The Score (Off-Campus Book 3)

My self-control rests in the hands of Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, a man known for zero self-control. Ergo, I’m in trouble. Big fucking trouble.

I won’t do it, though. I won’t call Sean. Doesn’t matter that twenty minutes ago he sent me a picture of the two of us from our Mexico trip last year. He’d used one of those framing apps to draw a big red heart around our faces.

It had been a really good trip…

I push the memory aside and grab the remote control off the coffee table. “Do you have Netflix linked to your TV?” I glance back at Dean, who still looks aggravated by my presence.

And either I’m imagining it or he has an erection. But I’m nice enough not to tease him about it, because in his defense, he was five seconds away from having sex with two girls before I showed up.

My gaze travels over his bare chest. I cannot tell a lie—his chest is absolutely spectacular. The guy’s ripped. Tall and lean, with perfectly sculpted muscles. And he’s rocking some scruff—sexy blond bristles that shadow his perfectly chiseled jaw. It really is a shame. Someone this douchey shouldn’t be allowed to look this good.

“Yeah. Go ahead and pick something to watch,” he answers. “I’m just popping upstairs to jerk it and then I’ll join you.”

“Okay, I think I’m in the mood for—wait, what?”

But he’s already gone, leaving me gaping at the empty doorway. He’s popping upstairs to do what? He was joking, right?

Despite my better judgment, I picture it. Dean up in his room. One hand wrapped around his dick, the other hand…cupping his balls? Clutching the sheets? Or maybe he’s standing up and gripping the side of his desk, his features drawn as he bites his bottom lip…

And why am I trying to solve the mystery of how this guy masturbates?

Shaking myself out of it, I click the remote until I find Netflix, then start browsing the latest movie titles.

Less than five minutes later, Dean saunters back into the room. Thankfully he put on some pants. Except he ditched his boxers in the process, which I know because his sweatpants are riding so low on his hips I can almost see…places I have no interest in seeing.

His chest is still bare, and there’s a slight flush to his cheeks.

“Did you seriously jerk off just now?” I demand.

He nods as if it’s no biggie. “What, you think I can sit through a whole movie with blue balls?”

I gawk at him. “So you can’t have sex with anyone while I’m in the house, but you can go upstairs and do that?”

A wolfish grin stretches his mouth. “I could’ve done it down here, but then you would’ve been too tempted to take over for me. I was trying to be nice.”

It’s hard not to roll my eyes. So I don’t bother fighting the urge. “Trust me, I would have kept my hands to myself.”

“With my cock right there in the open? No way. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself.” He arches a brow. “I have a great cock.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you do.”

“You don’t believe me? I can show you a picture.” He reaches for the phone on the coffee table. Then he stops and grabs the waistband of his sweatpants instead. “Actually, I can show you the real thing if you want.”

“I don’t want. In the slightest.” I gesture to the TV. “I picked that one. Have you seen it?”

Dean grimaces at the movie poster on the screen. “For chrissake, that’s what you chose? There’re like three new horror movies we could watch. Or Jason Statham’s entire filmography.”

“No horror movies,” I say firmly. “I don’t like to be scared.”

“Fine. So let’s do an action movie.”

“I don’t like violence.”

His cheeks hollow in frustration. “Baby doll, I am not watching a movie about—” He squints at the screen “‘a woman’s life-changing journey after being diagnosed with a terminal illness.’ No fucking way.”

“It’s supposed to be really good,” I protest. “It won an Oscar!”

“You know what else won an Oscar? Silence of the Lambs. Jaws. The Exorcist.” He sounds smug. “And they’re all horror movies.”

“We can argue about this all night, but I’m not watching anything with blood or sharks or explosions. Deal with it.”

Dean’s teeth are visibly clenched. Then his jaw relaxes and he releases a heavy breath. “Fine. If I have to suffer through this crap movie, I’m smoking a joint first.”

“Whatever gets you through it, sweetie.”

He walks toward the doorway, grumbling something under his breath.

“Wait,” I call after him. I quickly fish my phone out of my jacket pocket. “Can you take this with you? I might give in to texting temptation if I’m left alone with it.”

He gives me a weird look. “Who you trying not to text?”

“My ex. We broke up last night and he won’t stop messaging me.”

