The Score (Off-Campus Book 3)

I’m nervous about Beau Maxwell’s reaction to me and Dean showing up together, but it turns out to be unnecessary. Beau doesn’t even blink when Dean introduces me as “G’s GF’s BFF”. Maybe all the letters Dean threw out confused him? Either way, he just seems thrilled that we came out to the club at all.

Beau’s sister Joanna is equally overjoyed, throwing her arms around Dean. “Di Laurentis! Oh thank God you’re here. You don’t understand how close I’ve come to killing my idiot brother these past couple days.”

“Naah, you don’t want to kill me,” Beau says with a broad grin. “You love your little brother and you know it.”

Joanna gives him the finger, but she’s grinning too. She’s as attractive as Beau, tall and statuesque with sparkling blue eyes and dark hair cut in a short bob. Dean told me she currently has a small role in a Broadway show, which is the first thing I ask her about as we head inside after going through the line. By which I mean skipping it altogether, because one word in the bouncer’s ear from Dean and the velvet rope magically lifts for us.

Inside, the strobe lights are going strong and the music is deafening. Joanna and I need to scream our lungs out in order to continue our conversation. Dean and Beau, who were walking ahead of us, are immediately swallowed up by the frenzied mob.

“We lost the boys,” I shout in Joanna’s ear.

She shakes her head and points at the spiral staircase to our left. Sure enough, the guys are ascending the metal steps. Dean glances over his shoulder, finds us in the crowd, and gestures for us to follow them.

I discover that the staircase leads to the VIP area. We reach the top in time to hear Dean address the beefy bouncer manning the rope. “Dean Heyward,” he shouts. “Tony knows me.”

The bouncer touches the tiny Bluetooth tucked in his ear. His lips move, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. A second later, our little group saunters past yet another velvet rope.

Fortunately, the music isn’t as loud up here, so I don’t need to shriek like a banshee anymore. “Dean Heyward?” I tease. “Are we not using Di Laurentis anymore?”

He slings his arm around me, and the spicy scent of his aftershave infuses my senses, making me shiver. “Di Laurentis works better at country clubs or charity benefits. The Heyward name opens more doors in Manhattan.”

It sure does. Not only do we have access to the VIP lounge, but we’re given a spacious table by the wrought-iron railing that overlooks the dance floor. I take out my phone to check if Dillon texted—yep. She and her boyfriend will be here soon. I tell her to come upstairs when they arrive, then refocus on the conversation around me.

Joanna is teasing her brother about someone named Sabrina, but he’s insisting the relationship is over, which seems to upset his sister.

“You’re such an idiot. Seriously, Beau-Beau, you needed someone like her to keep you in line.”

Since Dean still has his arm around me, it’s impossible not to feel it when he stiffens. I study the hard set of his profile, and lightly squeeze his thigh. “You okay?”

“Ah, don’t mind him, sweetheart,” Beau says with a chuckle. “He always gets like this when the subject of Sabrina comes up. I think he’s still sulking that she snubbed him after they boned down.”

I’m not surprised to hear that Dean slept with this girl, whoever she is. What I am surprised about is my complete lack of jealousy.

The same thing happened during our drive to the city. Listening to Dean talk about “silent comers” and past hook-ups hadn’t upset me, not the way it had the night I saw Penelope pawing him at Malone’s. But I hadn’t felt threatened this time around. Maybe because they were clearly memories for him and not present day specters that could interfere with whatever we have going on? I’m not entirely sure what the reason is, but I like this odd, unexpected trust I have in him.

In the seat beside me, Dean is rolling his eyes in response to Beau’s taunt. “Trust me, I’m happy to be snubbed.”

I wait for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, it heightens my curiosity, so I poke him in the side and say, “Spill, sweetie. I want to hear about this blood feud you’ve got going on.” As Hannah can attest, I’m too nosy for my own good.

“So do I,” Beau says honestly.

Dean waves it off. “It was just some stupid bullshit in sophomore year. No big deal.”

