“Hi, Aeris,” they say in unison, like they’re greeting a newcomer at an AA meeting.
Josette—Casen’s girlfriend—was going to join us, but she had to work late tonight, so it’s only me in a house full of six guys.
“So you’re the girl who has our boy pussy-whipped,” Gage says, making the color in my cheeks deepen.
Hayes flips him off, but he’s wearing a matching blush.
The coffee table is lined from end to end with red solo cups, a dare on the bottom of each one. If you get a dare you refuse to do, you have to drink.
Everyone’s gathered around in a sort of football huddle, and the seriousness on each of their faces has me already regretting whatever stomach-turning ride I’m about to embark on.
Gage eyes everyone up and down like he’s a lion gauging the weakest gazelle in the herd. “You guys all know how this works. Remember: no dares will be completed without consent from the other party, if necessary.”
“So, who wants to go first?” he asks, mischief curling around his words.
Oh, God. Kill me now. Have my cart go off the tracks in some Final Destination-esque death scene.
Kit doesn’t even look fazed when he volunteers himself. He picks up the cup situated farthest from him, holding it over his head so he can glance at the dare.
“Give a lap dance to someone of your choosing. Clothes optional,” he reads, the mirth in his eyes ascending to dangerous levels.
Most of the faces around the circle look curious, but a few are fearful. I don’t blame them. I’d be terrified if I was on the receiving end too. And Kit doesn’t strike me as the type to back down from a dare.
No, no, no. I’m the only girl in the entire group. Please don’t pick me. Please. Don’t. Pick. Me.
The second Kit looks at me, a low rumble comes from Hayes’ chest.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growls, eliciting unfettered laughter from the group, and Bristol and Casen seem to share some kind of complicit look with each other.
Kit holds his hands up in surrender. “Your girl is safe, H.”
Your girl.
That doesn’t sound half bad.
Warmth pumps through me at the term of endearment, my breath and heart boxing it out in the ring of my ribs.
“Are all of these dares sexual?” I whisper to Hayes.
Hayes flashes me that trademark grin of his. “God, I hope not.”
The arrogance in his tone isn’t a good sign, but neither is the heat pooling between my legs. Thank you, Hayes’ stupid audiobook narrator voice. Why does he have to be irresistible all the time? And why am I hoping that I get a dare just as sexual as Kit’s?
Look, we’ve kissed, but we haven’t done a lot of sexual stuff with each other yet. It’s not that I don’t want to—trust me, I do—but I only want to initiate it if he makes it clear he’s on board.
“Fully, do you give me consent to give you the best lap dance you’ll ever experience?” Kit asks, glowing with excitement.
Fulton’s laugh is brittle. “Me? Really?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re about as virginal as the olive oil we have in the cabinet.”
Fulton grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn’t refute Kit’s statement. “Fine. Yes, I give you consent.”
Kit claps his hands together. “It’s your lucky day. I’ve been practicing my Magic Mike moves, and you won’t even have to pay me anything.”
Everyone retreats from the huddle and sits down on the couch except for Kit, who’s dragging a kitchen chair into the center of the living room. He extends an arm out and bows, and with a sigh, Fulton shuffles over and takes his new throne.
If I had walked into the room right now, with no context, I would’ve thought Fulton was involved in some sort of hostage situation. His hands are gripping the ever-loving life out of his seat, and his face has turned this sickly white color that looks strangely akin to a zombie bite victim.
“Please don’t get any of this on video,” he groans.
“Too late,” Gage says, already holding up his phone camera, flash on and everything.
And with a beat, the ridiculously raunchy music starts playing, and Kit begins to sway his hips from side to side. He sticks one leg out, then slowly rolls up, making an effort to wiggle his ass and push his chest out. Oh my God. It’s like I’ve been transported to a strip club in Las Vegas, but not a good one. A scary one. A very scary one.
I don’t think we’re a minute through the song—that’s how long and torturous this feels. This would be a good type of psychological torture for governments to employ wherever torture is even legal these days.
“I’m scared,” I mumble to Hayes.
“Really?”
I’m so close to Hayes’ body that I can feel his breath against my skin, can pick up on the exact moment the slow-burning desire in his steel-blue eyes kicks up.
“I don’t know. This is pretty hot,” he jokes, throwing an arm over my shoulder.
The contact alone has somehow launched my thoughts into the ozone layer, and my arousal is up there in orbit with all the secret things I fantasize about Hayes doing to me. He’s so pretty. The kind of pretty you never get tired of looking at. But I think he’d look a lot prettier with his head between my thig—
“Oh, no. He’s taken his shirt off,” I hear Hayes whisper, and my eyes snap up to find Kit, in fact, with his shirt off. Then I’m met with a lot of olive, inked skin. And abs. Abs stacked on abs. He’s whipping his shirt around his head like a lasso, simultaneously grinding on Fulton with an undulation of his hips.
I can’t hold back my laughter anymore.
“Take your pants off!” Gage shouts giddily, and his request is followed by some agreeable catcalls.
“Do not take your pants off!” Fulton yells, glaring at Kit.
Kit shushes him with a finger, then finishes off the number by bending down and twerking in his face.
I don’t even know what to say, but then the song fades out and Fulton claims his spot on the end of the couch. Wheezing laughter breaks out between Bristol and Casen, and the two are red in the face with each knee slap and windshield wiper chortle.
Kit slips his shirt back on, throws a few kisses to the crowd, then slumps down in the adjacent armchair. “That was fun, Fully. Same time next week?”
“If we’re doing this again, you better feel me up next time,” Fulton mutters.
Once Casen catches his breath and wipes the tears from his eyes, he stands up. “I’ll go.”
Each step is imbued with hesitancy as he approaches the cups, and he picks up the fate that lies in that plastic, red hole of doom. “Eat a raw egg or take a shot of ketchup,” he announces.
My face screws up in disgust.
“Yeah, no. That’s a big, fat no.” Casen downs his drink as quickly as he can, nearly sputtering when he comes back up for air. “Jesus. Is this straight tequila?”
“Yes, yes it is,” Kit replies with a proud nod.
Casen rolls his eyes before sitting back down, and Bristol jumps to the table, snatching a cup for himself. “Let your teammates go through your hidden camera roll and post something to your Instagram.”