The Dixon Rule: Chapter 23

AT ELEVEN THIRTY, SHANE BARRELS THROUGH MY OPEN DOOR BEFORE I can even invite him in. Which I wasn’t planning to do because it’s late Thursday night and I’m in the middle of an FoF marathon. I’m two episodes behind.

“I’m drunk,” he announces.

I gape at him as he brazenly breezes into my living room. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a tank top, and for some reason, he’s holding a brown paper bag in his hands.

“You realize you don’t live here, right?”

“I should live here,” he says nonsensically.

His brown eyes drift toward the TV screen, which is paused on Donovan’s sleazy British face.

“Sweet. Let’s do this. We need to catch up before Saturday.”

I press my lips together to stop a laugh. “Why’s that?”

“Because Saturday is a Sugar Shack release. Super important.” He cocks an arrogant brow at my expression. “That’s right, I know the lingo now. And you know what? I’m not ashamed to say I like this show. It’s entertaining. The women are hot. And some of the dudes are hilarious. Like the Connor. There isn’t a single episode where he doesn’t have me in hysterics.”

It’s a struggle not to fall on the floor laughing. Shane’s drunk, all right. No way would he admit any of this sober.

“And look! I even picked up refreshments. And I had to walk into the liquor store with John Logan and ask the clerk for assistance because I couldn’t find this on the shelf. I looked like a total loser. John Logan laughed at me, Dixon. Because of you.”

With a flourish, he removes a bottle of the Pink Stuff from the paper bag.

Surprise flickers in my eyes. “You stopped to buy my favorite drink?”

“Only the best for my fake girlfriend.”

A smile creeps onto my face despite my resistance. Damn it. I hate to admit it, but this jackass is growing on me.

“Fine,” I relent, taking the pink bottle from him. “I’ll get us some glasses.”

As I walk to the kitchen, Shane ambles toward the fish tank. “What’s up, Skip?” he greets the goldfish. “Hey, Dixon,” he calls over his shoulder. “Are we sure he’s in good health? He looks fat.”

“Oh, he’s in terrible health. He’s on diet food.”

“There’s diet fish food?”

“Yeah, I have to special order it from some weird lady in Florida. She makes it herself. But it doesn’t matter what I do to try to help this asshole. He doesn’t lose weight.”

“Aww, leave him alone. He’s just a husky boy who loves his pirate’s chest.”

I grin when I see Shane peering into the tank, his face pressed up right against the glass.

“He’s got, like, dead eyes.”

“I know. It’s very unnerving.” I carry two wineglasses filled to the brim with pink liquid and set them both on the coffee table. “How was your hockey thing?”

“Legends, Dixon. I spent the whole day and night with legends.” He sighs happily. “It was fucking spectacular.”

“I’m glad you had a good time.” I reach for the remote. “All right. There’s a selection ceremony at the end of this episode. Any predictions about who Marissa is going to choose?”

“One hundred percent Steven.”

“Hate to break it to you, but she’s totally making a play for Connor.”

“No way. Zoey’s too beloved. You can’t be the person to send Zoey home and expect to win a single vote in the finale. Even Marissa’s not that dumb. I’m sticking with Steven.”

I sip my drink and focus on the screen. About ten minutes in, Ky and new boy Juan get to spend the night in the Sugar Suite.

And I’m not going to lie.

It gets hot.

I gulp down some more alcohol as the couple starts making out on a white bed adorned with rose petals. There’s no actual nudity, but we catch tantalizing glimpses of Ky tossing her lacy red bra onto the floor. Juan sliding her thong down her tanned legs. Juan’s boxers getting flung across the suite.

A second later, the couple is under the duvet, and it looks like he’s operating a jackhammer in there.

“That’s ferociously fast,” I remark. “And they went from kissing to super penetration in five seconds. Where’s the foreplay?”

“What’s super penetration?”

