Let the Bottle Decide
Fiona
The party was a fucking bore.
Lips sticky with cheap vodka, bodies pressed together like sweaty dominoes, and the same goddamn playlist blaring for the third hour in a row.
I leaned against the wall, my pink dress clinging to my skin like a second layer, the gold chain from my grandma the only thing keeping me from drowning in this sea of mediocrity.
My tits were practically spilling out of the neckline, but no one here seemed to give a shit—too busy sucking face or chugging warm beer.
Then he walked in.
Or rather, he didn't walk in—he existed there, like he'd been carved into the fucking balcony railing.
Dean.
Dark blonde hair falling into his face.
He took a swig of his beer, thumb dragging over his bottom lip like he was already tasting something far sweeter.
His eyes locked onto mine, and suddenly the room felt like it was spinning—without the fucking bottle.
My panties were soaked.
Pathetic.
I wasn't some giggling freshman who creamed her jeans over a hot guy.
But fuck, the way he looked at me—like he was already peeling this dress off me with his teeth—made my thighs clench.
I pushed off the wall, ready to march over and introduce myself the only way that made sense: by grabbing that thick neck of his and kissing him until he forgot his own name.
But then Tess—fucking Tess—squealed, "Fiona! Dean! Get your asses over here—spin the bottle!"
Dean's jaw tightened.
I could tell he wanted to say no.
But then his gaze flicked back to me, and something dark and hungry flashed in his eyes.
Oh, he wanted to play.
Fine.
Let the bottle decide.
But we both knew the truth: it already had.
The circle had already formed on the living room floor, a mess of cross-legged bodies, tipped-over cups, and someone's forgotten joint burning down in an ashtray.
I dropped down between Lana and the couch, and Dean settled directly across from me, arms crossed, biceps straining against his shirt like he was one wrong move away from flipping the whole fucking table.
Tess's voice cut through the haze of laughter and sloshed drinks.
"No truth tonight, loves. Just dare. And we're not playing nice."
I should've left.
Instead, I watched the bottle spin like a fucking taunt, its plastic edge catching the light as it twirled.
It landed on me first.
Tess's dare was simple: "Kiss Lana."
Lana—the bombshell with legs that could strangle a man and tits that looked like they'd been sculpted by sin itself—grinned at me, her lips already parted.
I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed her face and kissed her, hard.
Her mouth was soft, her tongue eager, but my mind was on him.
On the way Dean's breath hitched.
On the way his fingers dug into his own arms like he was stopping himself from ripping us apart.
The room whooped.
I pulled back, licking my lips, and made sure Dean caught me doing it.
The dares came fast after that, each one a little filthier than the last.
Some brunette—Mia, maybe?—got dared to flash her tits.
She didn't even hesitate, just yanked her top down and let them bounce free, the room erupting in cheers.
Tommy, some lanky idiot with a permanent grin, stripped his shirt off without a second thought.
Tess, never one to be outdone, dared him to suck on her nipples, and he didn't need to be told twice, his mouth latching onto her like a starving man while the rest of us laughed and drank and got a little too comfortable with the rules of the game.
And through all of it, Dean didn't touch anyone.
Didn't laugh at the right moments.
He just sat there, watching me watch everything, that unreadable dark gaze pinned on me like a hand around my throat.
Every time I looked up, he was already looking.
Every time Lana pressed her tit against my arm, his jaw ticked.
It was a conversation.
A filthy, silent negotiation conducted entirely in stares.
And I was losing my mind one heartbeat at a time.
Then the bottle spun again.
And landed on me.
Again.
Tess's smirk was wicked as she looked between me and the quiet guy to my left—Paul, some unassuming motherfucker with deceptively large hands and the kind of calm that made you wonder what he was hiding.
She let the silence stretch until the whole circle leaned in.
"Paul, you lucky bastard."
A beat.
Her eyes glittered.
"Finger Fiona."
The room lost its mind.
Paul didn't even blink.
He just turned, slow and easy, and started crawling over to me, his fingers already flexing.
I should've stopped him.
Should've slapped his hand away, should've laughed it off, should've been anywhere but here.
But Dean was watching.
And fuck, that look in his eyes—like he wanted to murder Paul but also see everything—kept me exactly where I was.
