The Dare Page 11

  She looks calm, cool, and collected, the quintessential bland socialite good girl. But she’s nothing of the sort. She’s reckless, wild, and clumsy, prone to outbursts of coarse language and brutal honesty. Surprisingly, I prefer her just the way she is. Her unexpectedness is refreshingly attractive.

  In fact, it’s hard not to just jump out of the car, snatch her up in my arms, and haul her upstairs for some wild and crazy, tear the clothes and damn the consequences rompery . . . because I think she’d be amenable to that. Instead, I do the responsible thing and park, getting out and going around to open the door for her.

  “Good evening,” I greet her, taking a moment to let my eyes wander over the long length of leg she shows getting in. She flashes me thigh-high stockings with no garters, my favorite, and in my trousers, I feel another twinge. I’m second guessing my decision to hold off on wanking one out.

  Getting through dinner is going to be difficult.

  “Hi,” Elle says, buckling in as I get back in the driver’s seat.

  Silence descends, and I put the car into first and hit the road. The growl of the engine fills the space between us. It almost seems as if she wants me to be quiet so she can enjoy the motor running as we take off and gather speed.

  “Did you get the figures crunched for the potential sites?” Elle asks, though her eyes are roving along the dash hungrily. I want her to look at me the way she’s appreciating my car.

  “No work tonight, Elle.” Her eyes jump to me, and it’s my turn to focus elsewhere, keeping my eyes on the road and the small amount of traffic. “I dare you . . . to not let work interfere with our fun tonight. Let’s let it be just you and me.”

  “You’re really getting into this dare thing, aren’t you?” she challenges.

  I tilt my head thoughtfully. “It seems to be the impetus for you to have fun, so I’m simply following suit.”

  She laughs, loud guffaws bursting from her. She points a finger my way, “First, stop talking like that. Repeat after me . . . YOLO.”

  I mime her exuberance, sounding out the word. “Yoe-loe.” The road clears in front of me, and I glance over to see her watching me closely, a wide smile on her face. “What’s that mean?” I ask.

  “You Only Live Once. It’s basically my motto. Live big, live loud, and with no regrets. Or at least if you have regrets, make it for things you’ve done, not for things you didn’t have the balls to do.”

  I consider that. It’s actually quite profound for what, on the surface, could amount to choices that might be mistaken as immature and unthoughtful. But she’s not. She’s just willing to be bold and daring. She’s actually living, not just existing as so many people do.

  “I like it,” I decide. “YOLO!” I yell out, feeling a bit ridiculous, but perhaps that’s the point. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  She laughs along, yelling out with me, both of us wild and free as we repeat the motto several times, trying to outdo the other’s volume.

  “Where are we going?” she asks after we settle comfortably.

  I spontaneously decide not to tell her even though we have reservations for eight thirty. “It’s a surprise.”

  She clasps her hands, her eyes bright in the dim glow from the dashboard lights. “Yes! I love surprises.”

  I’m not the least bit surprised that this woman loves a good surprise.

  We soon reach the restaurant, one of the best Japanese restaurants in the state. Yamashiro might not be the most famous nightspot, but what it does have is small, intimate tables and a delicious menu. Both are essential for what I want tonight.

  After ordering our appetizers, I pour Elle some wine. “Japanese custom. You never pour your own drink unless alone.”

  “Then how do you get refills?” Elle asks, smiling as she pours my drink in return. “Ask?”

  “That’d defeat the purpose!” I tease. “No, you’re supposed to keep an eye on your partner’s glass and refill it for them when it’s empty. Builds camaraderie, you know.”

  “Sounds like a good way to get the other person hammered.”

  I chuckle, nodding. “You’re on to my evil plan,” I deadpan, pleased when she smiles. “So, is this your first time here?”

  “Yeah . . . so be warned, I’m going to want to try everything.”

  She means the food, but my brain hears something much dirtier, though both ideas grab my attention. I find her openness inspiring, her lack of a rut refreshing.