There’s a pause. “You know what? You’re coming with me.”

I barely have time to blink before Dean crosses the room and tugs me off the chair. When my feet connect with the hardwood floor, I lose my balance and stumble right into his massive chest, my nose bumping one defined pec.

I quickly steady myself, armed with a glare. “I was comfy, you ass.”

He ignores me, half-leading, half-dragging me to the kitchen. Since he didn’t even let me grab my jacket, I start shivering the second we step through the back door.

Dean’s bare chest gleams under the patio light. He doesn’t seem bothered by the cold, but his nipples pucker slightly in the chilly night air.

“Ugh. You even have perfect nipples,” I gripe.

His lips twitch. “Do you wanna touch ’em?”

“Ew. Never. I’m just commenting that they’re frickin’ perfect. Like, totally proportioned to your chest.”

He peers down at his pecs and considers for a moment. “Yeah. I am perfect. I need to remind myself of that more often.”

I snort. “Right. Because you’re not already conceited enough.”

“I’m confident,” he corrects.

“Conceited.”

“Confident.” He pops open the small tin box he grabbed from the kitchen, and I scowl when he extracts a neatly rolled joint and a Zippo.

“Why am I out here?” I grumble. “I don’t want to smoke weed.”

“Sure you do.” He lights up and takes a deep drag, then speaks through the escaping cloud of smoke. “You’re acting all jittery and weird. Trust me, you need this.”

“This is peer pressure, you know.”

He holds out the joint, one eyebrow raised. “Come on, baby,” he coaxes in a singsong voice. “Just one toke. All the cool kids are doing it.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Fuck off.”

“Suit yourself.” He exhales again, and the scent of marijuana surrounds me.

I can’t remember the last time I got high. I don’t do it often, but honestly? If any night merits some weed-induced serenity, it’s this one.

“Oh, fine. Give it to me.” I stick out my hand before I can second-guess myself.

Dean is beaming as he passes it over. “That’s my girl. But don’t tell Wellsy. She’ll kick my ass if she thinks I’m corrupting her best friend.”

I wrap my lips around the joint and draw the smoke into my lungs, trying not to laugh at the genuine apprehension on Dean’s face. He’s probably right to be afraid of Hannah. Girl’s got a sharp tongue and she isn’t afraid to use it. That’s why I love her.

We spend the next couple minutes passing the joint back and forth in silence like a couple of hooligans loitering behind a gas station. This is the first time we’ve spent any time alone together, and it feels weird hanging out in the backyard with a shirtless Dean Di Laurentis. If I’m being honest, I’ve never known what to make of the guy. He’s cocky, flirtatious…

Superficial.

I feel like an ass for thinking it, but I can’t deny that’s what comes to mind whenever I see Dean. Hannah told me he’s filthy rich, and it totally shows. Not in the pompous, watch-me-roll-around-in-my-money-vault sense, but in the way he struts around like the world is his oyster. I have a feeling he’s never experienced a second of hardship in his life. Looking at him, you just know this guy gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants it.

Huh. And apparently marijuana makes me both philosophical and judgmental.

“So you got dumped?” he finally asks, watching me take another hit.

I blow smoke right in his face. “I did not get dumped. I’m the one who ended it.”

“The same guy you’ve been with forever? The frat guy? Stan?”

“Sean. And yeah, we’ve been dating on and off since freshman year.”

“Jesus. That’s way too long to be screwing the same person. Was the sex really boring?”

“Why is everything with you always about sex?” I pass the joint back. “And FYI—the sex was fine.”

“Fine?” He snickers. “Wow, what a ringing endorsement.”

I’m already feeling the effects of the weed, my head light and my body relaxed, which is probably the only reason I keep talking. Normally, I wouldn’t dream of confiding in this guy.

“I guess it wasn’t the best by the end,” I admit. “But maybe that’s because we’ve pretty much been fighting since the summer.”

“But this isn’t the first breakup, right? Why’d you keep going back to him?”

“Because I love him.” I correct myself, “Loved him.” God, I don’t even know anymore. “The first couple times we broke up, it wasn’t because either of us did anything wrong. I thought we were getting too serious, too fast. It was freshman year, and it seemed like we should be sowing our wild oats and all that crap.”

