Stuck With The Four Hotties

“It’s called a game. Ever play one of those before?” I tap my finger on the spinner. “We can even make a bet out of it. If I win, you have to keep dating me until either you or I decide we don’t like each other. If you win, you can decide whether or not to keep dating me, regardless of reason.”

Tristan narrows his eyes and tosses the spinner on the bed.

“I don’t have time for this. My dad’s going to be here in less than an hour.

You need to go.”

“I’m not leaving until you play with me. It’s a quick game. Easy, too. Or are you afraid I’m going to kick your ass?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down.

“I can always pick you up, carry you out of my room, and lock the door.” “Yeah, but that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?” I ask, and Tristan

scowls.

“Fine.” He flicks the spinner with his finger and ends up with an arrow pointed towards the red part of the circle, and in the fourth of the board that indicates the foot. “Now what?”

“Right foot on red,” I tell him, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet. I show him what to do, and then grab the spinner. In a normal game, there’d be a referee to spin for us and call out the moves, but I’m always willing to improvise. “Right hand yellow.”

I squat and put my hand on one of the colored dots, and Tristan rolls his eyes.

“This is a stupid game. How do you even win?”

“First person to fall over or fail to complete their move is the loser,” I say with a sniff. “When neither of us is able to spin, we’ll take turns calling out a color or a body part for each other’s move.” I hand him the spinner and he gets left hand blue, very purposely leaning over me to place his palm on a spot.

We keep going until we’re both tangled up, and neither of us can touch the damn spinner.

“Red,” he says, and I lick my lips, looking around strategically.

“Right hand,” I add, and Tristan struggles to make it work. We look like we’re doing advanced yoga this point. “Yellow,” I say, choosing my own color.

“Breast,” he whispers, and I chuckle, almost losing my balance.

“That is not a body part,” I choke, and I can feel him quivering above me, struggling to hold his post.

“Damn right it is,” he growls, and I shrug. Because it’s easier to just lean down and touch my boob to the map, I do it. “Dick.”NôvelDrama.Org owns all © content.

“That’s your body part choice?” I ask, and he grunts. “Fine … uh, green.”

Tristan adjusts himself, putting his crotch on the mat, so that we’re pretty much face to face. He looks at me, and I just start laughing. It’s so bad that I actually fall, and end up in a heap on the floor. Tristan sits down beside me, panting and sweating, and then takes off his shirt, tossing it aside.

“You lose the bet,” he says, but he doesn’t sound all that happy about winning. “Want to play again? All or nothing?” I nod and push up, finding his gaze on me. He reaches out with his fingers, brushing them along my jaw, and I sigh.

Tristan pulls back before anything can happen, and we start all over again. This time, we just call out body parts and colors from the very beginning.

Within minutes, we’re face to face, mouth to mouth. And the kiss we share in that moment … is the truest we’ve ever had. We move over to the bed, kissing slowly, hands roaming over one another’s bodies, but it only lasts as long as the alarm on Tristan’s phone.

When it goes off, he groans and pushes me over to lie next to him. “William will be here any minute. You really need to get the hell out of

here.”

His gaze is like iFe, but his fingers feel like fire, I think as we look at each other.

I lift my hands up to hide my face, but Tristan isn’t having any of it. He pulls them down, and he gives me this private, little grin that I can’t help but return. We’re still lying there and smiling at each other like lovestruck idiots when Lizzie opens the door and walks in.

“Shit, I thought that was locked.” Tristan sits up and slides his fingers through his mussy, raven-dark hair. He looks almost … cute. That is, if Tristan Vanderbilt is even capable of cute. Sure, he’s one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen, but I’m not sure the word cute is the right adjective.

My mind is wandering, so I put the brakes on and make myself look at Lizzie’s face instead. She’s freaking shattered right now. Guilt surges through me, as uncomfortable as a punch to the gut. This isn’t what I wanted to happen. She probably thinks we were having sex. But no. All we did was play Twister and then make out.

Although, putting it that way, it sounds almost as bad.

“The guests are arriving.” Lizzie stares at us, and I can’t help but feel empathy for her. What if I’d walked in on this situation? I would be beyond upset. My empathy flares to life, and my stomach churns. “William is furious; he’s looking for you.”

“Of course he’s furious.” Tristan scowls, and slides his hand over his sweaty face. “I’m not just a bastard anymore; I’m an embarrassment.”

Lizzie pulls the door closed and then leans her back against it, locking eyes with Tristan.

Even though I have four other boyfriends downstairs, even though sometime in the future I’ll have to choose, I don’t want to lose Tristan now.

“What?” he asks her, his body stuff, muscles taut with stress.

Lizzie closes her eyes, and then carefully twists off her engagement ring. She opens them again and her irises are painted with the brilliant colors of emotion: love, and want, and desperate need.

“I don’t know what’ll happen if I tell my parents no,” Lizzie says, staring down at the ring. “I think they love me enough to get over it, but …

I can’t do it. I can’t marry Marcel.”