Under Covers

twenty-nine | nice

twenty-nine | nice

Nice's Old City is nicknamed "Babazouk" – Monster's Lair – after being ravaged and torn by the devastation of the World Wars

RAYNA

May 9th, 17:16 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

JAKE'S SLATE-GREY eyes darken, smouldering like pits of cindery charcoal as he strolls to the armchair next to me. His long legs fold when he lowers himself into the seat. Dark jeans and a black t-shirt, a precise haphazardness to his hair that makes my insides grow warm.

Truth or dare... Oh, the things I want this man to admit aloud are chaotic and miserable and achy. I want him to bleed from it. I want the discomfort, the vulnerability, to slice through his skin and leave him flayed and winded and rotten.

"Cassidy," he says, but his gaze is fixed on mine, he doesn't even glance in her general direction, "The shopping's in the kitchen. Go get something to eat."

"Finally!" she laments, "I'm fucking starving." She scrambles onto her feet and scurries bare-toed across the hardwood, disappearing around the corner. From the next room, there's the crunch of paper grocery bags, the saran-crinkle of plastic packaging.

I lift onto my knees. The denim of my jeans scrapes his. My hand finds his thigh and a satisfied jolt rolls through me at the tight twitch of his bristled jaw. "You like rules, right? Every good game has rules."

He grunts softly, peering suspiciously down at me with half-lidded eyes. "Why should we bother with rules when you'll just ignore them anyway?"

If I leaned in and craned upwards I could fit our bodies together and kiss those sharp, irritating lips into delicious silence. But that would prove he makes me weak, and he doesn't. "I like the rules just fine when they suit me."

His mouth curves up on one side. "Alright, then. Rules." He's looking at my lips and he isn't even trying to hide it.

He's just another handsome face, Rayna. Handsome faces don't distract me from winning. "If you choose not to answer the question or do the dare..." I need to be strategic about this. Tricky enough to annoy his sorry-ass but fair enough that I won't get caught in my own trap.

"...you take a shot?" he surmises wryly. The half-drained bottle of Grey Goose sits on the coffee table next to a jug of 'water'. Except I've been pouring all my liquor into it, so each time I've told Cassidy to stay hydrated over the last hour she's been getting exponentially more inebriated.

I shake my head. He could outdrink me any day of the week and he knows it. "Not a physiologically-equitable consequence, Agent Morgan."

He lets out a quiet, gruff sound of acknowledgment that rumbles up my arm. "Fine. Then what?"

A slow, conspiratorial grin melts across my face when the idea occurs to me. "You strip." He lifts an unimpressed eyebrow but I continue, "First person to get naked loses."

Something loud clangs and thuds and clatters from the kitchen. Jake lowers his tone and tips his head towards the noise. "And what do you fancy we do about that?"

We share a knowing look for a couple beats, a mutual wave of understanding passing between us.

Ten minutes later, our very drunk and very tired and very pliable young heiress is conked asleep in the bedroom with some minor assistance from an additional chemical agent. Call me repetitive, call me boring, but hey, it works.