Double Dare

by Jeanne St. James

Paula said, “He probably isn't interested in you anyway.”

  “Yeah, you couldn't get someone like that. You attract losers like Peter,” Lana said.

  If they thought their reverse psychology was going to work, well, it wasn't.

  “Looks like he's with Paige Reed, anyway.”

  Quinn's gaze shot over to the corner of the ballroom where the tall man stood next to the petite, dark-haired beauty. Paige Reed. Figures.

  “I thought Paige was dating Connor Morgan,” Quinn mumbled.

  She must have mumbled loud enough, because Lana answered her. “She is. Connor had to fly to Australia for something to do with his job.”

  “So why is she with him?” Quinn asked. Why was she so curious all of a sudden? Why did she care?

  She didn't. She nursed her drink. After one and a half Alabama slammers, she was starting to feel pretty tipsy. She wasn't used to drinking. And when she did drink, she usually had wine, not hard liquor, and especially not such a hard-hitting mix of liquors.

  Paula leaned into the both of them and said in an exaggerated whisper, “Maybe he's an escort,” like it was a scandal, and then laughed.

  Maybe he was an escort.

  He was probably worth every penny too.

  His back was to them now, but that just gave Quinn the opportunity to study how broad those shoulders were in his dress shirt. When he moved, the fabric bunched and pulled with his muscles.

  Lana gasped, jerking Quinn out of her thoughts. “He's not an escort! That's Logan Reed, Paige's brother. I haven't seen him since we were kids. Holy shit, did he grow up.”

  “I'll say.” Paula agreed. “Quinn, I dare you to go ask him to dance.”

  “Not interested.”

  Lana joined in. “Yeah, I dare you too. Don't be a wuss.”

  If she were a wuss, she wouldn't have come out in public in this pink atrocity. And the matching shoes were killing her feet. The last thing she needed was to be dancing. She'd be crippled.

  “That's a double dare, you know, with the two of us daring you.”

  Oh, boy, a double dare. She would definitely do it now—not. “You're crazy.”

  “No, you are, if you pass up this opportunity.”

  “How do you know he's available?” Quinn asked them.

  “You don't know until you ask him,” Lana said. “But if I remember correctly, his wife left him a while ago. There had been some rumors…”

  There had been some rumors about her and Peter too, but rumors were just that: rumors. She didn't take any stock in them.

  Paula suddenly shouted, “Truth or dare?” making Quinn jump. It was like they were teenagers all over again.

  Lana quickly said, “Truth.” And bounced on her toes like she was fifteen.

  Jesus, would someone please put a bullet in my head? Quinn needed to be put out of her misery.

  Paula asked Lana, “Do you shave or wax?”

  “Shave. Okay, Quinn, your turn. Truth or dare?”

  Quinn was not playing this juvenile game. It was stupid; she was not going to fall into what was clearly a trap.

  “Truth.”

  “How bad was Peter in bed?” Lana asked.

  Damn. She wasn't going to answer that one. Even as drunk as she was. She didn't want to relive their vanilla, boring lovemaking. And she definitely didn't want to admit it or talk about it.

  There was only one thing left for her to do.

  Chapter Two

  Logan ran a finger around his collar one more time. Why did it feel like a freakin' noose?

  His sister was out on the dance floor with someone's husband, having a good time. With the man's wife's blessing, of course. The eight-months-pregnant woman had her feet propped up on a chair on the other side of the room, and she was smiling and encouraging her husband to have fun while she rested.

  Logan sighed and glanced at his watch. It was only seven. He looked down at the plate of food in front of him. He'd hardly touched it. He didn't want any tilapia or whatever the hell it was. He wanted a thick, juicy steak slathered in spicy BBQ sauce. With a big, fat baked potato dripping in butter and sour cream. Yeah, now that was a meal. Not some twigs of asparagus and a dried-up fish filet. He got that crap at home as it was.

