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  Premise II: He wants to have sex with me again.

  Premise III: The idea of having sex with him turns me on.

  Conclusion: I should have sex with Dean.

  All right, that one was easy enough. Now comes the complicated part.

  Premise I: Casual sex makes me uncomfortable.

  Premise II: I just got out of a long-term relationship and am not ready for another one.

  Premise III: Even if I was, I wouldn’t want a relationship with manwhore Dean.

  Conclusion: Um…?

  I try another one:

  Premise I: I don’t want a relationship with Dean.

  Premise II: He doesn’t want a relationship with me.

  Conclusion: We should have casual sex.

  Another no-brainer, but it still doesn’t solve the Casual Sex conundrum. Really, though, if I stop to think about it, the only person dishing out any judgment here is me. Will a fling with Dean make me a slut? He certainly doesn’t think so. Neither would my friends, although I certainly don’t plan on telling them about it if I choose to fling Dean. Which raises the question, why do I want to keep it a secret?

  I chew on the inside of my cheek as I ponder that. The answer continues to stump me, but the idea of everyone knowing I’m screwing around with Dean still brings a rush of discomfort. Fine. It’ll have to remain a secret. Maybe tomorrow I can give some more thought as to why I feel that way.

  Well…shit. Have I actually reached a decision?

  I’m already grabbing my phone, so…yeah, I guess I have.

  I tap Dean’s name and enter one word in the message box: Okay.

  You’ve got to give the man credit—he knows exactly what I mean, because he types back, When?

  Me: Tmrw nite? Hannah’s staying at your place. U can come here. 8?

  Him: Kiddie game starts at 6. Won’t be free til 9.

  Me: Kiddie game?

  Him: Don’t worry about it. Tell u tmrw.

  Him: What changed your mind?

  What changed my mind… Insanity maybe? An unhealthy obsession with sex? His awesome dick?

  Me: Decided it was time 2 live the Life of Dean.

  Him: Took u long enuff. So. 9 o’clock work for u?

  I hesitate.

  Me: Yes.

  God, what am I doing? Maybe I have gone insane.

  There’s a long delay before his next message appears. A borderline-hysterical laugh pops out of my mouth after I read it.

  Him: I’ll bring the rope.

  13

  Allie

  I met my agent, Ira Goldstein, through a friend of my dad’s. He’s been representing me since I was twelve years old, and the very first gig he booked for me was a cereal commercial. I had only one line, which I still remember to this day:

  “How could something THIS TASTY be SO GOOD for you? YUM!”

  I’m pretty sure my dad still has a DVD copy of the commercial somewhere in our brownstone. I hope it’s locked up in his gun safe, because lordy, I never want that mortifying tape ever leaking.

  Ira splits his time between the agency’s Manhattan and Los Angeles offices, so most of our interactions take place over the phone. Today he’s calling from LA.

  “How’s my girl doing this morning?” he asks in the booming, jovial voice I’ve grown to love.

  “This afternoon,” I correct. Rehearsal just finished, and I balance my phone on my shoulder as I button up my coat on the way out of the auditorium. “It’s two o’clock on the east coast.”

  “Ah, right. Fucking time zones. They’re liable to make me senile. I never know where I am or what time it is.”

  I laugh.

  “You get a chance to read the Fox pilot I couriered over?” Ira is a no-nonsense, business-minded person, which I appreciate. He’s also a shark, but agents are supposed to be sharks, and I still adore him even when he’s trying to sell me on projects that I know he’s only chosen for the money.

  “I skimmed it. It looked like it had potential.”

  “Well, give it another read and don’t skim this time. I spoke to one of the producers last night. They’re really keen on having you come in to read for the part.”

  “Remind me which part? Bonnie? Or was it Sarah?”

  “Hold on. Let me check.” Papers shuffle over the extension. He’s back a few seconds later. “Bonnie.”

  I swallow my disappointment. Damn it. I was hoping it would be Sarah. The pilot is for a thirty-minute comedy about three girls who hated each other in high school but are forced to room together in college. It follows them as they navigate their freshman year, learning about love and life and friendship while getting into many a pickle. It was described to Ira and me as an ensemble cast, but a well-known television actress has already committed to the role of Zoey, so clearly they plan for her to be the star.

