insane ex-boyfriend.

  “Let him in,” I say weakly.

  Garrett whirls around, his gray eyes blazing. “No fucking way, Allie. He’s drunk.”

  “I know, but he’ll calm down once he’s inside.” My shoulders droop unhappily. “He’ll stay out there all night, Garrett. Just let him in and I’ll talk him down. I can handle this, I promise.”

  Hannah’s boyfriend remains skeptical. I don’t blame him. Sean is absolutely acting like a crazy person right now. But I spent four years with the guy, and I know he’s all bark and no bite. He would never hurt me in the physical sense.

  Garrett points a finger at me. “If he tries anything, I’ll beat the shit out of him.”