Off Campus

Tequila is not my friend.

Or maybe tequila is my best friend - because it makes me feel very, very good. And very, very happy. And... fine, it gets me very, very hot. As in I want to rip off my clothes and jump the nearest available penis hot.

Unfortunately, the nearest available penis at the moment belongs to Dean Di Laurentis.

Yup, it's just me and Dean at the house tonight. Dean, the arrogant wise-ass who thinks sport fucking should be an Olympic event. And me, the vulnerable tipsy chick who's grieving for a failed relationship.

Not a good combo, folks.

"One more shot?" the sport fucker in question drawls from the other side of the couch.

I stare at the half-empty bottle he's waving in the air. Oh boy. Did we already drink half this bottle? I swear we've only been hanging out for ten minutes, twenty tops.

Damn it. I can't believe I let Hannah convince me to hide out at her boyfriend Garrett's house for the weekend. Garrett's roommate can't be trusted. I knew that going in, and yet I'm still here. Getting drunk with the guy.

Break-ups really fuck with your mind.

"Pass," I answer, shoving a strand of hair out of my eyes.

"You're no fun, Allie-Cat." Dean tips the bottle and takes a deep swig without bothering with a shot glass.

I don't answer him, because I'm too busy watching his strong throat work as he swallows. An amber-colored drop spills out of the bottle and lands on his broad, golden chest, and now my gaze tracks that tiny bead of alcohol as it slides down one heavy pec and stops right above his six-pack. Are all hockey players this deliciously ripped, or is it just this particular one?

"You're checking me out again," he accuses with a grin.

"You're imagining things," I lie.

"Well, yeah. I'm imagining plenty of things. Like you naked. And me naked. And us naked together." He drags his tongue over his bottom lip. "Doesn't change the fact that you're checking me out."

The drop of tequila is still glistening on his skin. My tongue tingles. I want to lick it off him. Would that be inappropriate?

Um, yeah! an internal voice shouts.

I purse my lips. Is it, though? What would be so wrong about bending over and licking that one teeny little droplet?

My common sense instantly pipes up with half a dozen reasons why it would be wrong.

Because it's bad manners to lick someone without their permission.

Because you broke up with your boyfriend yesterday.

Because Dean Di Laurentis is a cocky manslut.

Because you don't like him.

Because you don't have casual sex.

Because you-

Yeah, I think I'm just going to lick him. All these becauses are giving me a headache.

With a decisive nod, I scoot closer and stick out my tongue and-

What the hell am I doing ?!

Squeaking in dismay, I lunge back to my end of the couch, but it's too late. Judging by his self-satisfied smirk, Dean's figured out that I'm thinking dirty thoughts.

"Were you just about to lick me?" he asks politely.

I grit my teeth. "No."

"You totally were." His lips twitch like crazy, and his muscular body starts vibrating as if he's struggling to keep in a wave of laughter. Then he composes himself and flashes a broad smile. "Why don't you just admit you want me?"

Usually the word "no" freely flies out of my mouth whenever Dean Di Laurentis is hitting on me. Right now, it's lodged in my throat like a piece of gum. The tequila is buzzing in my blood, sending pulsing waves of heat and anticipation through my veins.

Fine, maybe I do want him. A little. But it's not really him - I'm on the rebound. After four years of having sex with the same guy, my body is drawn to the new and unfamiliar.

My body is the one who wants to know what Dean's lips would feel like pressed against mine. And what his skin would taste like if I ran my mouth all over it. And whether or not the bulge in his pants would actually feel good inside me or if Dean's sex god reputation is all talk.

Stupid body.

"I'll tell you what," Dean says when I still haven't answered. "You don't have to say a word. Blink once if you want to fool around. Twice for no."

I gape at him as he intently studies my face.

"Okay, that was three blinks," he muses. "I didn't have anything for three."

"I don't want to fool around," I finally croak.

"You sure about that?"

Before I can react, he's next to me, one sculpted arm stretched across the top of the couch, the other braced on the cushion between us.

"Babe. Do you really want to keep fighting this?"

His breath tickles my ear and sends a shiver up my spine. He's too close. And he's too attractive. Why didn't I just stay in the dorms tonight? I'm not allowed to lust after Dean Di Laurentis!

Except I am. I'm lusting hard. My nipples are beaded with desire. My core is tight and achy. And I swear if he so much as breathes on me again, I might spontaneously orgasm.

But Dean does something worse than breathe.

He strips.

Yep, the infuriating, annoying, sexy as fuck man pulls off his gray sweatpants and kicks them away, leaving him naked on the couch. Naked. With his dick right fucking there.