“That. The entire bed is shaking. How is this fun for her? There’s no way this girl’s having an orgasm.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she asked for it. Maybe she was like, Don’t go down on me, Juan. I need to be pounded, preferably at a speed of sixty miles an hour, in order to come.”

I burst out laughing, nearly spitting my drink all over the couch.

“What about you?” Shane asks curiously.

“What about me?”

“What gets you off?”

“Nope.” I set down my glass. “We are not talking about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re in a fake relationship. We’re not friends who talk about their kinks.”

“I think we should reevaluate your fake-girlfriend duties.”

“My only duties are to make you appear somewhat palatable to your ex-girlfriend.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He polishes off the rest of his drink and leans forward to refill his glass.

“You’re hitting the pink stuff pretty hard,” I say, lifting a brow.

“I’m already drunk. What’s a bit more drunker?”

“Was that English?”

Shane’s not paying attention to me anymore. “Holy shit, did this chick really just tell the Connor that she can make him happier than Zoey? Swear to God, if she picks him, I’m gonna—shut up, Dixon! Shut up. Jeff’s about to pick.”

“I’m not talking. You’re the one who’s talking!”

I can honestly say that Drunk Shane might be my favorite Shane.

We cheer when Jeff picks Leni, breaking her bond with Donovan. Then it’s the moment of truth. Marissa, the brunette who’s shaken up the hacienda, stands and smooths out the bottom of her white minidress. The camera pans from Steven’s face to Connor’s. They’re the two guys she’s been talking to the most and the two guys in the most solid relationships.

“If Steven’s picked, you and I become friends with benefits,” Shane pipes up. “If it’s the Connor, I go home and jerk off.”

I snort. “Either way you go home and jerk off, sweetie.”

“I have no loyalties here,” Marissa tells the group. “I came in here knowing I was going to ruffle some feathers. Tonight, I have to stay true to my heart and choose the person I think I have the strongest connection with. So, the boy I want to walk the path to forever with is…” The music grows dramatic. “…Connor.”

Shane growls in outrage as Zoey’s heartbroken face fills the screen.

“I told you,” I say with a sigh.

The host of the show addresses the group in her crisp British accent.

“Zoey and Donovan, your bonds have been broken. You will join the other singles in the Sugar Shack. I’m sorry, but it was just a fling. The rest of you are still on the road to forever.”

Shane is agape, so upset about Zoey’s banishment that I can’t help but reach over to squeeze his arm. Of course, he chooses that moment to move his arm, and my hand ends up in his lap instead.

Grinning, he peers down at his crotch. “If you wanted to undo my pants, you could have just asked.”

I snatch my hand back. “I’m not undoing your pants.”

“Would it kill you to admit that you’re attracted to me?”

It might. Because I’m not attracted to men like Shane. The annoying kind. The cocky kind. I’ve dated athletes before, but I’m drawn to a specific personality type. Someone with a more level head. Someone more mature than me, if I’m being honest. Someone to keep me in line when my temper strikes. Shane only activates it. We’d be way too fiery together.

On one hand, that means the sex has the potential to be off-the-charts hot.

On the other hand, I’m not opening that door. Not because I’m against casual sex. Sometimes I prefer it depending on the man. But going there with Shane feels like a bad idea. He’s best friends with my best friend’s husband and he lives next door. If a sexual relationship explodes in our face—which seems quite likely judging by our clashing personalities—it’ll only make things awkward, and then I’ll have two people in Meadow Hill I need to avoid. It’s in my best interest to resist this temptation.

“Don’t you think it’s time you were honest with yourself?” Shane’s question drips with seduction.

I try to scoot away, but he stops me by taking my hand. His fingertips brush against mine.

“You’ve already kissed me thrice,” he continues.

A laugh pops out. “Thrice, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Those dark eyes linger on me, looking me up and down. Is he picturing me naked? I have a feeling he is.

“First time on a dare, second time for the benefit of your ex, third time for the benefit of mine.”

