More than Friends

Dean’s eyes travel over my body as he releases me from his grip. “You look different out of uniform. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Um…okay.”

“I mean that in the best way possible,” he adds. “It was supposed to be a compliment.”

“You suck at this,” I tell him with laughter in my voice.

He chuckles. “I never had a girl as a friend before. All of this is new to me.”

My heart plunges into my stomach. But I quickly rebound from Dean’s comment. No way will I allow him to see the effect his words have on me.

“I’m glad I will be your first,” I say.

“Me, too.” The corners of his mouth turn up into a smile.

“Now that you’ve popped your girlfriend cherry, do you want to play some air hockey?”

He lifts the strikers from the vacant air hockey table and hands one to me. “I’m not going easy on you, Kitten.”

No one has called me Kitten in years. I love the way it sounds coming from Dean’s mouth. A beat passes between us where I stare into his denim irises, studying his olive skin and flawless features. If you overlook the scar under his right eyebrow, Dean is perfect in every way.

Dean rakes his hand through his short, black hair that has a slight curl at the ends, and waits for me to respond. Lost in his looks, I forgot we were supposed to play air hockey. My ability to become his friend dwindles by the minute. I’ve had plenty of friends that were boys, most of them by association with my brothers.

We take our places at each end of the table, staring down at each other. There’s a palpable energy between us, an electric pulse that creeps into my bones with each stolen glance in Dean’s direction. But he wants to be friends.

Chapter 3

Sophmore Year

Kat

In the basement of the Delta Sigma Phi fraternity house, I sit next to Dean on the couch and cringe. I’m pretty sure someone puked on this thing earlier. Even with all the alcohol in my system, the thought causes me to scoot closer to Dean.

“You don’t have to play, Kitten.” Dean taps me in the arm. “I know this is not your thing.”

“It’s okay,” I slur. “I want to play the game.”

All the Solo cups we pounded during beer pong kicked in about ten minutes ago, and I am starting to give zero fucks.

One of the frat brothers had suggested we play a make out game. I thought it was stupid, considering we are not in grade school anymore. But it’s a more advanced version of Seven Minutes in Heaven, or at least that was his claim. I assume this is how they get women to bend to their will.

Dean has more experience than me. In fact, I still haven’t kissed a boy for more than a few seconds on the lips. There was one time that I guess counted as my first kiss with tongue, but that was so short I have a hard time considering that a kiss.

If not for the liquid courage, I would be terrified right now. But with Dean at my si

de, I’m not scared. He has a way of calming me down without saying a word. Just knowing he’s here with me is enough.

“I don’t want to see you kissing a random frat dude,” Dean says, lowering his voice.

Surrounded by the brothers who live in the house and their next victims, I reconsider this stupid game. They take turns playing Russian Roulette with shot glasses of vodka and water. For every shot of vodka we grab, we have to perform a dare. Of course, all of them involve something dirty.

Dean holds me close as he drinks his beer and watches the others play the game. Starting to rethink the idea, I want to back out. After making a promise to my younger brothers not to touch me, Dean will want to keep his word. But peer pressure is a bitch.

After we take our shots, both of them full of vodka, one of the brothers tells us to choose our dare. I shrug at him, unsure of what to pick. Dean stares at me, as if he has no idea what to do, and pounds the rest of the cup on the table in front of him.

The boy on the couch across from us throws a key into Dean’s lap. “Top floor, last door on the right.”

Dean lifts the key from his jeans and stares at the boy, confused, but he must get the reference. He wants Dean to take me upstairs.