"Oh my God! Put your pants back on!"

"Why?" He shrugs. "Pants are overrated. Besides, I need them off so I can do this-"

He wraps a strong fist around his very impressive erection, and I choke on my tongue. I can't believe he's touching himself in front of me.

Keeping my gaze glued to my lap, I mutter, "Didn't you already jerk off once tonight?"

"Yeah. So?" He chuckles. "I'm twenty-two, Allie-Cat. And I play hockey. Are you really questioning my stamina?"

"I'm not questioning anything," I sputter. "I'm just trying to figure out why you're such a horndog all the time."

"I'm chilling with a girl who's fantasizing about licking me! How can I not get horny?"

Good point. But... this is Dean! I can't be around a naked Dean.

"Come on, babe, are you seriously going to turn this down?"

I make the mistake of looking at him. He's openly stroking himself now. I should be grossed out. Or laugh at him for being so outrageously bold. Instead, I'm fascinated by the way he slowly moves that fist up and down his shaft. The head of his cock peeks out on every upstroke, and my lips begin to tingle again.

"Allie .. "

"Dean." I swallow through my dry throat. "We can't hook up. It's a terrible idea."

"Probably," he agrees. "I mean, the beating I'll take from Garrett isn't gonna be fun, I'll give you that. But..." He tilts his blond head to the side, his green eyes dancing mischievously. "I won't tell if you don't."

That gets my attention. Fool around with Dean and keep the hook-up a secret?

That's not the worst idea... right? I could get my tequila jollies off, without having Hannah lecture me afterward about how I'm the biggest idiot on the planet for giving in to Dean's potent masculinity.

Nobody would ever have to know...

My gaze lowers to his crotch again. His dick is... appealing. My mouth is no longer dry, but watering. That's how badly I want to taste him.

"Do it," he coaxes in a voice laced with pure sex. "I know you want to put your mouth all over me."

He's right. I do. God help me, but I do.

The devil on my shoulder - or maybe it's my aching pussy - nudges my hand in Dean's direction. I can't help myself. I swat his hand away and take over for him, wrapping my fingers around his shaft. Then I give him the slowest, most delicate stroke.

He groans. "Tease."

I'm not trying to tease him. I'm trying to talk myself out of this, damn it. But my stubborn brain refuses to see reason. The only conscious thought in my head is fuck him, fuck him now.

But I don't do that. Instead, I suck him.

"Jesus!" he squawks, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Oh shit, that feels good."

It really does. My lips are stretched around him, my tongue dragging over his hard male flesh, and it's the best feeling ever. I'm so turned on it's not even funny.

"Fuck, Allie. Where've you been hiding that mouth?" His lust-drenched words heat the air, and he's thrusting deeper now, sliding his length almost to the back of my throat.

When I lift my head and release him, he moans in disappointment, but his objections die when I practically hurl myself onto his lap. I'm still wearing my leggings, but they're paper-thin, which means I can feel every inch of his bared cock rubbing against my core.

Seductive green eyes peer up at me, only for a second, before Dean grabs the back of my head and yanks me down for a kiss. It's hot and greedy and glorious, the sweep of his tongue bringing all my nerve endings to life. And I kiss him back with a level of enthusiasm that startles me.

I don't want to want this, but I do. I want him. On me. Over me. Inside me.

Dean shakes with laughter as I start tearing off my clothes. "Thought you didn't want me," he taunts, clearly enjoying the manic striptease.

I jab a finger in the center of his chest. "One more smartass remark and I'm calling it off."

He snorts. "Bullshit. I think you might want it more than I do." Then he glances down, rueful, at the hard cock bobbing between us. "Or maybe not."

I think we both want it equally, although my own desire continues to confuse me. I'm not into casual hook-ups. I'm not into Dean Di Laurentis. Not usually anyway. But right now, I'm so into this guy, I can't think straight.

The moment I unclasp my bra, his big, callused hands are on my breasts. He cups, squeezes, and I gasp. Then he rubs my nipples with his thumbs, and that tiny bit of friction feels so incredible that I see stars. Good thing I'm straddling him or else I'd keel over from pleasure.

It's been so long since I've felt... lust. I don't know if every long-term relationship eventually settles into a bland sex routine, but mine sure had. I can't remember the last time my heart pounded this fast and my body ached this bad.

"Maybe we should go upstairs," I murmur. It's the only rational thought my mind has been capable of formulating all night.

"Nah." Dean leans in and closes his mouth around one rigid nipple. "Let's stay down here."

