The Dare
Lauren Landish
Edited by
Staci Etheridge
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Contents
Also by Lauren Landish
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Excerpt: My Big Fat Fake Wedding
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Landish.
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2020 by Coverluv.
Photo © LightField Studios, Shutterstock
Edited by Valorie Clifton & Staci Etheridge.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.
Also by Lauren Landish
Standalones
My Big Fat Fake Wedding || Filthy Riches || Scorpio
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts
The Tannen Boys:
Rough Love || Rough Edge
Dirty Fairy Tales:
Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After
Get Dirty:
Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets
Irresistible Bachelors:
Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper
Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker
Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed
Prologue
Elle
“When you’re ready, gimme that nod, darlin’!” The guy’s voice is loud over the din surrounding me and there’s definitely a false note to his twang.
Poser . . . but damn, does he look great in those skintight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination. He’s going for the ‘what you see is what you get’ look and it’s serving him up to every pair of eyes in this place.
No judgement, though. It’s not like I’m any different.
I watched a YouTube video to get my cutoff shorts just right, I borrowed a pair of cowgirl boots with actual fringe, and I’m wearing an add-a-size pushup bra to make my breasts look bigger as they nearly bounce out of my low-cut tank top. I look like Daisy Duke and a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader got together, and I’m their style-baby creation for a reality television show called So You Wanna Be a Sexy Cowgirl?
How did I end up here, anyway?
Here is a honkytonk on the rough side of town, when I don’t even know how to two-step or line dance or any of the other stuff I’ve been doing all night.
Here is with my long legs wrapped around the vinyl of a mechanical bull and a cowboy I don’t know straddling me from behind. Apparently, we’re riding together, which seems unprofessional but also completely improper, so I’m down for it.
Here is in that moment I live for. I wait for my blood to sing through me and to feel its hot burn from the top of my head to the tips of toes and everywhere in between.
Anticipation. Excitement. Restlessness.
All so loud inside my head that everything else is shut out. There’s no real world, no pain, no doubts, only hope that the next dare will leave me adrenalin-filled and buzzing, high on the danger and risk.
It’s my favorite moment, right on the edge of greatness.
Another voice whispers in my ear, “You’re not having second thoughts, are you? Give the man his nod and let’s ride, baby.”
I’m not this guy’s baby, but the high flows through me and I look to the bull man. His eyes are hungry, whether for me or to watch me fall off this thing, I’m not sure, but it’s all the same.
I nod, and my last conscious thought is that he has a pretty smile before everything in my head becomes a shout.
Hang on! Squeeze with your knees! Grip the rope!
I’ve got the knot of the length of rope in one hand, my free hand waving around like a maniac for about zero-point-two seconds. Then I give in and grab the knot with both hands. It’s not pro-style, but I don’t give a shit as I hoot and holler and hold on for dear life.
Behind me, the cowboy whose name I don’t even know has his arms wrapped around me to fist the base of the rope, which suddenly seems very phallic with both our hands gripping it. His thighs squeeze me as he pulls me back against him with every jerking move of the machine beneath us. I can feel him, hard and long against my ass when we bump together, which has to hurt because we’re not talking an easy jostling here.
But the operator must be in cahoots with Cowboy because the rhythm becomes less jerky. Instead, we spin a bit but the forward and backward movement is smooth and wavelike. Cowboy’s grunts don’t sound so much like work to hang on now. Instead, he’s groaning in my ear like he’s enjoying this a little too much.
But still, I hold on, praying for the eight.
Bump-bump-bump.
One last maneuver has Cowboy bouncing against my ass, and if there weren’t two layers of denim between us, I have no doubt he’d easily slip right inside me with those thrusts.
The thought makes me unsteady, and I lose my grip, slipping off to the side. Cowboy tries to save me, but I fall from the circle of his arms, my legs flying up in the air as I bounce to the cushions below the bull.
The crowd cheers all around me, and my eyes jump to the digital readout.
Nine point five.
I wait for the second-best feeling to wash through me. Success, accomplishment, power.
Son of a bitch, I made it! Plus overtime!
I jump up and make a high-kneed victory lap around the padding, slapping hands as I go.
When I get to my bestie, she grabs my shoulders and shakes me almost as hard as the bull did. “Oh, my God! You did it, you crazy bitch! That was epic! Awesome! Hell, yeah!” she calls out in a fake twang of her own, and everyone around us cheers again as they hold up their beers.