“Obviously it is if it still bothers you two years later,” I point out.

Reluctance creases his forehead. “Long story short? I was struggling in a course, but every time I thought I failed a test or wrote a shitty paper, I’d get an A on it. Me being a total moron, I didn’t connect it to the fact that I was banging my TA.”

Beau snickers. “Love it.”

I sigh. “Oh boy.”

“I know, it was a stupid move,” Dean says penitently. “Anyway, Sabrina and I were paired up on the final project. We each did half the work and it was graded separately. My half was C-material at best and we both knew it, except then our grades came back and I got an A. Sabrina got a B-minus.” His jaw tightens. “She was pissed. She went to the professor to bitch about it, and he ended up rereading every paper I turned in and every test I took—all graded by the TA I was screwing. Turned out I should have been failing the class. But I was acing it.”

Dean sounds so disgusted it startles me. Before we hooked up, I assumed he was the kind of guy who breezed through life on a free pass because of his looks and money. This story corroborates that. But the anger in his voice reveals something else—he doesn’t want the free pass.

“I couldn’t stomach it,” he admits, confirming my suspicions. “I told the prof to give me the F. I was perfectly willing to retake the course over the summer. But the bastard wouldn’t fail me.”

“Why not?” Joanna speaks up, both indignant and bewildered.

“He knew my father,” Dean mutters. “They went to law school together, and he told me he’d look the other way as a favor to my dad. I said no way. We argued for a while, until he finally agreed to lower the grade to a B-plus. It was the ‘best he could do’.”

Dean’s expression is darker than a storm cloud. “I should’ve failed that fucking course, but the Di Laurentis name bought me a pass, and Sabrina never lets me forget it. She thinks I’m a rich asshole who gets whatever he wants.” His tone grows dismissive again. “Whatever. She can think what she wants. Only matters what I think, right?”

I see right through the careless smile he flashes. It bothers him that people think he’s a wealthy playboy who has everything handed to him on a silver platter. And yes, I do recognize that side of him—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet—but I’ve also seen other facets of his personality this past month.

He’s tenacious. Seriously, this guy never, ever gives up when he wants something.

He cares about his friends and teammates. Hell, I didn’t see him on Monday and Tuesday this week because he’d requested extra ice time so he could help some guy named Hunter hone his skills.

He owns more books than the public library in Brooklyn, and I can tell from their wear and tear that he’s actually read all of them.

He—

“Your purse.”

My head lifts up. “What about it?”

Dean gestures to the black clutch on the bench seat between us. “It’s vibrating.”

I shake myself out of the bizarre Why Dean Is So Great list I was composing, and snap open the clutch to find my phone buzzing.

I set down my rum and coke. “My friends are here. Will you come get them with me? I might need you to talk to the bouncer again.”

He gives an exaggerated sigh. “I knew it. You’re just using me for my connections.”

“Yep,” I answer cheerfully.

We head back to the staircase, and I squeal when I spot a familiar face behind the rope.

“They’re with us,” Dean tells the bouncer.

A moment later, there’s a teeny, equally excited brunette hurling herself into my arms. “Oh my God! It’s so good to see you!” shrieks my best friend from high school. “You don’t fucking call me enough!”

I grin and say, “It takes two to tango” and then we’re happily hugging again, until I notice the shadow looming over us.

Dillon disentangles herself from the embrace and introduces us to her boyfriend. “This is Roy.”

Last time we spoke on the phone, she mentioned she was dating a football player. I would’ve guessed it even if she hadn’t told me, because Roy is a monster of a man. At least six-seven, with arms as thick as tree trunks and thighs that are bigger than my torso. And either I’m imagining it, or he looks exactly like—

“Dude, anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Samuel L. Jackson?” Dean demands, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

Roy’s massive shoulders set in a rigid line. “Ahhh, I get it, ’cause all us brothas look the same to you, right?”

