Page 61 of A Little Secret

“One more,” Boyle repeats.

“Seriously?” I demand.

Griffin wasn’t wrong. He’s definitely gonna get shitfaced tonight. Poor guy.

Without waiting for Boyle’s answer, I mirror the movement again but tip the glass too quickly, and a light splash hits my hand.

“Shit,” Griffin curses. A warm mouth sucks the spilled liquid from around my fingertips, and I swear I can feel it down to my core. The swirl of his tongue. The wet heat of his mouth. There’s no way he’d lick me in public. Not if he hadn’t already taken a handful of shots. And maybe it’s because I’m blindfolded and can’t see his face to overanalyze his reaction, but it’s the most erotic touch I’ve ever experienced. Oh, the magic of a mouth. And this mouth? I have a feeling this mouth could do dangerous things if the opportunity presented itself.

“We good?” Griffin asks.

“Uh, yeah?” I choke out, lowering my hand from his mouth. “We’re, uh?—”

“Yeah, I’ll allow it,” Boyle says.

Griffin wasn’t talking to me.

He was talking to Boyle.

Cool, cool, cool.

“One more piece of tape, Fin,” Griffin adds. He must’ve turned to me because the same familiar scent of spicy alcohol fills my nostrils. It’s stronger now. Hell, it’s practically fire.

“You got this,” he encourages.

I got this. Because we’re playing a game.

Right.

Setting the glass down, I wipe my hand against my jeans and rip off a piece of tape from the dispenser still pinned between my thighs, then stick it on the present, smash both ends of the paper, tack on more tape, and wait with bated breath.

“Am I done?” I pause. “It’s done, right? It’s totally done.”

“What do you say, Boyle?” Griffin prods.

The sound of rustling greets me, and I assume Boyle’s judging my handiwork, but honestly, I have no idea.

“Boyle?” I prod.

“Looks good to me,” he decides.

“Shot!” Griffin yells, announcing to the group that we’ve finished the first portion of Game Night. Ripping off the blindfold for me, he tugs me to my feet, and I almost trip over myself as he drags me toward the kitchen.

I grab the Santa hat and antlers, placing the antlers on Griffin’s head, then slapping the Santa hat onto mine while he downs two more shots from the kitchen island. As soon as the glass hits the granite countertop, I jump on his back and wrap my body around his. It’s a little awkward, thanks to our cuffed wrists, but he grabs the backs of my thighs,steadying me. His fingers press little indents into my skin as he hikes me a little higher onto his back, and I swear his touch shoots straight to my core. I blame the open mouthed kiss against my hand. The memory alone keeps my body trembling and my heart racing as I press my chest to his back.

This is only a game.

The door from the kitchen to the backyard is propped open, which I’m sure my parents would love if they knew since they pay the bills, and Griffin jumps over the threshold. Snow falls from the sky. No, floats is probably a more fitting term. It’d almost be peaceful if the yard wasn’t scattered with half-drunk, cuffed college students with antlers and Santa hats stumbling through the snow in search of mistletoe. The timer beside the open hot tub blinds us, thanks to the sharp contrast of bright red light and the dark night sky. Or maybe it’s because I was blindfolded for the last five minutes. Honestly, I have no idea, but I’m not sure it matters, anyway. There are fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.

Most of the mistletoe has been claimed. Beneath the tree. By the house. I search for an open bunch, my own competitiveness rearing its ugly head.

“By the hot tub!” I point to one of the last available bunches in the yard. It dangles from a metal pole over the open water.

“You’re gonna make me get wet, aren’t you?” Griffin grumbles.

“Go!” I kick his sides like he’s my own personal horse, and a sting hits my ass. “Hey!”

“Not afraid to spank your ass, Fin,” he warns, but he kicks his butt into gear anyway and runs at top speed toward the last bunch of mistletoe available like our lives depend on it.

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