“Sowing oats is fun,” he agrees solemnly. “One time I sowed this really hot oat who poured maple syrup all over my dick and then licked it off.”

“Ew.” I roll my eyes. “And actually, the oat sowing sucked. I went out with a few guys and they were all total sleazebags. It made me realize how good I had it with Sean.”

Dean blows another cloud of smoke. “Okay. But then you guys broke up again.”

“Yeah.” The memory evokes a rush of aggravation. “That time it was because he got insanely controlling. One of his frat brothers hit on me at a party, and Sean decided that nobody was ever allowed to look at me again. He started telling me how to dress, texting all the time asking where I was and who I was with. It was suffocating.”

It’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. “Says the chick who got back together with him afterward.”

“He promised it would be different. And it was. He stopped being clingy, and he was so good to me after that.”

Dean seems unconvinced, but I don’t care. I don’t regret taking Sean back. After two and a half years with the guy, I knew we had something worth fighting for.

“Which brings us to breakup number four.” Dean slants his head curiously. “What happened?”

Discomfort squeezes my chest. “I told you. We were fighting a lot.”

“About what?”

The words spill out before I can stop them. Damn it. Did he lace this weed with truth serum or something? “Mostly about graduation and what we’re going to do after college. My plan was always to move to LA and focus on my acting career.”

Or New York… But I don’t mention that to Dean. I still haven’t made any decisions, and Dean is the last person I want to discuss deep, life-changing career moves with. The guy’s about as deep as a puddle.

“Sean was okay with it when we first started dating, but this summer he suddenly decided he doesn’t want me to go into acting. Actually, he doesn’t want me to work at all.” I frown. “He got it into his head that he’s going to work at his dad’s insurance firm in Vermont and I’m going to be the happy homemaker who has dinner waiting for him when he gets home.”

Dean shrugs. “Nothing wrong with being a homemaker.”

“Of course not, but I don’t want to be a homemaker,” I say in frustration. “I’ve spent almost four years working my ass off to earn this drama degree. I want to use it. I want to be an actress, and I can’t be with someone who doesn’t support me. He—” I stop, biting my lip.

“He what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” I snatch the joint from his hand and inhale deeply. Too deeply, because I start coughing like crazy on the exhale. My eyes water for a moment, and when my vision clears, I find serious green eyes watching me carefully.

“What did he do?” Dean demands in a low voice. “And how bad of a beat-down does he deserve? Me and Garrett can handle our own in a fight, but if you want some bone-crushing, we can unleash Logan on him.”

“Nobody is crushing anybody’s bones, dumbass. Sean didn’t do anything terrible, and I don’t need you to beat him up. The only thing I want you to do is take this stupid phone.” I shove my cell phone in Dean’s hand. “Keep it away from me this weekend, okay? Only give it back if my dad calls. Or Hannah and Stella. And Meg and—you know what? I’ll check it a few times a day under your supervision. That way you can slap me if I try to text Sean.”

Dean looks intrigued. “So I’m…what, your relationship sponsor? I’m the one who makes sure you don’t fall off the wagon?”

“Yep. Congratulations, you finally get to do something worthwhile with your time,” I say sarcastically.

He tips his head. “What do I get in return?”

“The satisfaction of knowing you’re helping someone other than yourself?”

“Naah. How about a BJ? I’ll do it for a BJ.”

I give him the finger. “You wish.”

“Fine, an HJ.”

“Don’t be a dick. Please. I have no willpower when it comes to Sean.”

As if on cue, the phone buzzes in Dean’s hand, and my first instinct is to try to grab it. He swiftly takes a step back, then glances at the screen. “It’s Sean.” His mouth quivers in amusement. “He misses the taste of your lips.”

My heart does a painful flip. “Another rule—you’re not allowed to tell me what he says.”

“You’re giving me a lot of responsibility here, baby doll. I don’t like responsibility.”

Shocker. “You can handle this, baby doll. I have faith in you.”

Dean takes one final drag of the joint, then snuffs it out in the ashtray and heads for the glass sliding door. God, even the way he walks is arrogant. And he looks good doing it. My gaze unwittingly rests on his taut ass and the way his sweatpants cling to it. Yep, I’m checking out his ass. I mean, it’s a spectacular ass, and I’m a woman—how could I not?

