The Dare

Everyone at the party knew it was a bad idea. That’s probably why it happened.

The music was pulsing, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and bad decisions. Somewhere between the third shot of tequila and the fourth round of “Truth or Dare,” someone said his name.

"Ezra."

Even the sound of it made my blood boil.

He was lounging against the couch like a king, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, beer in hand, eyes narrowed. Those eyes were sharp, wicked—like he knew he lived rent-free in my most annoyed, unfortunately also aroused, thoughts.

I hated him.

I hated his stupid perfect jawline, his obnoxiously broad shoulders, and the way he always had something to say about everything I did in class. Ezra Cross was the kind of guy who never let you forget he was smarter, hotter, and way too aware of it.

So when the circle turned to me and someone—probably Mia, that traitor—grinned and said, “I dare you to sit on Ezra’s lap for ten minutes,” I knew two things:

One, I was not going to back down.

Two, I was going to regret it.

"Fine," I said, tossing my empty cup aside. "Clock me."

Ezra smirked, cocky and smug. "Try not to fall in love."

I stepped over a few legs and dropped into his lap with all the grace of a girl pretending she wasn’t a walking ball of tension. His thighs were warm and firm under me, and I immediately hated the way my body reacted—an involuntary shift of my hips, a flutter deep in my belly.

"Ten minutes," I said, avoiding his gaze.

His voice brushed against my ear, low and teasing. "I can make ten minutes feel like ten hours, Sinclair."

I turned sharply to face him. "Don't flatter yourself."

But he was already looking at me like he knew every thought in my head. Like he could smell the heat under my skin. He adjusted slightly beneath me and I felt it—him—just enough to suck the air from my lungs.

"I don’t need to flatter myself," he murmured. "Your body’s already doing that for me."

I should’ve slapped him.

I should’ve stood up.

Instead, I stayed.

The game continued around us—laughter, shots, dares—but it all blurred as the space between us thinned. His hand rested low on my waist, not moving, just… claiming. My arms crossed over my chest like armor, but it didn’t matter. He was winning this stupid dare just by being calm. Unbothered. That pissed me off more than anything.

"You think you're so irresistible," I hissed under my breath.

He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “Not irresistible. Just impossible to forget.”

I turned to snap at him—and that was my mistake.

Because our faces were too close. Our breaths tangled. And in that moment, with his hand tightening ever so slightly on my hip, I realized the worst thing of all:

I wanted to kiss him.

My eyes dropped to his lips for half a second too long. He caught it. Of course he did.

"Ten minutes is up!" someone yelled.

I jumped up like I’d been burned. My skin was on fire, my head spinning.

Ezra stood too, towering over me. His voice was low, amused. "Careful, Sinclair. You keep looking at me like that, I’ll think you actually like me."

I glared, heart pounding. "Don’t flatter yourself."

"Too late."

And just like that, he walked away—leaving me breathless, furious… and so wet I wanted to scream.

It should’ve ended at the party.

I should’ve gone home. Taken a shower. Cursed him out in my head and buried the heat between my legs beneath five layers of denial.

But here I was.

Pressed against the wall of his off-campus apartment, his mouth on mine like we were starving.

It happened fast. Too fast. I don’t even remember how we got here—just the way he looked at me after the dare, that infuriating smirk, the way I followed him outside like I didn’t have a single thought left in my brain.

Now? I wasn’t thinking at all.

“Say it,” he growled against my throat.

“Say what?” I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair.

“That you want me.”

I bit back a moan, dragged my teeth along his jaw instead. “I hate you.”

He grabbed my thighs, lifted me effortlessly, and slammed me against the wall.

“Good,” he said. “Hate me while I make you come.”

His words hit me harder than his body did.

I wrapped my legs around him, clutching his shoulders as his mouth found the skin beneath my collarbone—biting, licking, sucking like he needed to leave his mark. His hands roamed with purpose, sliding under my shirt, tracing the curve of my waist like he’d memorized it already.

“You talk too much,” I whispered, breathless.

“You moan louder,” he shot back, grinning against my chest.

Cocky bastard.

He dropped me onto the bed, ripped his shirt off in one smooth motion, and stood there—bare, hard, looking at me like I was prey. I should’ve felt embarrassed, nervous, something—but all I felt was wet.

My clothes disappeared piece by piece under his hands. When his fingers brushed between my thighs, I jolted.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

I bit my lip, chest rising fast. “Do something about it.”

He did.

His mouth was on me before I could catch my breath, tongue moving like he had something to prove. My hips arched off the bed, thighs shaking, hands clenching the sheets. I moaned his name—Ezra—and he looked up at me like he owned it now.

Then he kissed his way back up, grabbed a condom from the nightstand, and paused just long enough to lock eyes with me.

“This changes nothing,” I breathed.

“Then why do you look at me like it does?”

I didn’t have time to answer.

Because he slid into me—and I forgot everything else.

Every insult. Every fight. Every reason I swore I hated him.

All I knew was this: he filled me like he belonged there.

I gasped, digging my nails into his back. He moved slow at first, like he wanted to feel every inch, like he wanted me to feel it. Then he picked up the pace—harder, deeper, rougher, until I was crying out, my moans bouncing off the walls of his bedroom.

“Still hate me?” he panted.

“Yes,” I whispered. “So much.”

But I didn’t mean it.

Because I came undone around him with his name on my tongue, and when he followed—face buried in my neck, body trembling—I held him like I never wanted him to leave.

Afterward, the silence was loud.

He pulled out slowly, rolled onto his back, arm thrown over his eyes. I lay beside him, heart still racing, skin burning.

I should’ve said something. Should’ve laughed, made a joke, put space between us.

Instead, I just whispered the truth.

“…I’m screwed.”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers reached for mine in the dark.