Page 53 of Game Night: Truth or Dare

Goddammit. I liked that idea. Liked it way more than I wanted to.

And then Ben did squirm. He didn’t scream, but he did moan out a guttural little nnngh.

I liked that, too. I liked that I’d made him do it.

Wildly, I had the impulse to press my tongue against his skin, running it over the flesh between my teeth. It was hot and wet, slick with my spit.

He shivered. He moaned again.

And then, almost reluctantly, I released him. Time sped back up as I pulled away.

It was dark in the den, with the flickering orange glow of the fireplace providing the only light. Even so, even in the shadows, I could see what I’d done to Ben. There, on the side of his pale white throat, maybe an inch to the left of his Adam’s apple, was the fat purple rosebud of a hickey I’d gifted him.

And, inexplicably, I felt guilty about it. Don’t ask me why. To this day, I couldn’t tell you. Maybe it was because Ben could have beaten my ass if he wanted to, could have absolutely wrecked me. He could have ended me without even breaking a sweat. Instead, he’d leaned back and submitted to me. He’d let me mark him.

And the fucked up part was, that had helped. I did feel better. So maybe that’s where the guilt came from—I knew that a good person wouldn’t have enjoyed it so much. Not that I went around thinking I was a good person or anything? But I didn’t need to be reminded of it right then.

As for Ben, he looked a little shook. Something about him was unsettled, above and beyond the nerves I’d seen in his eyes before giving him the hickey. He’d changed somehow. His gaze met mine, and for a second we were locked together. I saw him see something in my eyes, too, and I wondered what it was. My guilt? The disappointment that bruising him hadn’t made me feel as powerful as I hoped? Maybe he saw that I still cared what Elliot thought. Maybe he saw that I’d liked it when he moaned.

Maybe he saw everything. Maybe he saw me clearly, every part of me.

I didn’t like that idea. Not one bit. But something kept me there, kneeling over him, looking down at him.

“You can get off me now.” That did it; his voice broke the spell. Suddenly, I could get off him. Even so, I would have expected something hard in his voice, something sharp or brusque. It wasn’t there. He was a little breathy, was all.

I untangled my body from his, letting go of his head, removing my hand from his shoulder. (How had it gotten there? I didn’t remember gripping his shoulder.) I rose to my feet, towering above him even more than I had when I’d been kneeling, and walked back to my side of the circle.

“Goddamn!” That was Natalie Price, seated to Ben’s right—his hickey side. When I turned to sit, she was leaning in, examining the mark I’d made. “You’re a beast, Ollie!”

“Let me see,” said the smirking guy, the one who’d felt the need to point out I’d nearly dozed off earlier. (That felt like ages ago, a whole different party.) He got up and maneuvered around Ben’s body. “Holy shit!” He turned to me, that dumb smirk still on his dumb face, bigger than ever. “You musta been pissed.”

There were a few moments of commotion, folks laughing and commenting. Kelly asked if she could touch the bruise, and pressed her finger to it before Ben could give consent. After a second, though, all the conversation faded to a low buzz. Almost as though we were alone in the room, Ben and I were still locked in, weighing each other with our gazes. I couldn’t read his expression, but whatever triumph I thought I’d feel by blemishing his skin, it wasn’t there. Listening to everyone treat him like some creature in a zoo, I felt hollow. I felt bad.

He’d made himself vulnerable, literally exposing his throat to me. And I’d…taken advantage. It’s not like I’d hurt him, not beyond a dull ache—less than nothing to a man like Ben, an actual soldier. The hickey, dark as it was, would fade in a few days. But that spot on his neck wasn’t the only thing that had changed. He looked different now. He looked at me differently now.

Maybe Natalie was right. Maybe I was a beast. I didn’t really feel like a person.

Bianca must’ve sensed it. She leaned in, snapping me out of my reverie. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “It’s whatever.” I forced a smile. “It’s just a game, right?”

“Right,” she said, doing that thing where I could tell she didn’t believe me, but also didn’t want to deal with my mood. “Cool.”

“Yep.”

Folks had started reforming the circle, their conversation quieting. I chanced another quick glance at Ben, who was sort of looking at nothing, like he was chewing something over in his mind. Good. Fine. Whatever.

“Ollie, my man…your turn,” said Taylor, like he was the master of fucking ceremonies.

Suddenly, I was exhausted. I’d made a spectacle of myself. I’d traversed the circle, hoping to work through my bullshit trauma on the warm skin of Ben’s throat, all for the entertainment of these fucking bonobos. And now I had to keep playing, had to pass the torch. I squared my shoulders and nodded, buckling down and getting my head in the game. “Right.”

But who? Who should I call on?

There was only one person I wanted to talk to.

It would be better if he just left, if he got up and went the fuck home. Or to Zanzibar or Budapest or the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Somewhere I didn’t have to look at him. Because with him sitting across from me, all I wanted was to…to fucking chat. To find out what that faraway look in his eyes meant. I wanted to listen to him explain what he was thinking, what he was feeling, if he understood why I’d done what I’d done. I wanted him to apologize, or to declare war on me. I wanted something other than that stupid smooth-faced stare that was currently making my guts roil.

Technically, I could call on him. Taylor had dared me to give Ben that hickey, so calling on Ben wouldn’t be a bounce-back. Let Gracie complain about sausage fests all she wanted. I’d put on a show for them, and I deserved to call on whoever I wanted.

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