Truth or Dare

The bottle spun, glinting under the dim living room lights. Ophelia's heart hammered as it slowed, the neck wobbling before pointing directly at Killian.

He raised an eyebrow, settling deeper into the leather armchair. The bourbon in his glass caught the amber glow, and the sleeves of his dark shirt were rolled to his elbows, revealing the black ink snaking up his forearms. Forty-two years sat well on him. Too well.

"Truth or dare....?" she asked, the nickname slipping out like a dare itself.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes swept over her....her bare legs tucked beneath her on the rug, the thin strap of her nightdress sliding down one shoulder, the way her chest rose and fell too quickly. He saw everything. He always saw everything.

"Dare."

The word hit her like a spark to dry timber. Her thighs pressed together beneath the fabric of her dress.

She'd lost her mind the moment she stepped through his front door today. Every glance he'd thrown her way across the dinner table had peeled another layer of restraint away. His voice, gravel and smoke, had wrapped around her spine when he'd asked if she wanted another drink. The way his thumb had traced the rim of his glass slow, deliberate, knowing exactly what that motion did to her.

She was twenty-one. She was her best friend's daughter. She was sitting in his living room while her friend was away, and none of that mattered.

Her mind wasn't her own anymore. Every rational thought had drowned in the way his eyes followed her, dark and patient, like a man who had already decided exactly what he wanted and was simply waiting for her to catch up.

"I dare you," she said, her voice dropping lower than she intended, "to show me what those hands can do. No limits."

The fire crackled. A log settled, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney.

Killian set his glass aside with a soft click. The sound was deliberate, final. He rose from his chair slowly, unfolding his tall frame with a grace that shouldn't have belonged to a man his size. The floorboards groaned under his weight as he crossed to her.

He didn't stop at arm's length. He stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that the heat of his body radiated through the thin cotton of her dress. Close enough that she caught the scent of him whiskey, cedar, something sharp and masculine that made her mouth water.

Then he lowered himself to his knees in front of her.

Her breath caught. Her chest ached with how hard her heart was pounding.

"Is this what you had in mind?" His voice was a low rasp, barely above a whisper. His right hand lifted, knuckles brushing the inside of her bare thigh, tracing a path from her knee upward. The touch was featherlight, a ghost of contact, but it sent electricity racing through her veins.

A soft whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it.

"No," she breathed. "I meant.....more."

His mouth curved, slow and wicked. "I know what you meant, sweetheart."

His fingers slid higher, pushing the hem of her dress up her thigh. The cool air hit her heated skin, a sharp contrast to the burning trail his hand left behind. His palm settled on her bare hip, rough and warm, and he didn't squeeze. He just rested there, a claim waiting to happen.

"Your one word I'll stop...," he murmured, leaning in until his lips were a whisper from her ear. "Back to pretending this never happened."

Her throat tightened. Every shred of sense she had left screamed at her to say it. To stop this before it went too far.

But she had stopped listening to sense the moment she walked through his door.

"What if I don't want to pretend?" she asked, her voice trembling.

His breath hitched. His hand tightened on her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

"Then I won't either."

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. His gaze was dark, molten, burning with something that made her stomach flip. His thumb traced the waistband of her panties, hooking beneath the lace.

"Look at me," he said. Not a request. A command.

She obeyed. Her eyes locked onto his, drowning in the firelight reflected in his irises.

"You sure you can handle what a man of my age does to a girl like you?"

I not believe in vanilla...

She should have felt offended. She should have corrected him, reminded him she wasn't a girl.

Instead, heat pooled low in her belly, slick and aching. Because when he said it like that a man my age all she felt was the weight of everything forbidden. Everything wrong. Everything that made her thighs clench and her breath come short.

"I'm your daughter's best friend," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I know exactly what you are. I want it anyway."

His eyes flared. His control cracked.

His mouth crashed against hers.

The kiss was brutal and hungry, years of restraint pouring into the way his lips slanted over hers. His tongue slid against hers, tasting of bourbon and sin, and her hands flew up to grip his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer. He groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her chest.

His hand slid from her hip to her ass, gripping hard, pulling her forward until she was straddling his thigh. The rough denim of his jeans pressed against her soaked core, and she moaned into his mouth as he ground her against him, slow and deliberate.

His other hand came up to grip her jaw, tilting her head back, forcing her to take the kiss deeper. He bit her lower lip, tugged, then soothed it with a stroke of his tongue.

"You taste like trouble," he growled against her mouth.

"You love trouble."

"Yes," he said.

The word hung between them, raw and unexpected. He didn't let her process it. His hand moved from her jaw down her throat, tracing the column of her neck, the dip of her collarbone, stopping at the swell of her breast. His thumb brushed over her nipple, already hard beneath the thin cotton, and she gasped.

"Lie down."

She obeyed without hesitation, lowering herself onto the rug. The wool was rough against her bare shoulders, but she barely felt it. All she felt was the weight of him as he followed her down, bracing himself on one elbow, his body covering hers.

He looked down at her, and the expression on his face was no longer playful. It was dark, hungry, almost reverent.

"I've been watching you all night," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Every time you crossed your legs. Every time you bit your lip. Every time you looked at me like I was something you wanted to ruin."

"I do want to ruin you," she whispered.

"I know." He smiled, slow and devastating. "Let's see who ruins who first."

His hand slid down her stomach, past her navel, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her panties. He didn't rush. He traced the line of her hipbone, the soft skin of her lower belly, the damp curls at the apex of her thighs.

Ophelia's hips bucked involuntarily, seeking his touch. A desperate sound escaped her throat.

"Please."

"Please, what?"

"Please touch me. Killian, please."

The sound of her voice saying his name pleading, broken, wanting seemed to undo something in him. His control snapped.

His fingers parted her folds and slid inside her in one slick, deliberate thrust.

Her back arched off the rug. A cry tore from her throat, sharp and breathless, swallowed by the crackling fire and the silence of the empty house. His thumb found her clit, circling lazily, while his fingers curled, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids.

"Fuck," she gasped.

"Yeah." His voice was thick, strained, his forehead dropping to press against hers.

"That's the idea."

He fucked her with his hand, slow and deep, watching every twist of her face with predatory satisfaction. His thumb pressed harder, faster, until she was writhing against him, her hands fisting in his shirt, her nails scraping the fabric.

"You're going to cum for me, aren't you?"

"Yes....god, yes......"

"Say my name."

"Killian...."

"Again."

"Killian...."

He drove her over the edge with a final, merciless circle of his thumb. Ophelia shattered, crying out his name as waves of pleasure tore through her, her body clenching around his fingers, her vision going white. She didn't stop trembling. She couldn't.

He didn't stop either. He worked her through it, drawing out every last shudder, until she collapsed boneless against the rug, panting, her skin slick with sweat.

He pulled his hand free, slow, and brought his fingers to his mouth. He sucked them clean, eyes locked on hers. The sight of it his tongue curling around his fingers, wet with her, tasting her sent a fresh wave of heat through her spent body.

"That's just the beginning," he said, his voice rough, almost reverent.

Ophelia reached up, grabbed his collar, and pulled him down. Her lips brushed against his, tasting herself on his tongue.

"I dare you to prove it."

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