Page 52 of Game Night: Truth or Dare

Too little, too late, traitor, I thought, holding up my hand to silence her. Instead, I turned my focus back to Ben. “Or maybe you are? Are you too chickenshit, Benjamin?”

That got him. He blinked a couple of times, like he couldn’t quite comprehend the turn things had taken so suddenly.

That’s right, pansy. Back down. I felt a little smirk rise up on my mouth.

Ben’s face hardened. Maybe it was my smirk that did it. In any case, he grew cool and impassive as a marble statue. There was something going on behind his eyes—they were dark and liquid, and I could see his discomfort. But his jaw was set. His brow was smooth. I noticed for the first time how thick his neck was, with the tendons cording down the sides of it.

He didn’t look like he was budging. He didn’t speak, but he wasn’t budging.

“You scared, Quinn?”

He snorted—actually snorted. “Of you? No.”

This was crazy! This twenty-seven-year-old army vet was playing right into my hands. He was supposed to be mature. He was supposed to be too old for this. But I guess I’d found the right buttons to push.

“Because,” I went on, savoring my victory, “if you’re scared of a little bruise…”

He snorted again. “I’ve been bruised before.”

“All right.”

Nothing from him. Not for a long second. Then, “All right.”

“All right,” said Kelly, and it was only the sound of her voice that made me realize how fucking still everyone else had gotten. “Go ahead and do it before we all graduate.”

That got a little laugh, a round of titters from everyone but me and Ben, who were still staring, unblinking, at each other.

There was nothing else to do. I rose to my knees and started moving. Crackling electric bonds connected Ben and me, and maybe everyone else could feel them, too, because the minute I began to cross the space between us, the laughter stopped.

Before I knew it, I was kneeling over him, looking down at him.

As I approached, his whole body stiffened, like every inch of him was just determined to get through the next several seconds.

“Last chance to pull out.”

He shook his head, just a single brisk twitch. “You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

I felt my eyes narrow and my shoulders tense. More than ever, I wanted this. I wanted to scrape his skin with my teeth, to bite down on his flesh. I wanted to suck hard enough to break his blood vessels. I wanted the mark I left to remind him—at least till it faded—how much I hated him.

I curved my back, lowering myself to him.

His skin was warm. I mean, the room was warm, with the fire crackling away, and all our bodies huddled in a circle, drinking and talking and laughing. But a different heat came off Ben’s skin as I drew close. I realized I was sweating—my pits slightly damp, my palms clammy.

I tried knotting my fingers in his hair, hoping to pull his head back. It didn’t work—he kept it cut too short for me to get a good grip. I just ended up dragging my fingertips over his scalp. His hair was surprisingly soft—stupidly, I thought of the fur on those little microfiber throw pillows Bianca had on her bed, the ones I couldn’t stop stroking after we’d smoked together. Ben’s hair was like that. I hadn’t expected anything about him to be soft.

Then, even without me tugging on him, he craned his head back. I knew he just wanted to get this over with, to get me off him, but something about the motion felt like he was welcoming me. His throat was pale, but this close I could see tiny hairs, the remnants of the last time he’d shaved, still too short to even qualify as stubble.

I parted my lips and moved in till my mouth was on his skin. I didn’t know what he might taste like…cologne or soap, maybe? But he was just…clean. Neutral.

I meant to bite down. Part of me wanted to make him yelp. At the last minute, though, I decided to close my jaws gently, stopping when I felt the skin grow taut beneath my teeth.

I started to suck.

He hissed.

I sucked harder, and—almost without realizing it—cupped the back of his head in my hand, enjoying the unbelievably soft touch of his hair against my palm. I closed my eyes…squeezed them, actually…and for a split second, I imagined I was Lestat or Astarion or someone like that. Someone cool-eyed and dark-hearted and predatory. I imagined what it would be like to suck on Ben Quinn’s neck till he squirmed or screamed, to suck on him till he was fucking sorry he’d done what he’d done with Elliot. I imagined sucking the life right out of him.

And that made me think of Elliot, who’d left all of this behind. What would he say if he could see us like this, one of his exes embracing another, close as could be, leaving a mark on his throat?

---