Page 12 of Wicked Dares
I set my dress and shoes to the side and head back outside.
The first thing I notice is that Mr. Wicked is sitting on the edge of the hot tub, now wearing a pair of black swim shorts.
My eyes drag over the carved slopes of his muscular body, tracing the inky tattoos on his chest and arms.
Christ, he’s ripped. Every muscle is cut sharp enough to hurt.
Water slides down his legs in lazy paths, over more ink and muscle. I know I’m shamelessly staring, but no more than he is with me.
He looks at me as if I’m his last meal being served on a platter. The intensity of his gaze sends a wave of heat, cascading through my body.
“There she is,” he mutters, gazing at me with appreciation.
I walk up to the hot tub and step down. I lower myself into the water slowly, one step at a time, until the water is lapping at my thighs.
He lowers himself, too, as I settle in. The warm water wraps around me, rolling over my skin.
I finally meet his gaze. He seems proud, proud that he got me in here. Like getting me in his hot tub was always the plan. I suspect it was.
“What next?” I ask, trying to keep my nerves under control.
“More dares.”
“Okay.”
I look around and realize the bartender’s gone, so we’re alone. Mr. Wicked seems to clock my realization, and his stare sharpens with something darker. No longer curious, no longer polite.Possessive.
“Your turn.” He leans against the tub edge, his arms spreading on either side.
Here’s where I can be clever. “I dare you to answer some questions.”
“Nice move.” He tips his head. “I accept, but only if I can dare you to answer some questions, too.”
“I accept. Four each?”
“Agreed. Fire away.” He borrows my words again.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty. And you’re what, twenty-one?” He cocks his head and gives me a boyish smirk. “Please tell me you’re legal.”
I find myself laughing. “I’m twenty-six.”
“You look younger.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“Your turn again, Butterfly.”
I don’t know why, but I like the nickname. It seems to be growing on me.
His gaze drops to my lips again.
I think of a fun question. “Tell me something true.” It seems fitting since we’re all about dares. Might as well get a glimpse of the truth while I can.
“What kind of truth do you want?” Mischief dances in his eyes once more. “A safe truth or something more…meaningful.”
The thought of him sharing something significant with me tempts me more than it should. “I want meaningful.”
