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Soren mumbles something about Mickey having no taste before reaching for the last two shots, downing one. “I’ve had worse,” he smirks. “But I’ve also had my tongue coated in wetness that tasted a lot better.” My cheeks feel like they’re aflame, which makes them both laugh.
Thankfully, Mickey takes pity on me and asks, “Another round?” His voice is a smooth caress against my buzzing senses. His silver eyes catch the dim light as he signals for the bartender, who nods.
“Make it two. No, three. Gail can’t keep sitting out,” Soren interjects, his gruffness a stark contrast to Mickey’s silken tones. He slouches in his seat, every inch the brooding alpha, but there’s a flicker of amusement dancing in his green gaze.
I take the last shot, throwing it back with gusto. “Trying to get me drunk?” I tease.
“Sweetheart, you’re already three sheets to the wind,” Mickey chuckles, leaning closer, close enough for me to catch the scent of his aftershave—something woodsy and intoxicating.
“Maybe I am,” I admit, my words still slightly slurred. “But it takes more than alcohol to make me lose control.”
“Is that a challenge?” Soren rumbles, edging his chair nearer until our knees knock together. The contact sends a jolt straight through me, setting every nerve ending alight.
“Could be,” I reply, biting my lip, aware of the heat pooling low in my belly. “Depends on the game.”
What the hell am I saying? I can’t be flirting. Just because they both look at me like I’m a snack they have a hankering for doesn’t mean I can let loose.
“Let’s play ‘Truth or Dare’ then,” Mickey suggests, his gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back up to meet my eyes. “No lies, no backing down.”
“Sounds… dangerous.” But I’m intrigued, and really liking their attention.
“Only if you want it to be,” Soren says, and there’s an edge to his words, a hint of a dark promise that excites me.
“Truth,” I say, because I’m not nearly brave enough to choose dare, not with these two looking at me like I’m the last piece of meat on the savannah. I really wish my brain would stop making me food in these weird metaphors I keep coming up with.
“Ever thought about being with two men at the same time?” Mickey’s question is direct, unapologetic, and it hits me like a freight train.
My cheeks flush, but I hold his gaze. “No,” I confess. It’s true—I’ve never fantasized about it, but the way they look at me makes me think I should have considered it. Especially if the men were Mickey and Soren.
“Is that so?” Soren asks, leaning back when the bartender comes over, placing more shots in front of us.
This time Mickey’s having gin, Soren vodka, and me, I’m once again staring longingly at the delicious tequila. Needing to focus on something other than the two of them, I quickly empty the small glass, gesturing for the bartender to refill it before leaving.
I shouldn’t be surprised by their question. I’ve heard enough stuff about all the Sabertooths players from Luce to know that Mickey and Soren like to share. Hmm, I wonder what it would be like to be with both of them.
Every cell in my body screams at me that I should find out for myself, the heat inside me flaring up into an inferno. They’re both overwhelming in their own right—Mickey with his cocky charm and Soren with his dominant presence. Together, they’re a force of nature, and I’m caught in the eye of the storm.
Shaking my head, I banish those thoughts. I can’t… maybe if… no! I really, really can’t.
“Your turn,” I say, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” they answer in unison, their expressions a blend of mischief and desire.
“Are you always this forward with girls you’re interested in?” I ask, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly to buy myself some time to breathe.
“Only the ones who look at us the way you do,” Mickey replies, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a touch that’s far too gentle for the electricity it generates.
“Like how?” I breathe out, my heart racing.
“Like you’re starving,” Soren answers, his hand finding its way to my thigh, his fingers pressing just hard enough to make me squirm. “And we’re the feast.”
Guess I’m not the only one thinking in food metaphors tonight.
Their words wrap around me, binding me tighter to them, and I can’t deny the pull, the sheer magnetic draw. It’s reckless and dangerous, like playing with fire, but I can’t help it—I’m already burned.
As the hours pass by, there’s nothing accidental about their touches, and their questions grow more and more illicit. We’ve covered favorite position, which for me is doggy style, for them it’s one on top and one behind. Then they asked about my dirtiest secret, which had my hands reaching for my phone before I could stop myself. But luckily, I caught myself in time, playing the movement off as a very weird stretch.
The secrets in my phone are for me alone. At least for now.
