Page 143 of Game Night: Truth or Dare

I frown and look up at him. “I don’t remember.”

“I’ve gathered.” He tries to laugh, but it sounds strained. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“You’re gay.” My eyes widen, and his phone lands in my lap with a soft thump as I throw my hands up. “Shit, I gotta stop doing that.”

“What? Assuming that I like men because I macked on you and felt you up? Sounds like a solid assumption.”

“We kissed. You had your first kiss with me, and I don’t remember it.”

I’ve had a few drunken, sloppy kisses with guys at parties before, but they’ve always been jokes. I never needed to remember anything about them. But TK isn’t a joke. Teddy Kingsley is one of my best friends.

“Dash.” TK leans forward into my space, resting a hand on the side of my neck as our thighs press together. “We were drunk. It was just a kiss.”

Then why is my body on fire? Why do his fingertips feel like matches on my skin? Why do I like the little reminders of his lips on my neck?

“You remember.”

He smiles, his thumb trailing over my cheek like a brand. “I do.”

“How bad was it?”

TK throws his head back as a laugh bursts out of him. Loud and cracked and it’s impossible to keep from smiling back.

“It was so far from bad, Dash.” He slides his hand down my chest, all gentle, loose fingertips before dropping it to the bed. “The first one was an accident. You wanted a do-over. Said I deserved a proper first kiss. Rambled on about it for a solid five minutes.”

My cheeks feel like an inferno has ignited under my skin. His fingers find my thigh and squeeze.

“I kissed you. You kissed me back. We took those pictures… and we fell asleep. That’s it. That’s all that happened.”

I pick up the phone—still on the screen of our kiss—and can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more important hiding in what I can’t remember. Opening up the camera roll, I scroll through every picture taken—and god there are a lot—until I come across something else. A video.

It’s only thirty seconds long, and the phone must have been buried under the covers because there’s no good visual. But there are voices.

“Dash,” TK moans, pants a couple heavy breaths. “Dash. Dash. Yes. Please.”

I know what two people making out sounds like: wet smack of lips and swapping spit.

When the video stops and I look up at TK, his eyes are wet and downcast.

“Nothing happened,” he says softly. “It was just a kiss.”

Except it wasn’t.

“Let me kiss you again.”

He looks up, blinking through the wetness and forging a disbelieving smile. “It’s fine, Dash.”

“It’s not.” It’s my turn to smile—to be reassuring. I card my hand through his hair, cupping the back of his neck. “Maybe I want to remember. It sounded like one hell of a kiss.”

He shakes his head, and I don’t know why my gut is screaming that it’s a cardinal sin not remembering what this man tastes like, but it needs to be remedied now. Right this second.

Because if I see Teddy cry, I’ll have to kick my own ass.

I press my forehead to his, the way we do after a tough game when we need to just be with someone. We breathe. His blue eyes fall closed. He tips his face up.

TK’s lips meet mine, and the ache inside my chest erupts into an uncontainable desire.

Kissing TK feels like finding the lucky jersey that’s been lost at the bottom of my closet since last season. Like that first gulp of water after an hour of catching balls kicked by overly aggressive teenagers.

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