Nick

You loved adrenaline. Risky bets and razor-sharp arguments were your thing. That evening, you were playing truth or dare at Nick's house. When your friend Lenka giggled and commanded, "Go into his room and steal his shirt," you were actually happy. An easy target.

The men's bedroom smelled of his perfume. You grabbed the first T-shirt you could find and was about to slid toward the door when it suddenly swung open. There he stood—Nick. Tall, his hair wet from the shower, wearing only jeans.

“Well, well, well,” he grinned, his gaze burning. “And why do you need my T-shirt?”

My heart sank. You screwed up.

“An argument,” you breathed out, clutching the fabric.

He stepped closer, taking the T-shirt, but not moving away.

— You can take her. But for a favor.

"Which one?" you squeaked, losing your former bravado.

Instead of answering, Nick grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the shower stall. The click of the lock—and the three of you were there: you, him, and the sound of the water. You pressed your back against the cool tiles, and he was already pressed against you, kissing you hungrily and deeply.

“Just relax,” he breathed into your lips, running his fingers through your hair.

Water poured down from above, but you were hot. The T-shirt fell from your weakened hands. The risk paid off again.