  The only highlight of the night so far was the chick at the bar. The way she'd looked at him had made him instantly hard. He had to finally turn around and walk away before he threw her on the bar and tossed her freaking ugly-ass dress over her head.

  That would have gone over well with his sister, banging one of her friends on the bar. In public.

  He unwrapped one of the little Hershey Kisses decorating the table and popped it into his mouth. He chased it with a sip of Jack and Coke—the whole reason he had approached the bar in the first place.

  He could probably slip out of the party, and no one would even notice. But his sister would never forgive him, and he'd been on the receiving end of her anger in the past. Many times. It wasn't pleasant.

  Basically it was suffer now or suffer later. Hell, he was already here anyway.

  He looked at his watch again: 7:02. He groaned.

  When he glanced up again, he saw a pink vision stalking toward him, and he sat up straighter. Shit, the cause of his earlier hard-on was coming his way.

  She looked determined, and she still had a grip around her glass like it was a lifeline.

  She stopped directly in front of him and put one hand on her hip.

  “Are you Logan Reed?”

  Oh shit. “Yes?”

  “You don't know for sure?”

  “Oh, I'm sure.”

  “Are you fucking anybody right now?”

  “Right this minute?” He glanced around to see if anyone else was hearing this surreal conversation. Luckily no one was paying attention.

  “No. Do you have anyone who is going to get mad if I ask you to dance?”

  “Uh. No.” Well, hell, that was a unique way of asking someone to dance.

  She placed her drink on the table, and he asked, “Is that still your second one?”

  “No, third.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  She grabbed his hand and pulled, but he was too heavy for her to lift, so he unfolded himself from the chair to accommodate her.

  “Are you asking me to dance?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “Not at all.” He interlaced his fingers with hers and led her to a corner of the dance floor. Luckily for him, the DJ had turned the lights down and was playing a series of slow tunes. Ones he could dance to. There was no way he was doing the chicken dance or line dancing. He had his limits.

  As the slow, wailing tune blared through the large speakers, Logan slid his palms around her waist, his splayed fingers coming to rest at the small of her back. The fabric of her dress felt terrible, and he didn't know why women wore shit like that and suffered. The dress certainly wasn't flattering.

  But it wasn't the outer package that mattered to Logan; it was the prize he found inside when it was unwrapped.

  He stepped in a little closer and pulled her hips against his. He swore he heard a little gasp. He smiled into her overstyled, dark blonde hair and nuzzled it. Underneath all the hairspray, he caught a scent of wildflowers. It smelled nice.

  “What's your name?” he murmured into her hair.

  “What?” She turned her head a bit, and she ended up nuzzling his neck. Her lips, the shape of which reminded him of an archer's bow, were warm and soft, and he could detect the fruity scent of the slammers on her breath.

  She was average height for a woman, which made her a bit shorter than him, so he had to lean down a bit to place his lips against her ear.

  “What's your name?”

  He felt the shiver of her body against him, so he traced the delicate shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue. The touch was light enough, but she unmistakably felt it. In response, she arched her back slightly, pressing her hips harder into his.

  “Quinn,” she finally
answered him, her voice breathless.

  “Quinn,” he repeated while moving one hand up her back to the bare skin rising out of her dress. He drew the pad of his thumb along the smooth expanse of flesh, along her exposed spine, moving up to her neck to cradle it in his palm. His thumb continued to stroke her skin along the vein in her neck.

  He pulled away a little and looked down into her face. Her eyes were heavy, and her lips were parted. Her breaths were short and quick.

  He struggled to keep from thrusting against her. If she looked this good in that god-awful dress, he wondered what she looked like in normal clothes. Or no clothes at all.

  Or just a pair of handcuffs.

  His balls tightened, and he released a long breath out of his nose to steady his pulse.

  “Quinn, do you like sex?” He placed his cheek against hers, and they swayed to the music, their hips, their thighs brushing against each other.

  Her eyelids fluttered a bit before she answered, “Sometimes.”

