Page 20 of Incipient

“No way. Everything’s rotten in there,” he protested, totally missing the point.

I waggled my eyebrows. “I know.”

“So that’s how we’re gonna play this, eh?” His voice was low and filled with challenge.

A grin spread across my face. “What’s it gonna be, Blue Eyes?”

He blew out an irritated breath. “Pass.”

“Bottom’s up. Or should I say, bottom’s off?” I threw my head back and laughed hysterically as though my little play on words was the best thing since sliced bread.

He gave me a pointed look and then picked up the shot glass and tossed it back. “I would’ve brought the salt, but I figured it was pointless since all the lemons went bad.”

“I’m hearing a lot of talking but not a lot of undressing.” Splaying my palms on the comforter behind me, I crossed my legs and waited for my show to begin. Heck, this was his idea. I wasn’t about to feel bad about it.

He set his glass back on the table and filled it up again. His gaze never wandered from mine as he stood up and moved his hands to his jeans as though he were going to take them off. My heart leapt up into my throat and then quickly dropped back down when he bent down and removed his shoes instead.

His. Freaking. Shoes. “Seriously?”

And now it was his turn to laugh. “Truth or dare?”

“Whatever. Dare.” I wasn’t about to give him any kind of opportunity to fish any secrets out of me. This well of information was dried up and cemented over. Nothing was getting out of it.

“I dare you to call Mr. Watson and ask him if he can bring you some mustard for your lunch tomorrow.”

My mouth flopped open. There was no way I was going to call my humanities teacher in the middle of the night and ask him for, well, anything. Ticked off, I leaned forward and grabbed the shot glass from the table before throwing it back. With my eyes fixed on him in the most jarring way I could muster, I stood up and removed my hoody. Unlike Trace the cheater, I wasn’t wearing any stupid shoes.

He tweaked his eyebrows as though he liked where the game was going.

“Truth or dare?” I bit out sourly.

“Dare,” he said and pushed against the back of his armless computer chair, rocking it gently.

I needed to make this one good—nice and humiliating for him. After a moment of thinking about it, I rubbed my palms together conspiratorially and said, “I dare you to ring your neighbors doorbell and tell him you’re there to pick up his wife for your date.”

He nearly choked on his laugh and then nodded approvingly. “Nice.”

My eyebrows shot up. “So, you’re going to do it?”

“Not a chance,” he said and reached forward for the shot glass. He promptly tossed it back and then leaned forward to take off his socks.

I crossed my arms and glared at him. “How many pointless layers of clothing are you wearing exactly?”

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” he answered teasingly, obviously pleased by my annoyance. “Truth or dare?”

I huffed out a breath of frustration. “Dare.”

“I dare you to lick the rim of a toilet bowl seat,” he said, grinning like a total idiot. “I’ll even let you pick the bowl.”

There was obviously no chance in fresh hell that I was going to do that. Without even explaining myself, I swiped up my shot glass and tossed it back.

Shaking from the burn, I slammed the glass back down on the night table and then stood up. Since I had very minimal options here, I decided to take off my tank top since the only other option I had was my pants and I refused to get down to my underwear in front of Trace. Especially while he was sitting there fully clothed.

Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I pulled it up over my head and then tossed it on the floor beside his chair.

Trace sucked in a sharp breath as his gaze immediately climbed up the length of my body and then stopped on my chest, taking in the mounds under my black satin bra. Judging by the sinful look that was darkening his eyes, he was wholly enjoying what he was seeing.

Without bothering to cover up, I sat back down on the bed and stared him down. “Truth or dare?”

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