Page 158 of The Dixon Rule

“I still can’t believe the cheerleaders held an intervention for you. About me.”

Patrick chortles from the back seat. “For real?”

Diana twists around to grin at him. “It was amazing. I wish I’d filmed it.”

“What, do they all hate you or something?” Blake asks curiously.

“They sure didn’t hate me when they were moaning my name,” I taunt.

Diana smacks my arm. “Uncouth!”

“Got it,” Blake says in amusement. “So you broke all their hearts.”

“Their hearts shouldn’t have been involved in the first place,” I argue. “Seriously. This is why I think casual sex is some sick joke. A hoax society decided to play on us. Seems like it only upsets people.”

“Honestly, I deserved the intervention,” Diana sighs. “It was payback for all the times I told them how awful you were. To them this must seem like I’ve lost my mind.”

The frat house comes into view, and I park twenty yards away on the street. I’d like some distance between my Mercedes and inebriated assholes, thank you very much.

Music reverberates so loudly that I can feel the beat standing on the sidewalk outside of Kappa Nu. People are filtering in and out, some of them already stumbling even though it’s only eight o’clock. Neon lights flash out of the front door, and the deafening music combined with the inadequate lighting is a headache waiting to happen. I sort of wish I were drinking.

Diana links her arm through Blake’s. “Now, seeing as this is your first official college party, don’t let the boys in there give you the wrong idea of men,” she warns. “These are not men—they are overgrown children. They think fart jokes are funny, and their flirting consists of holding your legs during a keg stand and saying ‘nice tits.’”

“It’s true,” Patrick confirms to Blake. “By the way, nice tits.”

She grins at him.

We enter the frat house, Diana walking ahead of me, hips swinging and ass swaying in that tiny skirt.

I capture her waist and tug her backward. “Want to go upstairs and sit on my face?” I whisper in her ear.

She shivers. “Stop tempting me.”

As the others venture deeper into the party, we remain in the hall, my body pressed against her back. I slip both hands under her skirt and cup her ass. Diana squirms.

I rest my chin on her shoulder. “You know, considering all the cheerleaders I’ve been with—”

“All five thousand of them?”

“All million of them. I’ve never actually fucked anyone while they’re wearing a cheer uniform.”

Her answer is a taunt. “Who says I’m going to let you fuck me?”

“Is your hand under her skirt?” Beckett drawls, coming up to us with Will in tow.

“No,” I lie.

“I can see it.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

Diana laughs. I give her ass cheek a little swat before sliding my hands out. Will glances at me. He doesn’t say anything, but I’m sure he’s thinking about what happened in Diana’s apartment that night. I think about it often.

It wasn’t awkward, either, when he and I drove to practice the next morning. I expected it to be, but we chatted in the car as if nothing had happened. I guess Will’s used to playing it cool after a night of kinky sex. God knows he has experience with it these days.

“Dixon!” someone shouts when we enter the crowded living room.

For a second I’m startled because I’m the one who calls her that. Isaac Grant, star wide receiver, saunters toward us holding a red cup full of beer and sporting a victorious grin. He has every right to gloat. He finished that game with ten catches for a hundred and eighty-two yards, two touchdowns. He’s a weapon.

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