I arch into his hot, hungry mouth. Each deep pull on my nipple sends a bolt of arousal between my legs, until I'm shamelessly grinding against him. I still have my bikini panties on. I want them off, damn it, but Dean's lips and tongue are too distracting. And the fact that I'm sitting on his lap, topless, while he licks and teases my nipples keeps poking at the back of my mind.

"Upstairs," I say again.

And once again he shoots that down. "Here," he whispers against my breasts.

I slide my fingers through his short hair and tug his head up. "Why are you so allergic to your bedroom?" I demand. Hannah told me that Dean rarely has sex up there, and now I'm even more curious to know why.

"I'd rather fool around down here," is the vague reply.

"Why?" I press.

I instantly regret asking, because Dean's eyes go heavy-lidded and his voice lowers to a sexy, molten rasp. "Because I like the idea of getting caught."

My mouth falls open in amazement, but he's not finished.

"And once I get caught..." The grin he gives me is downright filthy. "... I like being watched."

Then he kisses me again, and my surroundings fade away until all I can see, all I can feel, is him.

“Do you think Beau is a fuckboy?” 

As I appear in the doorway, Allie lifts her gaze from the script she’s reading and gives me a horrified look. “He’s sixteen.” 

I stalk into the living room and heave myself onto the chaise of our huge sectional. Groaning, I cover my face with both palms. “Luke Ryder’s asshole friend Lindley says sixteen is old enough to be a fuckboy.” 

“Well, if he is, it’s your fault.” 

My jaw falls open. Sitting up, I glare at my wife. “Take that back.” 

“No. Sluttiness is a Di Laurentis trait, not a Hayes one.” 

“I’m telling Summer you called her a slut,” I threaten. 

“Your sister is smart enough to know which Di Laurentis I’m calling a slut.” 

Allie pushes her papers away and crosses her arms against her chest, causing her tits to swell over the neckline of her white tank top. She just got out of the shower an hour ago, so her face is scrubbed free of make-up and she’s wearing little cotton shorts and no bra underneath her top. 

If the kids were home, Kate would point out that she can see her mom’s nipples, because the ten-year-old has zero filter (another trait likely inherited from me) and (I suspect) secretly enjoys making people uncomfortable. Then our teens Ivy and Beau would groan and cringe, respectively, Ivy ordering her mother to look up the definition of “modesty,” while Beau stomped out of the living room muttering about how nobody else’s parents were this embarrassing.

My kids are very predictable. 

“I’m serious,” Allie says, glowering at me. “You did this to him. If he’s out there banging his way through all of New Haven, it’s because the apple doesn’t fall far from your tree.” 

“He’s nowhere near my tree,” I insist. “He’s, like, chilling in a whole other tree.” 

“Same tree.” 

“Different trees!” I growl at her. I refuse to take responsibility for our son’s behavior. If he’s behaving badly, that is. If he’s been a choir boy, then I’ll take credit. 

Allie tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear and purses her lips in thought. “No,” she finally says. 

“No what?” 

“I don’t think he’s sleeping around. I have a feeling he’s only ever been with Lucy,” she says, referring to our son’s former girlfriend. They broke up at the beginning of the summer when Lucy’s family moved to Texas. 

“Logan thinks Beau and Blake have a thing going,” I tell Allie. 

“I don’t think so. They’re just good friends.” 

The couch cushion bounces slightly as I pull my T-shirt over my head. I toss it aside and then reach for the remote. I’m ten seconds into my channel surfing when I feel Allie’s eyes on me. 

I glance over. “What?” 

Her gaze travels along my chest, heating every inch of bare flesh and sending a bolt of desire straight to my dick. One look from this woman and I’m ready to go. 

“Kate’s sleeping over at Tinsley’s?” Allie asks. 

I fight a grin. “Yeah. I’m picking her up tomorrow morning. When does Ivy get home?” 

“Vanessa’s mom is dropping her off after the movie.” Allie leans toward the glass coffee table to check her phone screen. “Movie ends at nine-forty-five.” 

“What time is it now?” I’m hard. Like granite. 

“Eight.” 

My wife bites her lip, and in the blink of an eye I’m off the couch, lifting her into my arms. Her legs wrap around my waist and her tongue is in my mouth before I can even take a breath. 

The stairs are too far away, but the family room isn’t an option for what I have in mind, not after the one and only time our son caught us mid-fooling around but pre-penetration when he came home early one afternoon because his hockey practice was canceled. We don’t take chances anymore. But… she’s sucking on my tongue now… and upstairs is too… fucking… far. 

