Page 110 of The Dixon Rule

He sighs.

“More, huh?”

“It’s all I fucking think about,” he mumbles.

“Honestly, I think you’re stressing way too hard about this. Everyone has their kinks.”

“Yeah?” he challenges. “What’s yours?”

“None of your business.”

Will grins.

“So what are you going to do when Beckett gets home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you talked to him since he left?”

The question startles him. “Sure. We text every day. He’s my best friend.”

“Then don’t you think you should be talking to him about all this? Tell him what’s been bothering you?”

“Maybe.”

He sounds noncommittal. Typical guy. Yes, let’s keep everything bottled up instead. That’s always a splendid idea.

The rest of dinner passes over decent food and some excellent conversation. I really like Will. He started off as Gigi’s friend, but he and I have grown closer now that we’re both in Hastings for the summer. And maybe it makes me an asshole because he’s so stressed about it, but I’m all over this Will and Beckett situation. I don’t know if I could ever have a threesome myself, but I can’t deny the fantasy is appealing. It doesn’t hurt that Will and Beck are two ludicrously attractive hockey players. I can see how any girl would be tempted to be crushed between those two hard bodies.

The waiter is clearing away our empty plates when I get a text from Shane. I expect some grumbly complaint about me being out with Will. Instead, I find a link to a document. Okay. That’s weird.

I have to pee, so I decide to open the message in the bathroom. One, because it’s rude to check it in front of Will, and two, because I’m afraid to check it in front of Will.

And I’m far too curious to wait until I get home.

After I do my business and wash my hands, I find a follow-up text from Shane. All it says is: you win.

I click the link and almost die laughing on the tiled floor.

It’s an application.

A literal application for the position of my friend with benefits.

Hilarious headings assault my eyes. Name. Penis size. Skills—oh my God. He listed all his favorite sex positions in order of what he considers himself most skilled at, to least skilled. Reverse cowgirl is on the bottom.

My laughter bounces off the acoustics in the bathroom. If I hadn’t just peed, I might actually pee myself. And yet despite the sheer absurdity of what I’m reading, I can’t fight the rush of arousal that floods my bloodstream.

Under turn-ons, he wrote:

Calling the shots.

Not against being watched.

My breath catches, heat tickling the tips of my breasts. Under final thoughts, he was more articulate:

As your fake boyfriend and real friend with benefits, I take the duty of pleasuring you very seriously. I guarantee at least one orgasm per session, whether by tongue, finger, or cock.

My entire body clenches. The idea of his mouth or fingers or tongue anywhere on me makes my heart speed up.

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