“You’re going about this the wrong way, you know. The best way to get over someone is to hook up with someone else. ASAP.”

His words jolt me out of my butt-ogling. “I’m not ready to be with anyone else yet.”

“Sure you are. Seriously, just find yourself a rebound.” Dean whips up his arm. “I volunteer as tribute.”

A laugh flies out. “Dream on.”

But in the back of my mind, I’m considering the suggestion. A rebound isn’t a terrible idea, actually. It’s like falling off a horse—people always advise you to immediately get back on, right? Maybe that’s what I should do, hop right back in the saddle. If anything, it’ll be a good distraction from the ache in my heart.

I definitely won’t be doing it with Dean, though. Nope, I’d rather find a saddle that hasn’t already been ridden by every girl at Briar.

“We’ll put a pin in it,” he decides.

“If by that you mean sticking a pin in this stupid idea balloon and deflating it, then sure, let’s put a pin in it.”

Dean stops at the door and turns, his green eyes doing a seductive sweep from my head down to my toes. “Actually, the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of rebounding you.” His gaze lingers on my chest. “I like the idea a lot.”

I stifle a groan. “Garrett promised that you wouldn’t hit on me this weekend.”

“G knows better than to make promises on my behalf,” Dean answers with a grin. Then he beckons me. “So are we watching this movie or what?”

I follow him inside. My mind feels foggy from the weed, but in a good way, and when Dean stops in the hall to hike up the sweatpants that are about to fall off his trim hips, for some reason I start giggling as if it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

My humor fades when we settle on the couch, because Dean flops down directly beside me, slings one muscular arm around my shoulders, and tugs me close. As if it’s totally normal.

I frown at him. “Why is your arm around me?”

His expression is all innocence. “This is how I watch movies.”

“Really? So you put your arm around Garrett when you watch movies with him?”

“Absolutely. And if he’s nice to me, sometimes I slide my hand down his pants.” Dean’s other hand skims down to the waistband of my leggings. “Be nice to me, and I promise I’ll be even nicer in return.”

“Ha. Not happening.” I shove his hand away, but not before a spark of heat ignites between my legs. His bare chest is glorious, and it’s taunting me, begging my fingers to stroke all those roped muscles. And he smells really good. Like the ocean. No, like coconut. I’m feeling way too loopy to pinpoint the scent, but not loopy enough that I don’t register how my pussy is still tingling like crazy.

Oh, for crying out loud. My sex life must have really gone to the shitter if I’m getting all tingly in the presence of Dean Di Laurentis.

“What else do we have to do?” he counters.

I point to the TV. “Watch a movie.”

“I’d rather be watching you.” He waggles his eyebrows. “You know, when you’re shouting my name while I make you come.”

This time there aren’t any tingles. Just a lot of laughter that pours out of my mouth in uncontrollable waves.

“Jesus. You’re really bad for a man’s ego.” He looks insulted.

I suck in a gulp of air between giggles. Yep, I’m high and relaxed and in possession of no filters whatsoever, which means I can make fun of Dean all I want and blame the weed later. “I’m sorry, but you’re too fucking much sometimes.” I can’t stop laughing. “Do girls really fall for these lines?”

He makes an unflattering noise under his breath. “Put on the damn movie already.”

“Gladly.” I click the remote and shift all the way to the other side of the couch, leaving three feet of distance between us.

To Dean’s credit, he doesn’t say a word for nearly thirty minutes. His gaze stays focused on the screen, but from the corner of my eye, I don’t miss all the fidgeting he’s doing. Tapping his long fingers on his thighs. Raking a hand through his hair. Heaving a sigh as we watch the main character prepare an omelet in real time.

When she sits at the counter and starts eating the omelet—in real time—Dean erupts like a dormant volcano.

“This movie blows!” He groans. Loudly. “There. I said it. This goddamn movie goddamn blows.”

“I think it’s good.” I’m lying. Enduring this film is the equivalent of watching paint dry. Not even the pot we just smoked can make this experience even the slightest bit enjoyable, but I don’t want to admit that I’d made the wrong choice. You can’t give a guy like Dean the win. Ever. He’ll lord it over me until the end of time.

“There’s no way you like this movie,” he challenges.

“I do,” I insist.