I stumble into my study instead, kicking the door shut before carrying Allie to the desk. She slides down my body and sits her pretty ass on the edge of the desk. Breathing hard, I grip the waistband of her shorts and peel the thin material off. Fucking hell. She’s not wearing any panties, either. 

Then she spreads her legs and I almost come in my pants. 

I can’t get enough of this woman. Two decades of marriage, and she still turns me on like we’re back in college and I’m sliding into her for the first time. Three kids later, and her body still makes my blood burn and my mouth go dry. The first time her agent suggested she laser off the stretch marks she got after Kate was born, I almost flew to LA to beat the shit out of the guy. Allie’s body is a goddamn temple and I’ll happily worship at it any chance I can. 

“We only have two hours,” she warns, her voice coming out a bit breathy. “Give or take a few minutes.” 

I chuckle at her. “Two hours?” I push my sweatpants down my hips. “Baby.” I grip the erection that springs out and give it a slow stroke. “Allie-Cat.” 

Grinning, I step into the cradle of her thighs and bend my head, bringing my mouth close to hers. A scant inch away from her perfect lips.

“Haven’t you learned by now? There’s all sorts of trouble a Di Laurentis can get into in two hours.” 

She leans in and bites my bottom lip hard enough to make me curse, then soothes the sting with her tongue and says, “Prove it.”

The sun glints off the water. Peaceful and idyllic. Or at least it should be peaceful and idyllic. Every summer, we spend an entire month at the Grahams’ lake house. We go boating, swimming. My daughter and I play cards and yell at each other. The guys and I get drunk. My wife and I have boathouse sex because that’s the only place on the property with a modicum of privacy. 

In other words, Lake Tahoe is our fucking happy place. 

And now a football player is about to ruin it. 

The back deck creaks under the weight of my pacing, as I wait for the roar of a car engine on the long dirt road that leads to the house. I wonder what rental car they’ll show up in. At school, Blake’s boyfriend drives a Porsche 911 coupe. What kind of college sophomore drives a Porsche? Apparently, he has another vehicle too. Some flashy red convertible. 

What kind of college sophomore owns two sports cars? 

An untrustworthy one, clearly. 

“I swear, if he’s taking bribes from sports agents, I’m gonna report him,” I grumble, half to myself, half to Garrett and Dean, who are lounging in Adirondack chairs, beers in hand. Tucker and his family haven’t arrived yet, which is probably a good thing. Two against one is already bad enough. I don’t need Tuck ganging up on me too. 

Garrett raises a brow at me. “Snitches get stitches.” 

“Don’t care. I’ll snitch on this asshole any day of the week.” 

Dean tips back his beer bottle, his blond hair gleaming under the afternoon sun. “I feel like you’re just jealous of his abs. Did you see the last video he posted? Jesus fuck.” 

I stop pacing and start glaring at my friends. “Dude, that’s just another red flag. The guy’s a wide receiver, but far as I can tell, he spends more time posting thirst traps on social media than running routes. And the way he targeted Blake—” 

“Targeted?” Garrett interrupts with a snort. 

“Yes,” I insist. “This isn’t romance. It’s a tactical operation.” 

My wife, who’s sitting nearby with a glass of white wine and a paperback thriller in her lap, glances over. 

“Is this about the star?” Grace asks, grinning at me. She got a lot of sun today, so her  freckled face has a pinkish tinge to it. And she finally put on her cover-up, after spending all day sauntering around in a string bikini, ensuring my dick was in a perpetual state of hard. 

I curse in outrage. “He bought her a star. Named it after her. Who the fuck does that?” 

“You bought me a blender when we got engaged,” Grace reminds me. “Said it symbolized how well we ‘mix.’” 

Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh, fucking hell, that’s so stupid.” 

“Hey, that blender still works,” I point out, raising a finger triumphantly. “Durability over drama.” 

“Anyway,” Garrett says. “So what’s your big plan for Isaac Grant? You gonna drown him after everyone goes to bed?” 

“Challenge him to a push-up contest,” Dean suggests. 

“Wait.” Garrett narrows his eyes. “Are they going to be sharing a room?” 

I give him a look that could freeze the lake. “Say that again,” I warn. “I dare you.” 

He offers an innocent little shrug. “Gigi and Luke share a room when they’re here.”

“They’re married!” I growl. “Married!” 

“Maybe Blake and Isacc will get married too,” Dean says sweetly, and I decide I need to drown them after everyone goes to bed. 

“Anyway,” I rumble. “I do have a plan, thank you for asking, but it requires you guys taking Isaac for a boat ride or something so I can be alone with Blake.” 