  I sip my sake, simply looking at her, and she stares back shamelessly. She gives in first, though it’s with a tough question. “I feel like I’m at a major disadvantage here. You basically know all about me, and I know nothing about you other than that you have a sister named Lizzie who’s important to you because you keep her picture on your desk. Tell me . . . things.”

  “What do you want to know?” I stall.

  She’s not fooled in the slightest. “Tell me three things, two truths and one lie, and I’ll see if I can guess the lie.”

  “A game?” I shouldn’t be taken aback, but I find that she surprises me at every turn. I think for a moment, blinking as I search through the file cabinets of my past in my mind. “I have a sister and a brother, but the most important person in my life is my Nan. I am not wondering what type of knickers you have on under that dress, or if there is a God listening to my prayers, perhaps there are none at all. I am the black sheep of my family, near banished to America.”

  Elle’s eyes narrow, and she takes a large gulp of sake before sputtering slightly. “I don’t think you quite get the gist of this game.”

  “No?” I ask. “Two truths, one lie.”

  “Well, yes. But that’s rather deep. I meant like, my panties are red, my favorite band is Smashing Pumpkins, and my last boyfriend had a thing for toes. Silly stuff like that.”

  I hum, filing the information away. The red panties I might be able to confirm or deny, but it’s more fodder for my fantasy again. Her favorite band is interesting but not ground-breaking information. And I prefer to not think about her past lovers lest my jealousy get a bitter hold on my mood.

  “I think I prefer my way. I want to know more about you than superficial things, Elle.” She blinks, looking confused as if no one has ever actually taken the time to know the Elle beneath the silly antics. “And I think you’d rather know the real me than know that I prefer boxer briefs, black, Calvin Klein.”

  She smirks slightly, and I know she’s imagining me in nothing but my Calvins.

  But she acquiesces. “Are you really the black sheep? Are you not close to your family?”

  “We’re . . . well, an ocean apart,” I reply with a very false feeling smile. “Of course, I ring home when I can, and my sister visits as frequently as she can. I think you’d like her. Lizzie’s a bit of a handful.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Fourteen now. I know, I know, that’s a big age gap. After me, my parents decided that two boys were enough until one Christmas party, a bit too much schnapps, a bit too much fun, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  Elle nods, chuckling. “Sorry. I’m going to be laughing at some of your sayings for awhile, I guess. Do I sound that silly to you?”

  “Not really,” I reassure her. “Growing up, we watched so many American shows on the telly, and of course, most of the films in the cinema were Hollywood productions. Even on the BBC. Meanwhile you’ve had to make do with the occasional side character and Masterpiece Theatre.”

  Elle laughs, relaxing even more, and we cross the line from two foreigners to just two people learning about each other. Our appetizers arrive, and Elle lets me feed her a piece of tuna sashimi with my chopsticks, her pink lips wrapping around the succulent fish that’s almost the exact same color and making my mouth go dry.

  I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be a fish before, but right now, I wish my name were Charlie the Tuna, Chicken of the Sea, because I’m jealous as hell of the bite she just took.

  “Mmm . . . Sophie’s going to be so mad a
t me if she finds out,” Elle says as she chews her bite thoughtfully. “She’s my cat, and she’s the real owner of my apartment. She’s laid claim to everything, whether by claw or hairball.”

  “Sounds a lot like Mr. Scruggles,” I tell her, thinking of my family’s old cat. “He’s at least twelve years old by now and fancies himself the right lord of the manor. Woe to those who dare to deny Mr. Scruggles anything he wishes. In fact, the only one of us who can control that Siamese terror is Lizzie.”

  Elle tilts her head, smiling. “You really love your little sister, don’t you?”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  Elle nods. “What about your brother?”

  A sour mood washes through me. “What’s the word you used today? About Tom?” I rack my brain for a moment, searching for the odd term. “Douche canoe. That’s it. My brother’s a douche canoe. We’re not close.”

  She laughs but hears the request to drop it. “What about you?”