  The other two roles are up for grabs, but I would’ve preferred reading for Sarah, the prude who needs to learn how to let her hair down. I could’ve had some fun with that.

  Bonnie, on the other hand, is the airhead of the trio. She’s got some funny lines, but she’s dumber than a bag of rocks. Her flaky personality and one-digit IQ are enough to set women’s lib back a thousand years.

  But maybe I’m worrying for nothing. Maybe the writers have a meaty arc planned for Bonnie. It doesn’t make sense to have three female leads but only develop two of them, right?

  “It’s the perfect role for you, sweetheart,” Ira raves. “You can play the cute ditzy type in your sleep.”

  Yes. I can. But I’m not sure I want to. Every role I’ve ever had has been the cute ditzy type. It would be nice to broaden my horizons, stretch my acting muscles a bit.

  Except…this is network television, for crying out loud. I have a chance to co-star in a pilot that, going by the buzz already surrounding it, will undoubtedly be picked up for a full season.

  “I’ll give it another read tonight,” I promise. Then I try to conjure up some enthusiasm about potentially playing Bonnie, but I’m not feeling even an iota of wheeeee!

  Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve read anything that’s triggered my wheeeee! meter. The last project I was excited about was the play I did for Brett Cavanaugh this summer.

  “Casting starts in February,” Ira tells me.

  I furrow my brow. “That’s almost three months from now. Why did they cast the part of Zoey so early?”

  “They wanted to lock down Kate Ashby before another network could poach her. The producers are wrapping up the final season of their other show, and then they’ll be ready to get the ball rolling on this project. They want you to fly out on February sixth.”

  My stomach drops. “I can’t. Widow opens on the eighth. We have dress rehearsals that week.”

  “Widow?”

  “The play I’m doing at school.”

  Ira sighs. “Any chance they’ll let you skip dress rehearsals?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Shit.”

  Silence ensues. Ira does that a lot, falling deep in thought for minutes at a time. I think he forgets we’re on the phone and not in the same room.

  “Ira?” I prompt.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. Thinking…” After another long pause, his brisk voice returns. “All right, let me get Virgil’s assistant on the line. I’ll see what we can do.”

  He disconnects the call without saying goodbye, which is another bad habit of his. He insists he doesn’t have time for “that crap.”

  Ten minutes later, I walk up the path to Bristol House and swipe my ID at the entrance. I probably won’t hear back from Ira today, and a part of me hopes the producers come back and say, Tough shit. If she can’t read on the day we want her to read, we’ll give the role to someone else.

  Which is a crazy thing to hope for, because, again…Network. Television.

  What is wrong with me?

  Many things, apparently, because not only am I considering skipping an audition that could launch my career, I’m also planning on
having sex with Dean Di Laurentis tonight.

  Yep, our sex date is still on like Donkey Kong. I haven’t changed my mind. In fact, I’m…God have mercy on my soul…anticipating it. I’m even bailing on my workout today to prepare for it.

  After wolfing down a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I call a cab to drive me to the salon in Hastings.

  Tanya, my mani/pedi/wax guru, is ready and waiting when I stroll through the door. I decided long ago that she’s a sadist, because she’s alarmingly gung-ho about torturing my nether regions. We get the Brazilian out of the way first, because I don’t like having the idea of Hot Wax Torture hanging over my head during my manicure.

  Once I’m bare as a baby’s bottom, Tanya rubs soothing oil over the sensitive area and ducks out of the room while I slip my undies and leggings back on. It usually takes a few hours before the redness down below subsides, but Dean’s not coming over until nine, so I’ll have plenty of downstairs recovery time and then I’ll be good to go.

  I leave the wax room and join Tanya at her manicure station. An hour later, I waltz out of the salon rocking fire-engine-red nail and toe polish, because I think Dean will get a kick out of seeing my bright red nails scraping his washboard abs. I’d asked Tanya to make them shorter and rounder this time, so I don’t scratch the shit out of him again.

