Page 70 of Without a Trace
“Truth or dare?” I asked, voice syrupy sweet.
He sighed. “I know better than to choose dare with you. Truth.”
I grinned. “Who in this room would you fuck if no one ever found out?”
The room tensed.
Rhett’s eyes flicked to Lena, then Sloane, then—briefly—me.
He muttered, “Lena,” and took a long drink.
She gasped. “Oh my god.”
Sloane choked. “Scar, what the hell.”
“I’m just asking questions,” I said innocently.
Rhett spun. It landed on Alden.
“Dare,” Alden said immediately. His voice was low. Firm. Already looking at me.
Rhett grinned. “Take a shot… off Scarlett’s thigh.”
Trace looked up, his eyes darkened, fists tightening on his thighs like he was holding back a war.
Kane whispered, “holy shit.”
Alden didn’t flinch as I pulled my shirt up just a little higher and stretched one leg out across the coffee table, daring him.
He poured the tequila right above my knee. The room silent.
Then Alden leaned in.
His lips touched my skin—slow, hot, lingering. His tongue traced the edge of the liquor. His breath lingered against my thigh like he didn’t want to stop.
I didn’t move.
Sloane gasped. “Jesus Christ.”
Lena’s hand flew over her mouth. “That’s… wow.”
When Alden pulled back, his eyes met mine for a single second too long.
Then he licked his lips and passed the bottle like nothing had happened.
I looked at Trace.
He was watching. Tight. Silent. Possessive.
“Your turn?” I asked, smiling like sin.
The bottle spun again.
I wasn’t playing to win.
I was playing to make themsnap.
It clicked past Rhett. Past Kane. Past Sloane—who looked like she was actively reconsidering her friendship with me—and landed on Trace.