  “Just me and my dad,” she answers automatically, though I see her slight freeze when talking about him. She has fierce loyalty to him, something I can appreciate.

  Which is the problem. As Elle tells me about the way she grew up, with Daniel first mourning his shattered marriage before committing himself to the twin goals of becoming the world’s best father as well as a powerful executive, I’m torn.

  The man’s had a lot of shite rained down on his head by the world. But the whole time, he’s been an outstanding father when far too many others would have lost themselves in the nearest pint or even blamed their child.

  Daniel didn’t. Which just makes it harder in my mind to know that I’m using Elle to my advantage, to knock him off balance. I’d rather him be some over-the-top villainous type, allowing me to cast myself the hero in this battle. But perhaps we’re both heroes in our rights? Or does the current situation, with Elle my assistant and my date, make me the villain?

  Shit, that thought stings sharply.

  “Colton?” Elle asks, making me shake my head. “You looked lost there for a sec.”

  “Sorry, this stuff is hot,” I lie. “Maybe too much wasabi on the sushi.”

  We finish up dinner, and the whole time I want to pull her close and taste the last whispers of ginger ice cream off her lips. It’s not until the valet closes the door that I lay a hand on her thigh. Even through the fabric of her dress and her stockings, it feels taboo in a way I can’t place. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.” The words are mere breaths, her eyes locked on my fingers.

  “I’m a little torn,” I admit. “Half of me wants to pull you into my arms and give you a good snogging. The other half of me wants to be more gentlemanly and take you home. And there’s a third half who feels like a shite bloke for basically tricking you into coming out with me tonight.”

  Elle blushes and leans in. “You are a gentleman. I’m not quite sure what snogging is . . . but it sounds like I wouldn’t mind it. And you really suck at math, which worries the fuck out of me, considering your job.”

  I lean into her, cupping the back of her head. I move slowly toward her, giving her ample time and space to stop me, but she leans in too. I have hint of a thought that the air between us is superheated, and then our lips touch, electricity crackling from her mouth to mine.

  Her lips part as I tease along the seam with my tongue, demanding entrance, and she moans as I deepen the kiss. I explore her mouth while my hand kneads her thigh, both of us clamoring to get closer to the other.

  I’m on the verge of pulling her into my lap and fucking her right here in my car . . .

  HONK! Honk, honk, honk!

  Startled, we break apart and I become aware that we’re still sitting in front of Yamashiro. The valet holds up a finger, not his middle, unfortunately, telling the honking patron behind us to wait a moment. I roll the window down and give him an extra tip.

  “Sorry about that. Got a bit carried away.”

  “No worries, dude. I’d get carried away by her any chance I could too.” He grins like we’re friends but has smarts enough to not lay so much as a glance at Elle, who’s giggling and fixing her lipstick in the mirror.

  I pull out of the drive of Yamashiro, not sure where I’m going next.

  Home. Take her home and fuck her senseless, my cock chants.

  My home, her home, it matters not, as long as there’s a flat surface.

  Can’t wait that long, just pull over somewhere dark.

  I wish I could say that my brain prevailed, but it’s Elle who interrupts my body’s woeful decision-making process.

  “My turn now. You dared me for dinner, so I dare you . . .”

  I chuckle. “No. That’s not how this works. I do the daring.”

  Her glare is fiery and fierce again. I hate pissing her off, but fuck, is she stunning with that flush on her cheeks and the glint of defiance in her eyes. “It is how it works. You asked me to help you have fun, and this is how I do it. So I dare you . . .” She stalls for a moment, her fingertip tapping her lip in thought. “Let’s play putt-putt!”

  “What’s a putt-putt?”

  She’s making that up, right? It’s got to be the most nonsensical word, ever. “Putt-putt,” I say, sounding it out again. It sounds like something a toddler would say on repeat while playing with a truck . . . putt-putt-putt-putt.

  “It’s like golf, but miniature, which makes it more fun.” She nods as if her statement actually makes it so or makes any sense whatsoever.