“Doesn’t matter what the motivation was. All that matters is the end result.”

“What was the end result?” I find myself asking.

“It got you wet.”

A bolt of heat spears into me.

I walked right into that one.

I swallow. “No, it didn’t.”

“Dixon, don’t lie to me. You’re better than that. I can tell from your expression that I’m right.” He lets out a ragged groan. “Why do you have to be so stubborn? You want this as much as I do.”

That catches me off-guard. “You want it?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do.”

My cheeks grow warm in response. “Well, that doesn’t matter because it’s not happening.”

Frustration thickens his voice. “So there’s nothing I can say or do to convince you to go into that bedroom with me? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” I answer, pretending my mouth isn’t dryer than cotton. “You’re wasting your time.”

“What if I kissed you?”

“You’d have to ask me first, and I don’t consent.”

“What if I take off my pants?”

“Well, then you’ll be sitting there with no pants on.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“Because I won’t have sex with you?”

“No, because you can’t admit you want to.”

“It’s a new sensation for you, isn’t it? Rejection.”

“I can handle rejection. I can’t handle lies.”

“You lied pretty easily to Lynsey about our fake relationship.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

I let out a breath. “It’s not a good idea. To be honest, half the time I think you’re messing with me anyway. I don’t trust you. You’re all over the place, Lindley. One day you’re a fuckboy, the next day you want a relationship, the day after that you want to be friends with benefits. I can’t trust what you say.”

He’s incredulous. “You really don’t trust that I’m attracted to you? Look at this.” He smooths his hand over his cargo shorts, stretching the fabric taut so I can see the erection pressing against it. “I’ve got a semi, and that’s just from you arguing with me.”

I almost choke on my tongue. That’s a semi? God, I was right. His generous penis is way more than generous. What’s bigger than generous? Considerable? Substantial?

“You like what you see,” he says knowingly.

Realizing I’ve been staring at his crotch, I wrestle my gaze away.

“Admit it. You want your hand to be the hand that’s doing this.” He cups his substantial package and smirks at me.

My throat goes arid. I cough when he starts dragging his palm up and down the length of him. “Oh my God,” I croak.

“Oh my God, what? Would you like me to stop?”

I’m glued to my seat, watching him intently. And I’m not even drunk. There’s no excuse for this behavior.

“Tell me to stop.” Desire etches into his features as his hand continues its lazy strokes.

I open my mouth. I want to try to form the word stop. But no sound comes out.

“You know what I think? I think you want to know what it’s like,” Shane drawls.

I gulp again. “What what’s like?”

“Being with someone when you’re not the one calling the shots in the bedroom.”

I don’t expect that answer. “What makes you think I call the shots in the bedroom?”

“Your personality.” He chuckles. Still stroking himself. And yeah, the bulge is even bigger now. He catches where my gaze has gone and arches a brow. “Do you want me to take it out?”

I manage to choke out the word “No.”

He drags his tongue over his top lip. “Okay. We’ll save that for later. Anyway, back to your bossiness in the bedroom.”

“I’m not bossy in the bedroom.”

He’s right, though. I do call the shots. I like to dictate encounters, control the pace. Percy was good at letting me do that. Initially I expected him to be more dominant because of his age, but he was fairly submissive in bed. If anything, he tried to make it more emotional. Softer. Whenever I wanted it to be dirtier, he’d make me feel embarrassed for even asking.

Shane isn’t going to be submissive.

And maybe that’s why I’m fighting it so hard. Because he’s not wrong—my entire body is on fire. I am wet, and my clit is throbbing. I want his mouth on me. I want his dick in me.

I cough again, squirming on the couch.

“Say the word,” he says mockingly. “Say the word and I’ll give it to you.”

Somehow, I manage to regain my faculties. “No.”

After a long, strained silence, he curses in frustration. “Fine. Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go next door and take care of this.”

“Fine,” I echo weakly.

And I stay rooted in my seat and let him go.