The Score
Page 70
“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.
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.
