Page 57 of Knotting With A Stranger

Hunter runs a hand through his sandy hair, making it stick up slightly. “No details needed.” He grins evilly.

I try to picture Hunter—solid, steady Hunter—fantasizing about one woman while fucking another, and I see him doing it. He has a dark edge to him.

He takes the bottle and spins. It points at me.

My heart skips a beat. “Truth,” I say quickly, not trusting what dare he might come up with.

Hunter looks at me, his amber eyes reflecting the firelight. “What’s your darkest fantasy?”

“Pass,” I say automatically.

“No passes,” James reminds me, looking entirely too interested in my answer.

I glare at him, then look back at Hunter. All three men are staring at me expectantly. The bourbon in my system gives me just enough courage to think I can answer.

“Being completely at someone else’s mercy,” I admit quietly. “Blindfolded, tied up, not knowing what’s coming next or who’s touching me.” I feel my cheeks flush, but force myself to maintain eye contact with Hunter. “Complete surrender of control.”

The room falls silent except for the crackling of the fire. I can practically feel the shift in energy, the sudden tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Hunter’s pupils dilate slightly. “Interesting,” is all he says, but the way he says it makes my stomach flip.

I quickly reach for the bottle, desperate to shift attention away from myself. I spin it hard, watching it whirl several times before stopping on Archer.

“Truth or dare?” I ask, praying he says truth.

“Dare,” he counters with a challenging smile. “I’m not hiding behind truths all night.”

Damn it. I rack my brain for something that won’t escalate things too far.

“I dare you to do your best impression of the person to your right,” I say, nodding toward James.

Archer grins and immediately straightens his posture, adopting a brooding expression. He fixes me with an intense stare.

“I’m James,” he says in a deep, exaggerated voice. “I like to pretend I’m mysterious and dangerous because it gets me laid. I own seventeen identical black sweaters because I read once that Steve Jobs did the same thing, and I secretly wish I could pull off a turtleneck.”

Hunter bursts out laughing while James scowls.

“Fuck, I don’t sound like that,” James protests, but his lips twitch with suppressed amusement. “And for the record,” he adds. “I own twelve black sweaters, not seventeen.”

I laugh, genuinely amused at their banter.

Archer spins the bottle, and it lands on facing me and the base on Archer this time.

“This thing is rigged,” I state, but no one else is protesting.

“Truth or dare?” he asks, smirking.

I hesitate. Truth has already gotten me into trouble once. “Dare,” I say, bracing myself.

Archer’s smile widens. “I dare you to take off your top.”

My gaze widens, and I hear Hunter inhale sharply beside me. James leans forward, studying my reaction carefully.

For a moment, I consider refusing, but there’s a challenge in Archer’s facial expression that awakens something defiant in me. I hold his gaze as I set down my drink, then grasp the hem of my sweater. With deliberate slowness, I pull it over my head, revealing the black tank top I’m wearing underneath.

Archer’s expression shifts from triumph to disappointment to appreciation in rapid succession. The tank reveals more of my shoulders and collarbone and my bra straps but is otherwise perfectly modest. All three men stare at me, and I can’t help the small thrill of satisfaction that runs through me at having subverted Archer’s expectations.

“Clever girl,” James murmurs, raising his glass in a mock toast.

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