  On the cab ride back to the dorm, I try to figure out whether I’m excited, or disappointed in myself. I still can’t believe I caved in to Dean’s potent masculinity, but I can’t deny I’m eager to reacquaint myself with his magical penis.

  Unless…what if it’s lost its appeal? I mean, how many times can you really rub a genie’s lamp before its magical powers run out? Or does a genie’s lamp hold an infinite number of wishes?

  Deep thoughts with Allison Jane Hayes, folks.

  Huh. Maybe that should be my television show.

  *

  By the time nine o’clock creeps up, I’m ready to, as Will Smith so aptly phrased it, get jiggy with it.

  I’ve undergone a beautification process from head to toe. I’m waxed, polished, scrubbed and lotioned, and I even flat ironed my hair after blow-drying instead of leaving it at its natural state of kinda wavy.

  It feels like a waste to go through so much trouble beauty-wise and then not wear a little black dress or some sexy lingerie, but I figure Horndog Dean is going to rip my clothes off the second he gets here, so I’m in yoga pants and a tank top. No bra (because, again, what’s the point?) but I am wearing panties because I don’t like going commando unless I’m feeling scandalous. Sometimes I’d do it when Sean and I were going to a fancy restaurant. It drove him crazy knowing I wasn’t wearing anything underneath my—

  You’re not allowed to think about Sean when you’re minutes away from sleeping with another guy!

  Too late. Sean’s in my head now. I still haven’t agreed to meet him in person, but I know I should probably give him an answer one of these days before he resorts to the bulldozer approach. He does that a lot.

  Case in point—showing up at my dorm uninvited.

  Which drove me to flee to the safety of Garrett’s house.

  Which drove me into Dean’s bed.

  Seems like there’s a morality tale in there somewhere, a nugget of wisdom that Sean would benefit from acquiring. Push your ex-girlfriend too hard and she sleeps with a manwhore.

  Or maybe it’s better if he skips that particular lesson. Besides, it’s an unfair indictment on my part, because it wasn’t Sean’s fault I slept with Dean. It was my decision to do it.

  And now I’m making the decision to do it again.

  Dean is five minutes late. I fidget impatiently on the couch while I wait for him, unable to concentrate on the episode of Solange that’s playing on the TV. I haven’t watched the show since the night Dean was over, and I’m startled to realize it’s not as much fun without him. I kind of enjoyed his running commentary, and how every five minutes or so he’d pause the show to announce, “Allie-Cat, I have no fucking idea what’s going on!”

  It was…cute.

  Oh brother. Did I really just use the word cute in conjunction with Dean? I jot down a mental note to never say that out loud. He’d probably accuse me of having a crush on him.

  Footsteps thump in the hall, causing anticipation to rise in my chest. My heart does a silly, unwelcome flip when two knocks thud against my door. It’s a manly-sounding thump-thuuuump, and when I swing the door open, Dean is standing in front of me. He’s wearing faded jeans with a rip in one knee, a hunter-green cable knit sweater beneath his Briar jacket, and a black wool hat.

  “Hey.” I’m suddenly feeling awkward about this whole situation.

  “Hey.” He tugs off his hat as he strides inside. I notice his hair is wet, as if he’s just come out of the shower. His gaze travels to the television. “Oh shit, what did I miss? Did Marie-Thérèse manage to find a copy of Claude’s will?”

  “I don’t know. I started the episode about three minutes before you showed up.”

  “’Kay, well if you watch any more without me, shoot me a text to let me know what happens.” He tosses his hat and coat on the couch.

  I swiftly pick them up. “Nope, these are coming with us. Boots too,” I add, gesturing to the black Timberlands he’s in the process of removing.

  “Where are we taking them?”

  “My room. I don’t want there to be any evidence of your presence in this room in case you forget something. This is a covert operation.”

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Bond.”

  In my bedroom, I drop his stuff on the desk chair. Then shit gets awkward again, because Dean is standing there. Five feet away. Smirking at me.

