Over the next week, I take Hannah’s advice and try to turn off my brain. Dean and I start going out together as a couple. Nothing explicit is said. We don’t wear little badges, but our interactions make it obvious.
When we’re out, he’s always touching me, but not in a way that makes me feel like he’s trying to mark his territory or show off. He’s just super physical. If I’m near him, his hand is somewhere on my body. Usually his palm is glued to the top of my ass, but sometimes he brushes my hair back or dangles his fingers over my shoulder. He kisses my temple and cheek. Not once do I feel like he’s holding me back.
Of all of our friends, Garrett is the most concerned. Hannah wants me to be happy and as long as I’m smiling, she’s smiling. Garrett, on the other hand, waffles between worry and wary acceptance. He’s convinced that Dean is going to break my heart, which will therefore create a rift between his girlfriend and one of his best friends.
I’ve tried to reassure him that I’m all grown up and can handle any heartbreak that comes my way, but then the conversation winds its way back to Sean, who I just want to forget. Dean makes that pretty easy.
Any time he’s not in class or on the ice, he’s with me. Sometimes he’s reading a book while I rehearse my lines, sometimes he helps me out by reading a part with me. His high-pitched fake female voice has me dying with laughter so it usually takes a few tries to get through an entire scene, and by the time we’re done he’s horny. From my laughter, he says. Although I get the impression that I could do just about anything and Dean would be ready to go.
The most important thing is that we’re happy—way happier than I’ve felt in a long time. Which is fucking mind-boggling. If someone had told me six weeks ago that Dean Di Laurentis and I would not only be dating, but happily dating? I would’ve laughed my ass off.
“What do you have going on after rehearsal tonight?” Dean asks from the bed. He’s lying against the pillows, hair tousled, looking like the sex god that he is. I refocus my eyes back to the mirror and away from him so I don’t accidentally stab myself with the mascara wand.
“Nothing. I’ll probably just grab dinner in one of the meal halls. Why? What are you up to?”
“I’ve got an errand to run and then I rented some ice time for the Hurricanes.”
My stomach falls a little. Not see him tonight? I force myself not to show any disappointment. Just because we’re together doesn’t mean we need to be joined at the hip.
“Want to meet for dinner after?” he adds.
My heart flips over. “Sure.”
“Cool. Can you come to the arena? There’s this restaurant nearby that I think you’d like. It’s an Italian place, but it’s got all this fun old-time movie memorabilia.” His hand wanders underneath the blankets, which are pulled down to his waist.
I poke myself in the eye. “Would you stop touching yourself?” I drop the mascara tube on the table and pick up a tissue to wipe the smear of black I just made at the inside corner of my eyelid because I can’t keep my fricking eyes off Dean.
“What’s wrong, baby? You jealous? I was thinking of how hot you look.” He rolls to his side. “You make a little circle with your mouth when you put your eye makeup on. It’s basically begging me to stick my dick in there.”
Nope, there’s nothing warm and squishy about my relationship with this guy. I shoot him a disbelieving glance. “We just got done having morning sex,” I remind him. I apply two quick swipes of the mascara before Dean’s hand can do more damage under the bed sheets.
“That was thirty minutes ago. Since then, you’ve showered, waved your tits and bare ass in front of me getting dressed, and then made little blowjob circles with your mouth. So yeah, I’m horny again. Sue me.”
I throw my coat on and lean a knee on the mattress to kiss him goodbye. “You’ll have to jerk off then because I have class and I don’t want to be late.”
He curls up and kisses my neck first, then my lips. “I’m going to rub one off now so that I can last longer tonight.”
Damn it. Now I’m horny.
*
Dean is on the ice when I arrive at the small arena across from Hastings Elementary. I always thought coaches sat on the sidelines and barked out orders, but he’s in the middle of the rink, his attention fixed on one slight figure wearing pink skates. Pink? I thought the Hurricanes were a boys’ league.
“You’re getting too high. Stay low so your weight is better distributed.” He crouches low enough that his own head is barely higher than the miniature player and his butt is skimming the ice.
I watch in amazement as he actually skates a few yards before stretching out a leg and spinning around. His smoothness on the ice is pretty amazing.
“Come on. Give it another try.”