  “Why only sometimes?” he whispered against her ear.

  She shrugged slightly, and one of her off-the-shoulder sleeves slid down a bit, exposing more creamy flesh.

  Logan brushed his lips along her collarbone. It was delicate and covered with smooth skin. When he got to her shoulder, he worked his way back, and in the hollow of her neck, he placed a kiss.

  There was a groan. He didn't know whom it came from. Her? Him? He didn't care. His hand at the small of her back slipped lower, to just where the rise of her ass was. The fabric of the dress kept him from feeling details, but his imagination took over.

  One song transitioned into another, and they weren't even aware of the other couples dancing nearby.

  His hips kept a steady side-to-side rhythm, while his hand on her back kept her close and in perfect time with him.

  He was hard. There was no doubt she could feel it. Even with the yards of fabric around her midsection, her belly brushed against his length, teasing his cock.

  “What kind of sex do you like?” His voice sounded low and gruff to his own ears.

  “The kind when I get to come.”

  Logan chuckled against her temple and slipped the hand he had around her neck to her shoulder. His fingers brushed her skin lightly. He couldn't help but notice goose bumps suddenly appearing everywhere he touched her. Which meant her nipples were probably hard and aching for his fingers and mouth.

  Her dress had slipped down a bit, and the neckline rode low on her chest. The fabric rested just on the crest of her breasts; he could see she wasn't wearing a bra. In fact, he thought he could see the crescent edge of one nipple, even in the dim light.

  He wanted to dip his tongue between her breasts.

  “Quinn?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why did you ask me to dance?”

  “Because my friends…” Her soft voice faded off.

  “Your friends?” He prodded.

  “My friends dared me to. They think I am such a loser when it comes to men.”

  “Ah.”

  “I always pick Mr. Wrong.”

  “Am I supposed to be Mr. Right?” He brushed the backs of his knuckles over the rise of her breasts.

  “No. Just Mr. Right Now.”

  She was direct. He wondered if it was just the alcohol talking. “So you just want to use me.”

  “Basically.”

  Her boldness wavered, disappointing him a bit.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Huh. And you don't think I'd care?” He leaned back a bit and looked down at her, her skin a canvas for the colorful light bouncing off the mirrored disco ball above the dance floor.

  She wouldn't meet his gaze. “Do you?”

  Logan stilled, bringing their dancing to a sudden halt. “Do you normally drink this much?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you need to sober up.” He stepped away from her, and his fingers curled into fists. He could be direct too. “I don't fuck drunk chicks.”

  “Oh.”

  And he left her standing on the floor, swaying. Only it wasn't to the music.

  * * *

  The world was coming to an end.

  Okay, it wasn't. It just felt like it. Quinn hadn't drunk this much since college.

  Outside the banquet-hall, she sat on the hood of her Infiniti. She had ripped the shoes off her feet and had winged them out somewhere into the dark parking lot. Good riddance.

  She was just rolling her pantyhose down her thighs when she heard the clearing of a throat. She tried to catch her balance, but it was too late. She fell back, cracking her head on the windshield of her car.

  “Ouch. Son-son of a bitch.” She rubbed her head and started to pull out the bobby pins that were digging into her scalp, throwing them onto the ground. Another torturous ritual for women—unrealistic hairdos that needed metal pins to keep them in place. She flung a bobby pin with all her might, and it just plopped to the pavement with an unsatisfying ping.

  “Need help?”

  She looked up surprised to see—what was his name?— Logan watching her.

  “No, I don't—I'm juss fine… Don't want help from you.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  Her pantyhose were still midway around her thighs, her dress was pushed up to her waist, and half her hair was now falling around her face. She wouldn't be in this predicament if her friend hadn't gotten married. It was all Gina's fault.

  “I hate weddings,” she grumbled.

  “Me too.”

  “It's juss a stupid ritch…ritual to make people suffer.”

  His lips twisted into a smile. “I agree.”

  “I need to go home.”