My alarmed gaze flies to Dillon, because the menacing glare twisting Roy’s features is downright terrifying. And his voice is deeper than the bass line thudding through the club.

“What next?” Roy growls. “You gonna say there’s somethin’ wrong with me going out with this fine white girl? Is that what you’re saying?”

Dean is unfazed. “Yeah, you got me, man. I’m a huge racist.” He shakes his head incredulously as he continues to stare at Roy. “It’s frickin’ uncanny. You look exactly like him.”

I’m seconds away from clapping my hand over Dean’s mouth before this behemoth snaps him like a twig, but to my astonishment, Roy’s ominous expression dissolves.

“I’m just playing with you, bro. I get it all the time.” Roy breaks out in a huge grin. “I won ten grand last summer at a celebrity impersonation contest—first place for my Sam Jackson. I did the speech from Deep Blue Sea, right before the shark gets ’im.”

“Nice.” Dean flashes a mischievous smile. “PS, some more racism coming your way—you sound like James Earl Jones.”

Roy throws his head back and releases a big, booming laugh. Then he slaps Dean on the arm and says, “You’re all right, white boy.”

Just like that, they’re best friends, talking animatedly as they charge ahead.

Dillon sighs and links her arm through mine. “Roy likes to scare people,” she apologizes.

I snicker. “Don’t worry, Dean doesn’t scare easily.”

“Dean, huh?” Her eyes light up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a new boyfriend?”

“Because I don’t. We’re just having some fun. Nothing serious.”

“Ha! Yeah right, AJ. With you, it’s always serious.”

Not this time, I want to say, but we’ve reached the table and the guys’ voices drown out our conversation. Beau and Roy are already talking football, and because the latter is so damn enormous, he takes up at least three people’s worth of space on the bench-style seat. Dillon slides in beside him, which leaves zero room for me.

Grinning, Dean tugs me into his lap and winds one strong arm around my waist. “You can sit right here, baby doll.”

“Aw, thanks, honey-pie.”

The six of us make such an unlikely group that I suddenly have scenes from The Breakfast Club flashing in my mind. Beau the East Coast quarterback. Dean the hockey player. Roy the linebacker from Louisiana. Joanna the Broadway actress. Dillon the finance major. And me, the future star of rom coms.

Despite that, there’s no shortage of conversation. Dillon and I fill each other in on what we’ve been up to the past few months. Since I started college, I’ve lost touch with most of my high school friends, but Dillon’s friendship is one I was determined to preserve.

As I chat with her, I’m very aware of the fact that Dean is touching me. Constantly. Stroking my shoulder. Grazing my thigh. Nuzzling my neck. At one point he even brushes his lips over my cheek, which summons a loud hoot from Beau.

“Jesus, Bella,” he marvels. He’s highly amused as he meets my eyes. “What kind of spell did you cast on my man Dean? I’ve never seen him like this with a chick before.”

“My name’s Allie,” I correct.

That makes him laugh harder.

Dean sighs, then leans in close and murmurs, “Wanna dance?”

“Depends… Are you a good dancer?”

“Every man is a good dancer.”

I snort. “The broken toe I got in high school begs to differ.”

“Sorry, what I should’ve said is—every man is capable of being a good dancer.” His hands lock around my waist as he lifts me to my feet. “There’s just one move a man needs to know in order to rock it on the dance floor.”

“Yeah? What’s the move?” I ask curiously.

Dean twines his fingers through mine as we descend the staircase. “STAG.” He has to shout his answer, because the music is louder down here.

I stand on my tiptoes so my mouth is close to his ear. “What’s stag?”

“The only one of Logan’s crazy acronyms I live my life by—STAG.” His mouth stretches in a broad smile. “Stand there and grind.”

Laughter bubbles out of my throat, turning into a shriek of delight when Dean hauls me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on tight as he carries me to the dance floor. Then he sets me on my feet, presses his delectable body against mine, and proves that STAG really is the only move that matters.

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 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.