  “Small does not equal fun,” I challenge.

  Brazenly, she drops her gaze to my crotch where my dick stands up and tries to wave around like he’s calling out, Large and In Charge, Ma’am!

  “Noted. That’s definitely true in some cases, but not all. Think like doll houses are fun, tiny foods are cute, and mini golf is going to change your life. Trust me, Colton.”

  Oddly, I do.

  Which is how I find myself holding a cheap metal club and playing what I suspect is largely a child’s game an hour later.

  Neither of us is particularly good, and given the odd looks we’re getting, we are majorly overdressed for this activity, but it is fun. We figure out how hard, or rather how gently, to hit the balls by the second hole, but my ball gets trapped in a whale’s belly on the fourth. We have to answer a riddle to gain exit, but that only takes a couple of tries. The fifth, sixth, and seventh hole, I stand behind Elle under the guise of helping her line up her shot. I can say that my aim isn’t much better than hers, but my cock enjoys nestling against her ass.

  It should feel wrong. It feels right.

  It should feel fast. It feels impossibly slow.

  “On the ninth and last hole, Colton Wolfe has the point advantage. This could be make-it or break-it for the English upstart.”

  Elle’s voice is thrown low and dramatic, mimicking a sportscaster as I prepare for my winning shot. I spread my feet wide, adjusting my grip on the tiny club and looking left to aim before settling my eyes on the neon yellow ball in front of me.

  My competitive nature is taking over, and I want to win, especially with the score this close. But there’s something else I want to win even more than bragging rights.

  I relax and instead lean casually on the club. “So, what do I get if I win?”

  Elle’s lips purse as though she’s fighting a smile. “Ooh, you’re learning. Are we wagering here?”

  “I dare you . . . if I win, you come home with me. If you win, I go home with you.”

  It’s a bold move, but I didn’t get to the position I’m in by making small steps. I think Elle, of all people, will appreciate the go-big or go-home American-style gamble.

  She sucks in a breath, her breasts rising deliciously as they beg for my kisses, nibbles, and tongue.

  “That’s against the rules. Seriously, there are rules.”

  My brows drop down. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this? There are rules to this dare game you enjoy?” I make it apparent that I think she’s
making things up on the fly, but she shakes her head.

  “Tiffany and I have been doing this for a long time, and we’ve learned a few things, some the hard way. Rule one, nothing that’ll hurt someone, ourselves included. Rule two, no sex. Rule three, nothing illegal.” She pauses so that her words sink in. “Your dare violates rule two.”

  I hold up a finger. “Counter. The rules you have for your game with Tiffany do not have to be the rules for our game. They can be different, as long as we agree to them.”

  To neither of our surprise, she opens her mouth to argue. It’s like it’s a habit with her. But I hold up a staying hand.

  “Also, I find it interesting that I merely dared for you to come home with me, or vice versa. You’re the one who mentioned sex. What if I’d wanted you to organize my closet?”

  It’s a deadpan joke again, and I wonder if she’ll respond favorably because it feels like another bold move to make in the midst of her setting boundaries.

  “Do you want me to organize your closet?” she retorts, crossing her arms. I think she’s aiming for a stern look, but it only serves to press her tits up.

  I chuckle. “Of course not. I have people for that.” She throws her hands in the air, frustrated, but she’s smiling, enjoying our banter. I am too. More seriously, I say, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, Elle. I’m daring you to listen to your heart, listen to your body, and okay, maybe your mind a little bit, because I don’t want you to regret anything. I dare you . . . to do what you want with me.”

  Fuck, that gleam in her eye is sexy as sin and I know I’m in trouble. I may have met my match with this woman, and I couldn’t be more pleased about it.

  “Dare accepted. Though how do you know I don’t want you to come home and scrub my toilet?”

  I press a hand to my heart and screw up my face in disgust. “If that’s what you want with me, I guess I’ll have to do it. But we both know you’ll be staring at my ass the whole time.”

  She growls but laughs. “Shoot your shot, Wolfe.”