“Why?” Dean sounds suspicious. 

From her chair, Grace almost spits out her wine mid-sip. “Tell them about your presentation, John,” she begs. “Please.” 

I look over, frowning at her. “I was planning on it.” 

She brightens. “Oh, you were? Great. I assumed you were going to keep it between us because of how psychotic it is.” 

I swear, everyone in this lake house is against me, including my own wife. 

“The word ‘presentation’ alarms me,” Garrett remarks. 

“It shouldn’t.” I flash a smug smile. “It’s some of my best work.” 

Marching over to the table, I flop down in an empty chair and drag my laptop toward me. I load the project I’ve been working on since last night — and fine, maybe I was plastered off my ass when I got the idea. But it turned out pretty fucking brilliant, if I do say so myself. 

I twist the computer toward the guys. “Okay. So, it’s called Love Bombing and You: A Cautionary Tale. Subtitle: Grand gestures or grand schemes?” 

I’m greeted by dead silence. 

Then Dean springs out of his chair, setting his beer on a nearby ledge as he snatches the laptop from me. 

“Hey!” I protest, but he’s already scrolling through all my hard work. 

“Why didn’t you use PowerPoint?” my wife asks, peering at the document.

I glare at her. “Because I’m not a fucking nerd.” 

Garrett nods solemnly. “No, of course not. You’re super cool.” 

Dean nearly drops the laptop, that’s how hard he’s laughing. “G, holy shit, there’s a pie chart. Titled: Percentage of Shirtless Selfies to Emotional Maturity.” He starts wheezing. 

“There’s also a flowchart,” I brag. “Scroll down to Did He Rent a Helicopter? Y/N. It leads directly to ‘Red Flag’ in every possible scenario.” 

Garrett doubles over in his chair, tears in his eyes. 

Meanwhile, Grace sighs. “Blake is going to murder you when she sees this.” 

I shake my head stubbornly. “I don’t care. She’ll thank me one day, when she’s dating someone who doesn’t use rose petals like they’re currency.” 

“Can children disown their parents?” Garrett asks my wife. “Because I’m pretty sure your kid is about to file some paperwork.” 

I get up to swipe Dean’s beer off the railing and swig back the rest of it. These assholes really need to stop minimizing my concerns. I knew Isaac Grant was trouble from the second Blake brought him to our place in Boston for dinner. This fucking guy saunters in with a cocky smirk and thousand-dollar sneakers, calling my daughter “baby” when they’d only been on three dates prior to that. My internal alarm was blaring within five seconds of meeting the guy. And not just because he plays football when everyone knows hockey is superior in every conceivable way. 

Something about him rubs me the wrong way, and no matter how much she teases me about being overprotective, I know Grace shares my concerns. Or hell, maybe we’re both just overprotective. Hard not to be when Blake is our only child. 

Fuck, they both nearly died the day Blake was born. Grace and I had already planned on having only one kid before that traumatizing morning, but watching my wife nearly bleed to death and my kid come out blue and silent had cemented that decision. I was a total mess when I stumbled into that waiting room to update everyone. If Garrett hadn’t been holding onto me, I would’ve collapsed in a puddle of tears on the linoleum floor. 

When the doctors finally handed my now-breathing newborn daughter to me, when I held her for the very first time, in that moment the world went from being about me to being about her. 

And now I’m supposed to watch her heart get crushed by a walking red flag? Fuck that. I don’t want to see my daughter get hurt. Ever. 

The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of pine and grill smoke from a cabin nearby. Blake and Isaac landed an hour ago, and the airport is only sixty miles or so from here. They should be arriving any second. 

Grace rises from her seat and wraps both her arms around me from behind. “Stop being crazy,” she tells me, pressing a kiss against my shoulder before resting her head there. “They just started dating. I’m sure it won’t get serious.” 

She’s wrong. I know my kid. Blake wouldn’t bring a boy to our annual family tradition if she weren’t serious about him. That’s what worries me. 

“He’s going to hurt her,” I mutter. 

My wife tugs me around so we’re facing each other. Her light-brown eyes soften as she reaches up to trace my stubble-covered jaw with her fingertips. 

“You’re a good dad, John. A really fucking good dad. But you can’t protect her from everything. Getting hurt is part of it. It’s part of life. She’s not glass.” 

“She’s my glass.” 

Before Grace can respond, we all hear it. A car door slamming from the front of the house. Followed by voices. Laughter. 

From his chair, Garrett grins at me. “Quick. Load your presentation.”