Page 28 of Brushed and Buried
“It’s just a classic game with a twist. I spin the bottle, and whoever it lands on would pick from Truth, Dare, or Touch. If Adrian tells the truth, does the dare, or makes no reaction to the touch, no point to you. But if he does the opposite,” he turns to me and gestures at my shirt, “you get a point, and one article of clothing comes off him. Whoever gets to reach three points first will be the winner.”
Vince almost doesn’t let him finish. “And the winner gets what?”
Lance tries to appear like he’s thinking about it, but we know he knows what he wants to happen. “The winner gets to make Adrian do whatever he wants for three minutes.”
Vince takes a slow pull from the bottle, gaze hooded, mouth quirking at the corner in that way that says he’s already agreed and is planning his move.
Heat prickles up my neck as I throw my head back in mock despair, but the smirk tugging at my mouth betrays me.
Lance snatches Trevor’s top-shelf bourbon off the crate, drains the last drops, and sets the empty bottle in the middle of our circle with a theatrical spin. He spreads his arms, grin wolfish. “Gentlemen. The game begins.”
Trevor bursts out laughing, palms slapping together. “Adrian’s so fucked.”
“Not yet,” Vince says smoothly, low enough it almost doesn’t sound like a joke. His chuckle is quiet, but there’s a subtle heft to it, like he knows exactly how the night’s going to end. “Give it time.”
I whip my head toward him before I can stop myself. Vince, of all people, talking about me being stripped down, touched, and handled by other men like it’s inevitable. He seems not to care, or worse, it’s like he wants to watch it happen.
The shock must flicker across my face, because he only meets my stare with a look so steady it feels like a challenge. There’s no smirk or dodge, but just that calm, dangerous silence that always unsettles me more than words.
Lance takes it upon himself to be the scorekeeper. He finds a hotel notepad and a pen, then scribbles a tally score list. “Right then, I’ll be keeping score. One point for every squirm, everymoan, basically anything that proves our boy here’s getting hot under the collar. And let’s be clear,” he looks directly at me, his grin sharp, “you strip if you mess up, if you lie, or if you chicken out.”
I groan again, mostly for show. “So basically, I’m screwed.”
Lance beams. “Exactly.”
And then he spins the bottle. It scrapes to a stop, pointing at Trevor. He gives me a knowing smile before tapping his knee. “Truth.”
“Ask away,” I say.
“Fastest someone ever made you come?”
My whole body goes hot. I shift on the carpet like that’ll save me, but they’re all staring.
“Probably…five minutes?” I blurt out like an idiot.
Trevor hollers, clapping like I just set a world record, and Lance leans in with that hungry look, eyes sharp, not about to let me slide. “Details. Don’t half-ass it.”
My mouth’s dry as bone. I tell myself I should lie, keep it vague, and laugh it off, but the truth presses up anyway, and I can’t swallow it down. “Oral,” I admit, the word sticking in my throat. “He was…good. But I was imagining someone else doing it. Someone I liked. A lot.”
The last part barely escapes, almost a whisper, and I keep my eyes anywhere but Vince. Carpet, bottle, my hands, until I cave—one quick glance. His jaw twitches once, sharpand silent, and I feel it right in my chest. George notices, too, his look slicing between us.
The tension lingers, like we all just exhaled together and now can’t stop staring at each other. I shift on the carpet, still feeling the burn from admitting more than I should, and Lance grins like he’s savoring every second of it. He grabs the bottle again and spins it.
It slows…slows…and lands on George.
“Touch,” he says.
“What sort of touching do you want to do, G?” Lance asks.
“Inner thigh.”
I brace myself, positioning my palms on the floor behind me, legs bent, a little wider than usual, just enough to give him access without giving too much away. His hand slides gently along my inner thigh in a motion that’s unhurried, a few seconds that feel like forever. I stay still, keeping my expression neutral, though I can feel the room heat up just by him being there.
After a few beats, Lance finally calls it. “No reaction. No point to George.”
“Maybe you should’ve gone higher,” Vince murmurs, dry and pointed, and my eyes snap to him, startled. A rush of something hot pulses through me, sharper now, feeding the fire before it can die down.
Lance’s already got the bottle spinning again, glass rattling over the floor. It stops, landing right back on him. He grins like he planned it, like the damn thing obeys him. “Dare,” he says,already smug, barely hesitating before pointing at Vince across the circle. “Vince to kiss your neck for ten seconds.”