The smile on my face is so big my cheeks hurt.
“That was some ride. What’s your name?” I turn to face the deep voice behind me. Cowboy is looking me up and down like a snack. Like we’re already halfway through foreplay and I’m a foregone conclusion.
I consider for a quick moment. He’s ridiculously hot. After all, I know what he’s working with since I felt it against my ass, and he was good with that bull-riding motion, which tells me he’s probably at least decent in the hay.
I giggle inside
at my own countrified joke.
Tiffany grabs at my arm, digging her nails in a little too hard. The universal girlfriend code of no, no, no, abort mission!
I don’t even have to look at her to know her eyes are yelling at me, so I give Cowboy my sweetest smile. “Cindy, but I’ve got to go.” It’s our play on Cinderella, an inside joke that roughly translates to ‘run for it like it’s midnight.’
With that, Tiffany helps pull me over the polished wood railing around the bullpen and we take off, laughing as our hair flows behind us like perfectly curled banners.
“Sorry!” I call back to Cowboy, who’s yelling at me to wait.
I laugh harder, smile bigger, and dodge a waitress with a tray full of beers. We’re in the parking lot, Tiffany pulling into the street before I can ask why she didn’t let me give Cowboy my real name.
“He was hot, Tiff. He could’ve ridden me all night!”
In the passenger seat, I buck my hips like I’m back on the bull and bite my lip like I’m definitely somewhere else. Namely, beneath Cowboy.
“You know that’s not how this works,” she admonishes.
She’s right. We dare each other to do crazy things all the time. It’s a big part of our fun friendship.
But we have limits.
Nothing that could hurt someone, no sex, and nothing really illegal. A little illegal is sometimes okay, like the time we trespassed on the roof at school to underage drink and smoke, but nothing seriously over the line.
“So sex with Cowboy couldn’t be part of the dare. It could’ve been my own fun after smashing that dare successfully. Did you see me ride that bull? That was no beginner’s luck. Maybe my streak could’ve continued all night long.” I’m back to teasing her even though I’ve mostly already forgotten Cowboy in favor of my delight at winning the dare.
“Maybe, but you didn’t see the waitress eyeballing you two. I figured out pretty quickly that if you got off that bull and onto Cowboy, you were going to be in a catfight in less than those nine-point-five seconds this time.” She says it seriously, but there’s a tiny bit of disappointment in the words. Like she would’ve paid good money to see me catfight in a cowboy bar.
But she’s a great friend and saved me like the rule follower she is. Which is to say that she dances all over the rules, tapping her pretty booted feet on both sides with regularity, but that’s pretty in line with me, so we’re golden.
“Oh, no. I didn’t see that. Thanks for saving me then.” I reach across the console and hug her shoulders, careful not to distract her from driving.
When I’m back in my seat, she glances over at me, a smile already blooming. “But dayum, did you ride that bull, girl! Whoo hoooo!” she yells out into the night through the rolled-down windows.
“And yeehaw!” I answer just as loudly.
Dare done.
We pull into the dorm parking lot with our lights off so security hopefully won’t see us, because bull riding wasn’t our only dare of the night.
Hours ago, I was the one who dared Tiffany to sneak out, so she’s got a successful dare done tonight too. As long as we can sneak back in after curfew without getting caught.
We park and get out, staying low between the cars. I’m not sure why, but it seems like the sneaky thing to do. We’re probably too loud as we shush each other, giggling quietly, but we manage to make it all the way inside the building and to our dorm room without getting busted.
As I lay in bed, my face scrubbed clean and in my PJs, I replay the night. Fuck, that was fun.
A tiny voice tries to butt in, telling me to be safe, take things seriously, and be good. It’s my dad’s voice, living in my head, quoting all the things he’s said to me an infinite number of times over the years. He still thinks of me as his good little girl.
But when I set his prerogatives on the scale against the exhilaration I feel doing things that are a little crazy, Dad loses every time. Mentally, I can tell him to shut up and do what I want, though I’d never tell him that in person. I love him way too much for that.
I just love doing daring things too.
Chapter 1
Elle - Four Years and 1500 Dares Later
“Ow!” I yelp right out of my sleep as Taylor Swift jolts me awake and causes me to bang my head against my headboard.
