The party had been loud, the air thick with booze and dares that went too far. When someone smirked and said, "I dare you two to share a room tonight," neither of you could back down.

Now, you were alone. The dim motel light cast soft shadows across the room. He leaned against the door, silver hair messy, a lazy smirk on his lips. His cheeks were flushed, his stance a little unsteady—tipsy, maybe more.

"You keep looking at my lips," he slurred, voice low.

You scoffed. "No, I don’t."

He chuckled, stepping closer, warmth radiating from him. "Liar."

Before you could respond, his hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. "If you want me to stop, tell me now."

You didn’t.

His lips met yours, slow and teasing before turning hungry. His grip on your waist tightened as you tangled your fingers in his hair. The taste of alcohol mixed with something undeniably him—warm, intoxicating in its own way.

Between breathless kisses, you started peppering his face with playful ones, giggling as red lip marks covered his flushed skin. He blinked, dazed, licking his lips.

"That’s not fair," he murmured, voice thick.

"You make a good canvas," you teased.

A noise from the hallway made you gasp. "Did you hear that?"

He smirked, eyes heavy-lidded. "Yeah. And I don’t care."

Before you could protest, he pulled you onto his lap, his lips brushing against yours again.

"My turn," he mumbled, kissing you deeper, daring you to stop.