Either way, his ass is yummy. Damn it, everything about him is yummy. I can’t help but admire the way his broad shoulders fill out his long-sleeve Under Armor shirt, or how his blond hair is the perfect amount of tousled. Then I lose him in the crowd, and I feel a flicker of relief because now that he’s out of sight, I have some time to get my raging hormones under control. The respite is brief, though. When he returns to the booth, he’s still as gorgeous as ever and I’m still a horny bundle of nerves.
He resettles in his seat just as the current song ends and the opening strains of Dean’s selection blare out of the speakers.
It’s Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me.”
I can’t stop a burst of laughter, which earns me a strange look from Fitzy. “Did I miss the punchline?” he asks.
“Nope. Sometimes I just laugh for no reason,” I say flippantly. “I’m weird like that.”
Megan pipes up. “It’s true. She is.”
I swallow another laugh and avoid Dean’s eyes as his song continues to play. I’m not surprised when my phone vibrates.
Him: I could’ve gone with something a lil more subtle. But why play games? I’m goddamn aching for u, Allie.
Shit, he called me Allie. He means business.
I lift my head, and the intensity burning in his gaze makes my heart stutter, then propels it into a hard gallop. Dean is already insanely attractive to begin with, but when he’s turned on? He’s absolutely spectacular.
With his smoky green eyes at half-mast, lips parted slightly, strong throat working as he swallows, I can almost believe he is aching. That he’s truly in physical pain from wanting me so bad. But this is Dean, for crying out loud. He probably springs a boner if a light breeze floats over his crotch. Seriously, just bump into him and you get him hard. The guy is obsessed with sex, and half the girls at this school can attest to that, because half the girls at this school have slept with him.
Sure, it’s flattering to be on the receiving end of all that heady sexual energy. What woman doesn’t like feeling desirable? But I’d be an idiot if I believed even for a second that I’m the only woman Dean Di Laurentis is flashing those bedroom eyes at. Nope, I’m nothing more than another notch on Dean’s exorbitantly long belt.
The reminder spurs me to my feet. “I’m really not feeling Cheap Trick tonight,” I say sweetly. “Think I’ll switch it up again.”
My purposeful stride takes me to the jukebox across the room. It’s not one of those old-school ones, but a modern jukebox with a touchscreen and slots for both cash and credit. I feed a dollar bill into the machine and study my options. Jeez. Nearly every song that’s ever been written is available on this thing.
I grin when one artist in particular jumps out at me. I scroll through her discography, select the title I’m searching for, and add it to the queue. The sidebar on the screen reveals there’s one other song ahead of mine, a Kesha track that sends a horde of college-age patrons to the dance floor. Which really just means they start dancing wherever they’re standing, because the area in front of the karaoke stage that usually serves as the dance floor has been taken over by a cluster of hipsters who are all engrossed by their cell phones.
“Nice pick,” Tucker calls out to me. He’s been phone-obsessed tonight too, so I’m surprised that he’s suddenly being social.
“Not mine,” I call back.
“What’d you choose then?” Dean asks suspiciously.
“You’ll find out soon enough, my pretty.”
Three minutes later, the intro comes on, and a chorus of female whoops rings out through the bar.
Dean glares at me.
My song choice? Pink’s “U and UR Hand.”
“Hell yeah!” Megan slams her glass down and hops to her feet, sticking out her hand to me. “We’re dancing.”
I don’t have time to object, because she’s already dragging me into the crowd. Well then. I guess we’re dancing.
As the bass line thuds beneath our heels, we throw our arms up in the air, shimmy our hips, and rock the fuck out. Meg’s red hair whips past my face as she spins around. I do a spin too, because it gives me the opportunity to sneak a peek at Dean. He wears a resigned look, but there’s also a flicker of amusement there.
When we get to the part of the song where Pink—who is a goddess, by the way. A goddess!—says “buh-bye” to the creep she’s singing to, I shoot Dean a saccharine smile and flutter my fingers in his direction.
The tip of his tongue touches his bottom lip as a slow grin curves his mouth. He gives a little wave in response. Well played, I can practically hear him drawling.
Meg and I keep dancing, and our twosome draws more and more attention, and more and more participants. Suddenly we’re surrounded by other girls who are digging the song as hard as we are. It’s pretty much an anthem for any woman who’s ever had to deal with a slimy jerk hitting on her at a bar, or plying her with drinks in the hopes of getting laid, or just plain annoying her when she’s trying to hang with her gal pals.
A tiny Asian girl with multiple facial piercings and spiky pink hair bumps her hips to mine, and then we’re dancing back-to-back, smacking our butts together as we share a moment of female camaraderie. I’m laughing and breathless from how much fun I’m having, and this time when I seek Dean out, he doesn’t look amused anymore.
Oh crap.