  She pushed herself to her feet and swayed a bit. She dug into a matching pink clutch and pulled out her car keys.

  He was suddenly next to her, grabbing her hand, snagging the car keys from her fumbling fingers. “Oh no. You're not driving in this condition.”

  “Who says?”

  “Me.”

  She frowned at him, and she tried to plant a hand on her hip, but she missed. “An' who dooo you think you are, huh?”

  “I'm the one your friends dared you to have sex with.” He cast a glance behind him, searching, his ponytail draping over his shoulder. “Where are your friends, anyhow? Shouldn't they be out here driving you home?”

  She had the urge to wrap his ponytail around her hand and tug. Instead Quinn leaned against the front grille of her car, trying to keep her balance. “They leff a while 'go. I told 'em I was goin' home with you.”

  “You are?”

  “No, I juss told 'em that so they didn't think I was a loser.”

  “Why would they think you are a loser?”

  “Because I can't get anyone good.”

  “And you think I'm good?” He arched an eyebrow, waiting for her answer.

  “No. Thass the point. I think you're bad. Very bad.”

  “You've got that right.”

  She planted her hands against the front of her car to push herself to her feet. “See? You're sooo bad, you're perfect.”

  That was the last thing she remembered.

  Logan caught Quinn before she fell face-first onto the pavement. He grimaced. He hated drunk chicks.

  But for some reason, he didn't think this was a normal event for her.

  Even so, something had to be done with her.

  He leaned Quinn's limp body back onto the front of her car and held her in place with his knee. Grabbing her clutch—purse, bag, whatever the fuck they called them—he dug through it for her wallet to find an address.

  Nothing. There was nothing in the bag but a tube of lipstick! What the fuck? What was the point of carrying the stupid thing, then?

  Women!

  He threw her car keys into the bag and, with a grunt, hefted her over his shoulder. She was facedown, and her dress was draped over her head, covering her upside-down torso completely. Which, from what he could see, left most of her bottom bare.

  He shook his h
ead when he noticed her pantyhose halfway down her thighs. And she had no shoes on. Not his problem.

  As long as law enforcement didn't spot him in this predicament, he was golden.

  He strode quickly across the parking lot to his Dodge Dually and opened the back passenger-side door of the crew cab. He tossed her in the back and slammed the door shut.

  He contemplated dropping her off on someone's doorstep. Maybe even his sister's. That would be good payback for dragging him to this nightmare. But he thought better of it.

  No. He would deal with little Quinn.

  It would be his pleasure.

  And possibly hers too.

  Chapter Three

  Quinn groaned at the splitting pain in her head. The high-pitched whine didn't help. Where was that coming from?

  She didn't want to open her eyes, because her bed still felt like it was moving. But she had no choice. She had to get the wretched noise to stop.

  She shuffled around in the warm sheets and rubbed her face with a hand, before reaching down to scratch her…

  Quinn's eyes popped open in horror. She was naked. She never slept naked. Her hand traveled lower until she touched the springy curls of her pussy. She was definitely naked.

  And, holy shit, that wasn't her ceiling either. She sat up suddenly and gasped.

  This was not her bedroom. This wasn't a bedroom of anyone she knew.

  She looked around. The walls and the ceiling were made of logs. Smooth, stained, glossy logs. The floors were wood planked, and there was a window over the bed. She squinted at the sunlight glaring through the glass.

  In the corner was a pile of pink taffeta…

  Oh shit.

  Now she remembered.

  The dare.

  She had gone through with it.

  No. Wait. He had turned her down flat. She at least remembered that part.

  Crap. Maybe they had dared her to screw some other guy, and that guy hadn't turned down a free piece of ass.

  Oh no. It could have been anyone! She closed her eyes and started to do inventory of all the possibly single guys at the reception. There hadn't been that many. Had there?

  Crap, she better not have gone home with a married man. She was going to kill Lana and Paula. Why didn't they stop her? They knew she didn't do these types of things!