I pretended not to notice the way Ella’s shoulders tightened. It didn’t surprise me when Nick’s hand slid to her back, slow and reassuring. He’d been the one tending the tattoo, careful not to let it get too wet while it healed. His touch drew her closer, her body angling into his without thought, her hand settling on his leg.
Rowan’s lips twitched—but he straightened, already prepared to play.
“Let’s make it fair,” I drawled, my gaze never leaving her.“Why don’t you start, Ella?”
Those startled silver eyes snapped to mine. For a heartbeat, she didn’t breathe.
She glanced at Rowan—quick, searching—then looked back at me.
“I dare you,” she said, voice steady despite the tension tightening her spine,“to kiss Rowan. Tongue and all.”
It wasn’t an idle dare.
The way her eyes moved between us—slow, deliberate—the way she caught her bottom lip between her teeth told me everything. She wasn’t provoking for effect.
She wanted to watch.
Interesting.
“Pucker up, boys,” Nick snickered.
Rowan sighed, drained his drink, set the glass aside with deliberate care—and then patted his lap for me.
I stood immediately and closed the distance.
Ella’s lips parted as she stared, breath caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation.
I’d known Rowan for fourteen years.
And in that time, we’d done far more than kiss.
Rowan rose with that infuriatingly lazy smile playing on his lips. He angled his body just enough to ensure Ella had a perfect view—every movement deliberate, unhurried.
“Just like old times,” I murmured, my hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers closing at his nape with practiced familiarity.
Ella’s gasp cut the air—soft, involuntary.
Perfect.
Our mouths met without hesitation. The kiss was slow. Measured. Not a challenge, not a performance—something settled and assured. Rowan tasted of smoke and scotch, warmth and restraint, and when my tongue pressed deeper, he stepped closer without breaking rhythm, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder—steady, familiar.
Memories surfaced easily. Not regrets. Not ghosts. Just knowledge. Shared appetite. History worn smooth from use, not buried or denied.
There was no rush. No urgency. Only control—practised, mutual, unquestioned.
I knew she was watching. I knew she was counting every second.
And I knew she would pay for daring to ask.
When we broke apart, my gaze dipped briefly to Rowan’s mouth—his lips dark, wet—before we both turned to her.
Ella was frozen. Pupils blown wide, nails digging into Nick’s thigh as if she needed the anchor. Heat stained her cheeks, breath shallow, unguarded. Caught.
Nick’s slow clap cut cleanly through the moment.
He wasn’t surprised. He knew our history.
“My turn,” I said, letting the words settle between us as I leaned back slightly, relaxed, unhurried.
