The music was pounding, the lights were low, and half the party was crowded in the living room when someone yelled, “Okay, okay! Truth or dare—next round!”
You were already a little buzzed—champagne, two shots, and maybe half a beer—but you were still steady enough to smirk when the bottle spun and landed on you.
Across the circle, Rocky raised an eyebrow at you, swirling his drink in one hand like he wasn’t secretly watching your every move.
“Alright,” your friend Mina said, grinning wide. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” you said without hesitation, tossing your hair back dramatically. The group cheered. Mistake.
Mina leaned in. “You and Rocky. That spare bedroom—just the two of you. Twenty minutes. Door closed.”
A chorus of “Oooooh!” rose around the circle. You glanced at Rocky. He didn’t even blink—just downed the rest of his drink and stood up, offering his hand.
“Ladies first,” he said, cocky as hell.
You groaned, took his hand, and let him lead you down the hall, ignoring the whistles and laughter behind you.
The door clicked shut.
The noise from the party faded, replaced by the thick silence between you and Rocky. The room was dim, empty except for the bed behind him and the tension crackling like static in the air.
He looked at you, then at the bed, then back at you—his grin slow, lazy, and dripping with trouble.
“Well,” he said, voice lower now, “this feels like the beginning of something we’re not supposed to talk about tomorrow.”
You tilted your head. “Only if something actually happens.”
That made him laugh—soft, dark. He stepped closer, and suddenly the room felt smaller. Warmer.
“You sure you can last twenty minutes in here with me?” he asked.
You raised a brow. “I’m not the one pacing like a caged animal.”
He moved in. “Because I’m trying not to do something stupid.”
You leaned back against the dresser behind you, heart kicking up a little faster. “Like what?”
His jaw tensed. “Like this.”
Then he stopped—hovering inches from your lips, breathing uneven.
“Fuck it.”
His mouth crashed into yours like it had been coming for months. The kiss was messy, desperate, all heat and tension snapping loose. His hands cupped your face, then slid to your hips, gripping you like he couldn’t stand the space between you.
You gasped against his lips, and he took it as an invitation—his tongue sweeping into your mouth, kissing you like he owned you. Like he wanted to.
He walked you backward, lips never leaving yours, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushed you down gently, climbing over you, his body pressed along yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing a slow path down your side.
“You taste like champagne," he murmured into your neck.
“And you talk too much,” you whispered, pulling him back down.
He chuckled against your mouth. “Then shut me up.”
And you did.
Again. And again.
Until a soft knock at the door jolted you both, followed by Mina’s teasing voice: “Times up, lovers.”
Rocky groaned into your neck. “Tell her to give us five more.”
You laughed, breathless, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “If we stay any longer, we’re not leaving this room with our clothes on.”
He smirked against your skin and whispered, “Then maybe we don’t need to leave at all.”