The Dare

June

There’s something about cheap tequila and half a degree of confidence that makes me think I can get away with anything.

"Okay, June, your turn." Leila waves her phone in my face. "Truth or dare?"

I lean back against the velvet bar booth, head buzzing from the last round of drinks. We’re four girls deep into celebration, lipstick smudged, heels lost, and so drunk. So so drunk.

"I pick dare," I say, because of course I do.

Leila’s eyes light up. "See that guy at the bar? The one in the dark gray suit, second stool from the end?"

I glance — and almost regret it.

Second stool from the end. Jacket undone, tie missing, shirt collar open just enough to see a sliver of chest. He’s got one hand wrapped around a tumbler of something dark, the other twitching on his knee like he’s trying to hold still. But his stillness is loud. Charged. Like a switch waiting to flip.

"Are you trying to get me killed?" I ask, my brows furrowing.

Leila snorts. “He’s hot. And definitely older. You said you wanted to be bold tonight."

"I also said I wanted to survive the night."

"It’s just a number, June. Not a marriage proposal." Kayla laughs, reapplying her lipstick.

I glance again.

His face is unreadable. Sharp jaw, cold mouth, eyes that don’t seem to be focused on anything at all. There’s something coiled in him, something fierce. Or maybe something barely held back.

Still, I can’t run away from a challenge. Especially not on a night like this, when I’ve just landed an internship at the biggest business enterprise in Las Vegas. When I feel electric and drunk and slightly untouchable.

"Fine," I agree, standing. "But if he arrests me with his eyes, you better post bail."

I walk up slowly, pretending my legs don’t feel like jelly and my stomach isn’t turning somersaults.

I slide into the seat next to him like I belong there with my chin high, eyes sparkling from the dare.

He doesn’t look at me right away. Just swirls the drink in his hand like he’s trying to hypnotize it.

"Hi," I wave, displaying my signature flirty smile.

There is silence, then, a “No.” Flat, deep and dismissive.

My lips part, half a nervous laugh caught in my throat. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."

He turns, slowly. His eyes are sharp, gray, like metal under ice. He looks at me like he’s already exhausted by my existence, which, frankly, only makes me more interested.

He groans, "You were going to ask for my number." It’s not a question. It’s a psychic read.

My pulse skips two beats, "So what if I was?"

He leans in, voice low and hot with whiskey and intent. "Ask for a night instead."

My eyes slightly widens. Not because I’m shocked. But because… I'm not.

This man is raw restraint, the kind of person who probably keeps an iron grip on everything until one thread snaps and it all unravels. And I wonder, maybe, if tonight’s that thread.

There’s no smirk. No flirtation. He means it. Every syllable feels like a dare.

I am getting excited.

I should laugh. Or walk away. But there’s something about the way he looks at me, like he’s trying not to. Like I’ve already made something in him snap.

So I say, "One night."

His brow twitches like he didn’t expect me to agree.

I lean in. “What’s your name?”

He downs the rest of his drink. "You don’t need it. Let's go." He stands up and I follow.

I wave a goodbye laced with a victory smirk subtly at the girls, noting their surprised expression at my success.

***

It's a hotel.

Not far from the bar. Clean. Modern. Two blocks away, but a whole other world.

The staff hands him the key without a word. I don’t ask why. I already guess this man doesn’t do things that haven’t been planned ten steps in advance.

We don’t speak in the elevator. His jaw ticks, and I swear he’s grinding his teeth. Like he regrets this already. Like he’s angry with me, or himself, or the world.

Maybe all three.

Inside the room, the lights stay off. Just the faint city glow coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He tosses his jacket over the chair, rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. Still not looking at me.

“Last chance to leave,” he says, his tone undetectable.

"Are you always this dramatic?"

He steps forward and I flinch, not in fear, just in anticipation.

"You’re not much of a talker, are you?" I asked, trying to break the tension. I peeled off my coat, draped it over the arm of a sleek leather chair, and turned back to face him. “Or is this your thing? Brooding silence and expensive suits?"

The corner of his mouth tugged revealing not quite a smile. "You always make jokes when you're nervous?"

"Only when the guy looks like he could ruin my life."

His eyes sweeps down, slowly. Like a touch. "Can I?"

I swallow. "I guess I'm about to find out."

His eyes locks on me like he’d already decided what he is going to do to me.

And maybe worse, like he already had.

So no warning. No buildup. One moment he was standing across from me, the next, he was in front of me — heat rolling off his body, one hand gripping the side of my throat, his cold thumb tilting my chin up.

