One Broken Dare, Forever His

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Clara Whitfield was sitting on the edge of the couch, knees tight closely together, wishing that the music was not so loud. The bass beat was rocking the floor, and as they beat her, she was beaten farther down into the corner of the crowded room.

Somebody yelled at you across the noise, "Mind your head on the first one you bump into, take ten steps backwards and kiss him!

Her stomach twisted. She froze. Did he really just say that?

Kiss a stranger? No. Absolutely not.

But her laughter made the laughter around her even noisier.

A girl said, "Don't be mean," on the side; she has not even kissed her boyfriend yet!

The people shouted, and their mocking voices felt like knives. The throat of Clara was burning as she brought down her head and covered her face with her hair.

Why did I even come? I should've stayed home.

Amelia Carter was nudging her arm besides her. "Come on, Clara. Just do it. It's only a dare."

The cheering swelled. Her heart raced.

Clara clasped her dress in her fists and heaved a deep breath. This was not what she wanted, but the pressure was too much. To retreat is to be taunted at perpetual length and probably even more.

She jerked herself to her feet, but the room at once leant over and whirled. Too many drinks.

Her hand went up to her temple in an attempt to keep the world steady.

Someone is going to win something tonight! A boy whistled.

Ignore them. Just walk. Ten steps. That's it.

Clara swivelled around her, with intent eyes. There were far too many faces, none of which were clearly visible.

It's just a kiss. One kiss. Get it over with.

She raised her head, tried to walk more bravely than she felt, and began to move forward. Her garments would swing around her thighs as she took a new step, and the material would touch her. Her legs trembled, but she made them go.

Don't trip. Don't fall. Don't worsen it.

Her mind spiralled. Better imagine that you kissed the floor. The kiss of first love was experienced in the street. Brilliant.

I never ought to have drunk so much.

The couples moved aside as she went, leaning over each other, trying not to run over. She counted, six, seven, eight, when one boy came before her.

"Dance with me?"

'No, no, no, I will not,' she shook her head.

She continued moving, concentrating on the last steps. She could hear her heart pounding so loudly that it seemed to echo throughout the entire house.

Then she stopped.

A man of tall stature was there before her, with his back turned. He was wearing a black tuxedo with broad shoulders, which prevented her view. He was not one of the laughing company. He did not even appear to belong to the same room.

Her hand moved and rose towards his shoulder. Ask him. Just ask.

It dropped again.

I can't. I can't ask him.

Her head turned in the direction of the company. They were crouching on their heels, waiting to show something. She was only their amusement.

One more breath.

Her pulse roared. Clara seized his elbow before he could think otherwise and turned him about and stood upon her toes. Her lips smashed on his mouth before her mind could shout no.

His glass hand dropped and broke on the floor. She didn't care. She had nothing to do but to put this dare to a stop.

But she lost her footing and blundered back. Her arms round his neck went flying. His hand was pushed into the small of her back, and her gaze was drawn into the solid frame of his chest.

Blueberries. She could feel the taste of blueberry on his lips.

Electricity went through her like lightning. Her fingers curled into his hair and pulled unconsciously. There was a low, rough sound that was reticent in his throat, and the room turned round once more. Darkness claimed her.

At an earlier time in the night, Alaric Wrenford was standing against the bar, and his eyes were sweeping the club.

His owner was chattering away about profits and renovations, but Alaric had his eyes on something different. He had already known that he wanted the place. He never ignored anything that caught his attention. Property. Money. People.

He put up his glass and enjoyed the good flavour of the wine.

Then--

A tug on his arm.

His body preceded his thinking. Quick, bold and unexpected, the soft lips came against his. The glass dropped out of his hands, and wine spread on the floor.

A girl. Small. Fragile. Courteous enough – or foolish enough – to go up and kiss him unannounced.

No one grabbed him without his consent. Not ever.

He ought to have pushed her off, but when she moved, he grabbed her. He had his arms round her waist, and he was supporting her upright. Her arms hung round his neck in a clumsy fashion.

It was too easy for her to lean against him.

Her lips tightened once more, and as he could not explain, he allowed it. No – and even more – he drew her to him and kissed her.

It was her sweet and addictive taste sinking into him. His hands moved down, familiarising themselves with her form; his palms had touched every line.

At one time, the world became still. No deals, no noise, just her.

Then the fingers of her hand pulled his hair. A flash ran down his spine, and it was sharp and bitter. His control cracked. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

But she went limp.

Her person sank back into him; her lips receded. There was a groan of frustration in his breast. Too soon.

He tilted her head back. Her face stilled him.

Knowing her, she was a pale-skinned girl, flushed with light under the lights and rosy along her cheeks and nose. Her lashes rested on her cheeks like shadows, and her lips—those lips—were puffy from his kiss.

And her hair spilt forward, over her brow and flowing over her shoulders.

A flower. That's what she looked like. A small beautiful flower was put in his hands.

His jaw set.

Leaving out with me tonight, two things. This club. And this girl.