Rumbling irritably, I slap the alarm next to my bed. But it doesn’t go off. It gets even louder as it falls off the nightstand and into bed with me, Taylor sassily telling the guy she’s singing about that they’re never, ever getting back together. Great news, but I could really, really use another half hour of sleep before discussing your love life drama, Tay-Tay.
Grumbling, I mash the button again and Taylor goes up another octave, making my head pound. Why did I buy an alarm clock with such tiny buttons again?
It takes several more mashes and a well-placed karate chop to silence the alarm. I make a mental note to buy a new one because I might’ve actually just broken it, and if not, something with a big-ass snooze button would be nice.
“Gee, thanks—” I begin to growl but then stop, choked as I breathe in a . . . ball of cat fur? Hacking, I wipe at my mouth, disgusted and unfortunately not all that surprised. “Sophie!” I complain, “Have you been sitting on my chest while I sleep again?”
My black and white Persian cat, Sophie the Magnificent—and in her mind probably a lot of other titles—gives me an imperious, I-give-zero-fucks look from where she’s perched on my desk before licking her paws. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost be tempted to think her incapable of being responsible for the fluffball that oh, so conveniently found its way into my mouth.
But looks can be deceiving.
Sophie can be a sweetheart most times, but she can also be my worst nightmare. Besides costing me a rather nice chair earlier in our relationship, I swear she hops on my chest while I’m asleep. The sweet side of me likes to think she’s guarding me, making sure I’m breathing all night. The not-so-sweet side is certain she’s trying to suck the life out of me.
But I know better than to expect further response from my feline companion, so I get up and stretch my arms. I mentally cycle through all the things I have to do to get ready for work. Shower, shave, makeup, get dressed, and then off to pick up my bestie, Tiffany Young, for carpooling, but I talk to Sophie the whole time. That’s one of the main reasons I have her—so that I don’t look like a lunatic talking to myself.
“If you keep leaving me hairballs for breakfast, you’re going to see me use up every last one of your nine lives—” My voice fails me as I step forward and fall into a tangled heap. “Dammit!”
Damn, am I usually this clumsy?
I glare balefully at Sophie, who’s still sitting pretty on my desk, but I can see the laughter in her eyes. She’s enjoying my morning clumsiness. I kick my feet, messily getting untangled from the pair of jeans I shed as I fell into bed last night. I know there’s a trail of clothing from the front door leading to this last puddle right here, meaning I’ll have to watch it so I don’t fall again. At least I managed to not knock last night’s wine glass off the nightstand with my alarm clock battle du jour.
Yeah, last night was epic. If you consider one and a half glasses of wine, my favorite book boyfriend, and falling asleep immediately after jilling off to be a great night. To be fair, sometimes, I do. Others, like now, I think I really, really need to get a release with a pulse. Wait, make that a heartbeat because Maximus, my battery-operated boyfriend, does have a pulse mode. A really good pulse mode.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I warn Sophie, shooting her a murderous glare as I climb carefully to my feet. Meanwhile, she’s unperturbed by my death gaze, even offering a soft meow that belies her evil nature. “I swear someone’s got a voodoo hex—”
“Papa don’t preach—”
The music is back again. This time it’s my phone, and fate must be screwing with me today on the music choices.
Shit. I do not need this right now.
Part
of me wants to blow it off and go about getting ready for work. But another part of me feels guilty for even thinking that. There are people you can ignore and people you can’t.
And if you don’t answer, he’s liable to get so worried he might send the “boys” to check on you.
Just the image of my two lumbering, overprotective hand holders, also known as my cousins, showing up at my door is enough to change my mind, and with a sigh, I press Accept.
“Dad,” I complain as my father, Daniel Stryker’s, handsome face appears on my phone’s screen. At forty-six, he’s what my best friend crassly likes to call a D-I-L-F. I have to constantly remind her that’s the last fucking thing I want to hear. Yuck.
His strict diet and workout regimen help him exude a youthfulness of a man almost half his age. If that weren’t enough, he’s a vice-president at Fox Industries, a multi-billion-dollar Fortune 500 Company, making him the most desirable middle-aged bachelor in the city. And that’s according to several magazines, not just his own ego.
I mean, it’s kinda nice to know I’ve got the genetics to age gracefully myself, but it’s also really, really strange when you have to use a bat to keep your female friends at bay. Surely, they can work their daddy issues out with someone who isn’t my actual dad, right?
The Dare Page 1