Not choking as I except, more like claiming.

"Don't regret this," he murmurs on my mouth. "You have no idea who I am."

"That’s the point,” I whisper, shutting my eyes, as I wait for a kiss, but he didn’t kiss me.

Instead, he pushes me backward until I hit the wall. The impact is soft, but my breath catches anyway. His hands goes to my waist, firm and possessive, tugging me close until our hips are flush. I feel the hard line of him — already thick and straining beneath his trousers, pressed against my abdomen.

I inhale sharply. "You're—"

"Don't say it," he growls, and for the first time, I feel something cracked in him. Not his mask, something deeper. Restraint.

He grabs the hem of my dress and yanks it up, bunching it around my hips. One hand slide between my thighs, cupping me over my panties — already fucking damp. Already unapologetically desperate.

"You’re soaking wet" he mutters, his voice dark with something between approval and disbelief.

"Maybe I like the suspense," I breath, biting my lips.

He doesn't laugh. But he smiles, sharp and amused, before dragging my panties down and off in one rough pull.

He dropped to his knees. No teasing or romancing.

His tongue found me like he’d been craving it for days. Long, deep strokes that had me gasping and grabbing at his hair, my thighs shaking from the sheer force of it. He effortlessly wrapped one arm around my hip to keep me from falling and used the other to press two fingers inside me, slow at first, then hard, curling until my back hit the wall.

I came embarrassingly fast. Too fast. His name wasn’t even in my mouth. I had nothing to moan but a broken, breathless "God."

He stood as I came down from it, still fully dressed, towering over me like I was something he meant to devour.

"Take your dress off," he says, and I read it as a sexy order.

I quickly did.

My pink dress slid off my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I stood in just my bra, breathing hard, bare from the waist down, and suddenly shy. That wasn’t like me. I wasn’t a shy girl. I didn’t do shy. Maybe it was because it was my first official time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no virgin, at least biologically. That, I took care of a long time. Myself. But this was going to be my first with someone and, God, I am in the 7th heaven.

He undid his belt slowly. Intentionally. Pulls his cock free and stroked it once, it is thick, hard, flushed dark with need.

My mouth go dry. My pussy. More damp. Sticky wet.

"Still want to find out if I’ll ruin your life?" he asks.

"Only if you do it properly," I say, already reaching for him. He doesn't let me.

He spin me around, bending me over the bed.

No words. He gripped my hips, lined himself up, and pushed in with one, brutal thrust.

I cry out, in pain, in shock, in full pleasure. The fullness. The pressure. The way he held nothing back.

He curses under his breath, barely audible. "You're tight."

I couldn’t help it. I grinned, panting. "Maybe you’re just huge."

That got a real laugh from him. Low. Surprised. Almost boyish, then he growled — actually growled — and bottomed out inside me.

"Say it again," he rasped against my neck.

"You’re huge."

"Say my name." Came another full slam.

"I...don’t know...it." I moan loudly and unintentional.

He stilled, breathing harsh, forehead against the back of my shoulder. "Exactly."

He thrusts again. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t slow. It was filthy and perfect and everything I hadn’t known I needed. The way he fucking fucked me, hard, deep, possessive, like I was the only thing in the world keeping him alive. His hands gripped my hips tight enough to bruise, his body slamming into mine with primitive, desperate force.

And still — he never kissed me.

He didn’t even try.

Even when I turned my head to look at him, to maybe see him, he dragged my face back down and pressed it to the mattress.

"Don’t," he murmured. "Just feel."

So I did.

I came again with a sharp gasp, my fingers fisting the sheets, my whole body going taut and then liquid. He followed seconds later, pulsing inside me with a deep, low groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul.

He collapsed beside me, one arm flung over his eyes.

I laid there in silence. My chest heaving. My heart racing. My mind going blank.

And still… no kiss.

When I woke, he was gone.

The sheets were cool. The bathroom door was open. His scent still lingered on the pillow beside mine, clean, masculine, expensive.

My panties were folded on the nightstand.

Beside them was a note, written in sharp, elegant handwriting.

Thank you for tonight. Don’t look for me.

— H.

No number. No name. Just an initial.

I held the note between my fingers for a long time, feeling my heart doing something weird and fluttery in my chest.

I didn’t know who he was.

Didn’t know what he did.

Didn’t know why he refused to kiss me.

But I knew one thing for sure. I was going to have a hard time trying to forget him.