He stares me down for several seconds, but my acting skills come in handy, allowing me to convey pure innocence.

“Well, I don’t. This is a whole new level of brutal.”

I offer a helpful suggestion. “Why don’t you go upstairs and jerk off again?”

Shit. Wrong thing to say. His green eyes instantly take on a seductive glint.

With a lazy grin, he leans toward me and drawls, “How about you do it for me?”

This guy is incorrigible. “Are we back to this? Do you ever take no for an answer?”

“I’m not familiar with that word. Nobody’s ever said it to me before.” He moves closer again, resting his palm on the cushion between us and giving the fabric a slow stroke. “Come on, let’s make this party more interesting. We’re home alone…we’re both good-looking…”

I snicker.

“It’ll be fun. Sex is always fun.”

“Pass.”

“Okay, no sex. How about just oral?”

I pretend to think it over. “Am I giving or receiving?”

“Receiving. And then giving. Because that’s how it goes.” He smiles broadly. “You know, the circle of life and all that.”

I can’t help but laugh. Say what you want about this guy, but at least he’s entertaining. “Pass,” I say again.

“Wanna make out?” he asks hopefully.

“Nope.”

“I’m a really good kisser…” He leaves that hanging as if to entice me.

“Ha. That just means you’re not. Every time a guy says he’s a good kisser, he sucks.”

“Yeah? You got any empirical evidence to back that up?”

“Of course.” I really don’t. And Dean knows the word empirical? Wow, maybe there is more than air inside that pretty head of his.

He looks ready to argue with me, but we’re interrupted by a loud burst of music from his phone. I scowl when I recognize the tune.

Men. They can’t take one second to put the toilet seat down, but they have the time to program the ESPN theme song as their ringtone?

Dean’s expression brightens when he sees who’s calling. He answers without delay. “Maxwell! What’s shaking?” He listens, then shoots me a hopeful look. “Wanna go to a party?”

I shake my head.

The person on the other end of the line is forced to endure Dean’s overly dramatic sigh. “Sorry, man. I can’t. I’m babysitting—”

I smack him on the arm.

“—and she doesn’t want to go,” he finishes as he glares at me. He pauses again. “No, she’s fully grown.”

What?

“I’m babysitting an adult, dude. G’s girlfriend’s friend.” Dean rambles on as if I’m not even in the room. “We’re watching this movie about a lady with cancer and it sucks…well yeah, cancer sucks in general. I mean, all my sympathies for people who have it, but this movie is god-awful. Yeah…no, game’s on Tuesday…truth…yeah, definitely. We can hit up Malone’s. Later, bro.”

He hangs up and turns to scowl at me. “I could be at a party right now.”

“Nobody’s forcing you to hang out with me,” I point out.

“I’m trying to be nice to you, on account of your poor broken heart and all. But is there any gratitude on your part? Nope. You won’t even kiss me.”

I lean in and pat him on the shoulder. “Aw, honey-pie. I’m sure any girl in your phone’s contact list would be happy to come over and stick her tongue in your mouth. I, on the other hand, have standards.”

“What, I’m not good enough for you?” He lifts his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know, your friend Wellsy loved kissing me.”

I snort. “Oh, you mean that peck she gave you so Garrett wouldn’t know how much she liked kissing him? Yeah, I know all about it, sweetie. That was a desperation kiss.” Though it still boggles my mind that Hannah actually kissed this guy. Dean is so not her type.

Then again, I never thought hockey superstar Garrett Graham was her type either, and look at them now. Soulmates.

“That wasn’t a desperation kiss,” Dean argues.

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

He looks at the screen. The main character is preparing food again. Dinner, this time, and there are far too many unnecessary close-ups of the potatoes she’s peeling. She eats a lot in this movie.

“God, just kill me already.” He leans back and runs both his hands through his hair until it’s tousled to shit. “I can’t watch another second of this.”

Me neither, but I made this bed and now I’m forced to lie in it.

“You know what?” he announces. “Forget the weed. Only one thing is gonna make this piece-of-shit movie tolerable.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

Rather than answer, he hops off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Wary, I listen to the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, glasses clinking together, and then he’s back, holding a bottle in one hand and two shot glasses in the other.

Dean flashes a grin and says, “Tequila.”