  “What?” I mutter defensively.

  He shrugs. “Nothing.” But he still doesn’t make a single move toward me.

  “You’re just going to stand there? Come here and do something, damn it.”

  The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Do what?”

  I’m even more frazzled. “I don’t know. Kiss me. Take my shirt off. Anything.”

  Dean crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Nuh-uh. If you want me, come and get me.”

  Aggravation climbs up my spine. “So we’re playing games now?”

  “Naah, no games.” He lifts one dark-blond eyebrow. “But I’m still not convinced this isn’t some sort of trickery on your part.”

  “What, you think I invited you over so I could fuck with you?” I offer a saucy smile. “Sweetie, I invited you over so I could fuck you. Period.”

  He chuckles, and the deep, husky sound goes straight to my core. Oh, screw it. If he needs me to make the first move, I’ll make the first move. It’s not like we both don’t want the same thing.

  Without a word, I bridge the distance and sweep my palm over his cheek.

  Dean gives a slight intake of breath. His face is completely clean-shaven, and I find myself longing for some stubble. I liked the way it felt against my skin last time.

  But unlike last time, I’m stone cold sober tonight. There’s no way I can use alcohol as an excuse for what I’m doing right now.

  I glide my hand over the back of his scalp and slide my fingers through his damp hair. As our eyes lock, I tug his head down and our lips meet in a featherlight kiss. No tongue. No urgency. It’s an exploratory hey-how-are-ya between our mouths, before I pull back to look at him.

  Sweet Lord. His gaze contains so much raw, palpable heat it startles a gasp out of me. The next thing I know, Dean’s mouth crashes over mine again, and there’s nothing exploratory about this kiss.

  It’s pure hunger.

  His tongue thrusts into my mouth in a deep, punishing stroke. I hear myself moan, but Dean swallows the desperate sound with another greedy kiss, his warm hands clamping on my hips as he kisses me until I’m breathless.

  My heart is pounding. Holy hell, I’m insanely turned on. So is he—I feel the proof of it when he grips my ass and yanks me against him, grinding our lower bodies together.

 
“You get me so fucking hard,” he growls.

  He rotates his hips, bending slightly so his shaft lines up in the cradle of my thighs. Then he rocks forward and his erection rubs over my clit, triggering a shockwave of pleasure that sizzles along my spine.

  “Naked,” I choke out. “Now.”

  With another chuckle, he ignores the frantic request and kisses me again. His lips are as greedy as before, utterly dominating, and just when I think this frenetic, passionate make-out session couldn’t possibly get any hotter, Dean abruptly slows it down. His tongue tickles my bottom lip. His perfect teeth give it a tiny nip. Then he buries his face in my neck and lavishes it with soft, open-mouthed kisses that leave shivers in their wake.

  Since he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get naked, I take matters into my own hands. I capture the hem of his sweater and draw the heavy material upward. I get it up to his collarbone, and he lifts his head to help with the rest of the way. The moment his sweater comes off, I eagerly sweep my palms over his warm, bare flesh.

  He makes a husky noise and threads his fingers through my hair, watching me with lust-filled eyes as I caress his chest.

  This guy is built. I damn near purr with happiness as I explore the hard planes of his chest. I trace each sculpted pec with my index finger, then target one flat nipple and press down on it. He jerks, his breathing going heavier. I trail that same finger down the line of dark blond hair leading to his waistband, then flatten my palm and stroke the defined ridge of his abs.

  Dean’s lips find my neck again. With deft fingers, he works the material of my shirt up and eases it over my head.

  He sucks in a breath. “No bra?”

  “Seemed redundant.”

  Pleasure ignites inside of me when he cups my breasts. He sweeps his thumbs over my nipples, and groans softly. “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to play with these tits again.”

  My head lolls to the side, and he takes advantage and licks a path from my neck to my ear. He sucks lightly on the lobe and I sag against his warm chest, losing myself in sensation. Dean continues to tease my nipples, but uses only the pads of his fingers. He’s barely making contact, and my nipples tighten painfully every time his fingertips ghost over them.