I shrug do you? People mill closer. Take seats on the couch, at the table, on the ground.
"If you'd seen my dick, you'd know why." He steps forward to let someone pass. His hand brushes my arm. His chest brushes my shoulder. His crotch brushes my outer thigh.
My body responds with gusto.
Any sense of calm, of upper hand, of any hand, dissipates.
My body goes into overdrive. Every molecule screams the same thing: more Dean please.
A jock's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Damn, Maddox. Stop bragging. We're playing a game here." He pats a spot on the packed couch. It's all designer jeans and BCBG dresses and pretty girls in hot guy's laps.
I take a step backward, but there's nowhere to go. My ass hits the glass table.
Dean turns to his friend. "Should I whip it out instead?"
A girl sitting on the couch claps with glee. "Hell yeah!"
The five girls sitting on the ground clap with her.
"There's a demand." Dean shrugs, effortless. He reaches for his jeans. Pretends to undo his button. "I can't let my fans down."
"Save it for the game," the friend says.
A dozen awwws and no fairs bounce around the room.
Dean turns to me. Winks. "Fair is fair." He offers his hand. "Sit with me, sunshine."
He leads me to the couch. Rests his ass on its arm.
I stand next to him. Shift my weight between my feet. Tap my toes together. Listen to the hollow sound the synthetic leather makes.
His hand brushes my hip.
My body responds immediately.
My pulse races. My nipples perk. My sex clenches.
I want him touching me. I think about it all the time. Too much.
He's everything I hate.
He's someone I hate.
But I still want him touching me.
I still stroke myself to orgasm thinking about him every fucking night.
"Why don't you start, Romeo," Dean's friend calls.
Ooohs and ahhs bounce around the room with do its and Oh my Gods!
The room wants Dean.
The entire world wants Dean.
He wants…
Who knows what the hell the manwhore wants.
He smiles, reveling in the attention. "With pleasure." He turns to me. "Chloe, truth or dare."
My head fills with ideas.
A dare to kiss him.
To flash him.
To touch him.
God, I want to touch him.
And to slap the smarmy smile from his face.
He did call me by my name.
Maybe there's some shred of decency behind his party boy fa?ade.
Or maybe that's my hormones talking.
Either way.
I adopt his aloof posture. Watch clouds roll over the skylight. Watch the wavy lines of the pool bounce off the sliding glass door. Watch a dozen people turn their attention to me.
Deep breath. Slow exhale. "Truth."
His blue eyes sparkle as his smile spreads over his cheeks. "Are you a virgin?"
My cheeks flush.
My chest too.
Fuck Dean.
He must know I am.
Everyone at school knows.
I'm the weird loner who spends lunch drawing in her sketchbook.
Guys aren't interested.
Not that any guys appeal. The guy who tortures me is the only one I want.
Why am I here?
I step backward. Dig my heel into the soft carpet. My instincts scream leave, but I can't do that.
I'm not embarrassed of my inexperience.
I'm not letting him rattle me.
I'm not letting his friends think I'm some loser ashamed of her decisions.
"Yes." I shoot Dean my most serene smile. "I have standards. I'm sure that's hard for you to imagine."
He scratches his head. "Standards. Never heard of those."
His friends laugh.
Someone calls out, "It's when you need more than a pulse and two legs."
"Two legs? Look who's Mr. Picky." A jock laughs.
"I'd never discriminate against a woman with one leg. Or no legs." Dean's eyes find mine. "I don't need a smile either. A million-dollar scowl is better."
I fight my scowl. I'm playing Dean's game. Indifference. Aloofness. Utter coolness. "Unfortunately for you, I do have standards."
Someone makes that ooh, burn sound.
The girls on the floor giggle. Whisper something. No doubt it's who does she think she is? No way Dean wants her. But I don't care about them.
They're seniors. They're graduating. In two weeks, they'll be out of my life forever.
Dean looks up at me with a wicked smile. "Your turn."
Oh. So it is. I scan the room.
Fuck the girls trading rumors.
Fuck the guys looking at me like they're deciding if I meet their standards.
Fuck this whole party.
My gut churns. Why did I let Gia talk me into this? Why did I think an invite from Dean could lead to anything but teasing and embarrassment?
I need to get out of here. Fast.
I look to Alan. He's a wannabe Dean. Not quite as cute or tall or blond. Not as funny or charming or attention grabbing. "Alan, truth or dare."
Everyone turns to him.
He leans back in his black chair. Revels in the attention. "Dare."
I have to fight fire with fire. "I dare you to streak around the neighborhood."
Alan jumps to his feet. Holds up his hand in salute. "I hope you ladies are in for a show." He sends winks in every direction. Even mine.
Then he marches over the carpet, the white tile foyer, the mat. All the way out the door.
It slams shut with a thud.
"Let's set up on the porch." Dean motions to the door. Leans in to whisper something to the girl next to him.
Even though she's sitting on some guy's lap, she giggles at Dean. "Sure."
She slides off her boy-toy's lap. "Follow me." Her red heels sink into the carpet, then they click against the tile.
She turns back. Motions let's go.
And everyone does.
One by one, people stand. File out of the room.
Someone, a guy about Dean's height, with a letterman jacket and dark hair, whispers something in Dean's ear.
Dean shakes his forehead. "Got something else to do."
The friend laughs.
Dean watches him leave.
It's just us in this giant house.
I move to the table. Fill my glass with more orange juice and vodka. Pray for it to erase that you don't belong here voice completely.
This is supposed to be the best time of my life. Parties. Boys. Fun.
I'm having fun, dammit.
Dean follows me to the table. "You don't want to watch?"
"Alan isn't my type."
"What is?"
"Smart guys." I take a long sip of my drink. "You know any?"
"Not one. But I can help with that drink." His hand brushes mine. Slowly, he peels my fingers from my cup. "Grenadine." He picks up a bottle of candy red liquid. Pours it into my glass. "Goes down smoother."
"Thanks." My stomach flutters as he hands the glass back.
This is intentional.
He's touching me on purpose.
He's helping me on purpose.
He's alone with me on purpose.
He fills his cup with Jack and Coke then lifts it to toast.
"To?" I ask.
"Good friendships."
"We're good friends?"
"Of course." His voice is earnest. Honest.
"I hate you."
"I know."
"That doesn't bother you?"
"Fuck no. It's what I like about you." He clinks his glass with mine. Takes a long sip. Lets out a low sigh of pleasure. "You keep me on my toes."
"You live on your toes."
"Should take up ballet." He makes a show of rising to his tiptoes. It's nowhere close to a ballet move. But it's Dean all the same.
Charming and irritating.
Gia says he reminds her of Han Solo.
But Gia isn't the one taking his constant insults. (And Gia needs to learn that Star Wars isn't the answer to all of life's questions).
"I do like you, sunshine." His eyes find mine. "Have for a while."
"So that virgin question?"
"I wanted to know something. So, I asked."
"What did you want to know?"
He moves closer. Until I can feel the heat of his body. Smell his cologne. "If I'd be your first."
What? My cheeks flame. There's no way he…
There's no…
I…
"Chloe?" His fingers brush the inside of my wrist.
"Huh?"
"I want to fuck you."
"But—"
"Let's go upstairs. I'll show you the night of your life."
My defenses crumble.
Dean wants me.
He's offering to fuck me.
He…
How is this possible?
My heart screams for him. My body aches for him. My head—it's still reasonable.
I throw up the only defense I know—sarcasm. "Of my entire life?"
"Yeah."
"Doesn't speak well for your future performances."