The bass thrummed through the old Victorian house like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through the scuffed hardwood floors that had seen too many spilled beers and not enough mops. Dean leaned against the sticky kitchen counter, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, the whiskey inside long since gone lukewarm. The air smelled of weed, cheap perfume, and that particular Briar University party funk—sweat, Axe body spray, and whatever cheap pizza the guys had ordered earlier.
He shouldn’t have been staring. He knew that. This thing between you two was supposed to be casual. No strings. He could chase tail; you could flirt with whoever the hell you wanted. Easy. Uncomplicated. That was the deal you’d both laughed about after that first night, tangled in his sheets back at the hockey house, your laughter still husky from coming down.
But tonight, that deal felt like it was choking him.
You were across the crowded living room, half-lit by the string lights. The quarterback—some broad-shouldered meathead from the football team, name probably something like Brock or Chad—stood way too close to you, one meaty arm braced against the wall above your head, leaning in like he was sharing state secrets. You were smiling up at him, that slow curve of your lips that Dean had come to recognize as your polite-but-interested face. He could still taste you on his tongue from two nights ago, feel the ghost of your nails down his back.
Mine, some ugly, unfamiliar voice growled in his head. He crushed it down, but it kept resurfacing like a bad fucking penny.
Dean ran a hand through his blond hair, the strands still slightly damp from the quick shower he’d taken. His eyes narrowed, tracking the way the quarterback’s hand brushed your arm. Casual. Too casual for his taste. Dean’s chest felt tight under his white tank top, muscles coiled with the same restless energy he usually burned off on the ice or in someone’s bed. But not just anyone’s bed anymore. Yours.
“Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, pushing off the counter. A couple of his teammates glanced over, but he ignored them. Logan would probably give him shit later for this. Garrett too. They all knew the rules he’d set for himself—Dean Di Laurentis didn’t do jealous. He did fun. He did plenty.
Yet here he was, weaving through the crowd like a man on a mission, his tall frame cutting through the bodies with that effortless athletic grace. The music pulsed louder near the center of the room—“Body” by Dua Lipa or some shit, all sultry beats that matched the undercurrent of tension crawling under his skin.
You looked up just as he approached, your eyes meeting his across the last few feet. Something flickered there—surprise, maybe a flash of heat, or was that guilt? He couldn’t tell.
“Di Laurentis,” the quarterback said, straightening up with that cocky jock nod. “What’s good, man?”
Dean flashed his trademark grin, the one that usually got him whatever he wanted—girls, grades, out of trouble. But it didn’t reach his eyes tonight. “Hey, bro. Mind if I steal her for a sec? Got something I need to run by her real quick.”
The guy blinked, glancing between you and Dean. “We were kinda in the middle of—”
“Yeah, I saw.” Dean’s voice stayed light, laced with that sarcastic drawl he wielded like a weapon. He clapped the quarterback on the shoulder, a little too firm, his fingers digging in just enough. “Appreciate you keeping her company, but I got it from here. Go grab another beer or throw a ball or whatever it is you football guys do.”
The quarterback muttered something under his breath about hockey players being dicks, but he backed off. Smart move. Dean watched him melt back into the crowd before turning fully to you.
“You good, baby?” he asked softly, stepping into your space. His eyes searched your face, lingering on the way you held his gaze without flinching. That was one of the things that fucked him up about you—you didn’t back down. Didn’t simper or play games. You matched his energy, called his bullshit, and it made him want more. Dangerous territory.