11

Allie

I’m still glaring at Dean when my phone vibrates in my purse. I absently fish it out and my breath catches when I see the message.

Him: Remember when I took that tequila shot off your tits?

I look up to find Dean blinking innocently at me. But I can see his arm moving under the table. Sure enough, a follow-up message appears.

When I poured it all over your nipples and licked up every drop? Mmmm. Getting hard just thinking about it.

Argh. I can’t believe he’s sexting me in the bar. During his friend’s birthday hang.

I grit my teeth and text him back.

Me: Cherish the memory, sweetie. Cuz it’s never happening again.

Him: U saying u didn’t like it when I was sucking on those sexy nipples?

The nipples in question tighten into hard peaks. I know the padding of my bra hides the traitorous response, but the way Dean’s smug gaze drops to my breasts tells me he knows.

I draw a breath and answer, Meh. It was all right.

His smile widens. “Naah,” he says in response to something Wilkes just asked. “I’m not worried. Yale’s goalie has nothing against G’s slapshot.” I guess they’re talking about their game against Yale on Saturday, but I’m too busy watching the subtle movement of Dean’s arm. He’s typing something else.

Him: Hmmm. I see. What about when I licked your pussy? Just all right too?

I ignore the sharp clench between my legs and scowl at him.

“Allie,” Megan says in exasperation.

“Sorry. What?”

“I was asking about your play. Rehearsals started this week, didn’t they? How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” I answer in an absent tone. I can’t tell if Dean is typing something else. I hope not. “The guy who’s playing my dead husband is fun to work with. How’s yours going?”

“Shitty.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, hon.” I know Meg isn’t happy with the playwright she’d been paired with, and I don’t blame her, because he happens to be the most pompous asshole in the drama department. Everything he writes is pretentious and brimming with over-the-top angst. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Arthur Miller.

“‘Slade’ likes to rewrite entire scenes during rehearsal.” She puts quotation marks around his name, which makes Fitzy chuckle.

“I don’t think you know how to use air quotes,” he informs her.

“No, I do. ‘Slade’ isn’t his real name. It’s actually Joshua Sandeski.” She snorts derisively. “This ass is so full of himself I’m surprised he doesn’t poop out little brown replicas of his smug face.”

The guys hoot at the disgusting image she’s painted.

“First day of classes, we all had to sit around in a circle and introduce ourselves to our fellow actors.” She glances at me. “Remember that?”

“Oh, I remember,” I say dryly.

“Anyway,” she tells Fitzy, “this jerk stands up and says, ‘I’m Joshua Sandeski, but I go by Slade. Refer to me as anything else and I will not respond.’ And he wasn’t kidding. Any time the teacher slipped up and called him Sandeski, he would flat-out ignore her.”

“That’s the douchiest thing I’ve ever heard,” Dean remarks.

Shit, his arm is moving again.

“I think it’s ballsy,” Hollis disagrees. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m pulling a Slade and giving myself a solo name. From now on, you guys can only refer to me as ‘Thunder.’”

I discreetly peek at the latest message, and my breath hitches.

Him: My dick is so hard right now. I’m dying to be inside u.

I don’t indulge him this time. If I don’t respond, he’ll eventually stop, right?

Wrong.

The messages keep popping up, each one filthier than the last.

Gonna take it slow next time. Savor every single second.

So fucking slow, baby. Just slide in and out of your tight pussy…

Until you’re begging for more.

I grab my glass and choke down some water. I’m aware of Dean’s soft chuckle, audible even with the music blasting in the bar.

I won’t give u what u want, tho. I’ll keep feeding u my cock, inch by inch.

And then I’ll take it away again.

Every time u beg me to pound into u, I’ll go even slower.

Gonna torment that sweet pussy all nite, baby.

All. Fucking. Night.

I shoot to my feet like someone lit a fire under my ass. “I need to use the ladies’ room,” I blurt out.

Ignoring the broad grin stretching Dean’s infuriatingly sexy mouth, I dart away from the booth as fast as my high-heeled boots can carry me.

Fuckity fuck. I’m so turned on my thighs are actually sticking together, and I’m worried there might be a wet spot on the back of my jeans. To make matters worse, Megan hadn’t even made a dent in her drink, which means we won’t be leaving any time soon. Which means I need to collect my composure and extinguish every spark of desire that’s burning like jet fuel through my blood.

I hope to God that Dean quits sexting me when I get back.

If he doesn’t, there’s a good chance I might orgasm at the table.

*

He keeps sexting.

I keep ignoring him.

Our battle of wills lasts for more than an hour, and I can’t say I’m not impressed by his persistence. Not to mention the sheer amount of dirty words he has in his vocabulary.

When I notice Dean visibly squirming on his side of the booth, I flash him a cheeky grin and finally text him back.

Me: Ur just torturing yourself, honey-pie. Better stop b4 the blue balls set in.

I punctuate that with two emojis that seem fitting for the situation—a pair of blue circles.

Dean sighs and rises to his feet, but not before he does some strategic rearranging down below. I think I’m the only one who sees him do it, and my smile grows impossibly wider.

“I’m going to change up these tunes,” he tells the group. “Whoever keeps putting on Aerosmith rock ballads is bumming the hell outta me.”

As he walks off, my eyes betray me by homing in on his backside. His black pants hug his taut buttocks like a glove, which makes me wonder, are cargo pants usually that tight? I didn’t think they were. Maybe Dean has a tailor on retainer who makes him special cargo pants that show off his ass? That seems like something he would do, vain bastard that he is.