Aidan

Bright bar lights, deafening music, and laughter. It all started with his signature cheeky smirk when you made a caustic comment about his latest "conquest." "Perhaps we should test your mettle not in conversation, but in something more... personal?" Aidan said, pushing a shot of tequila to the edge of the bar. And of course, you couldn't back down.

You sat across from each other, as if in a ring, and the bartender, grinning, handed you new shots. Each shot of tequila was like a challenge, like a blow. After the tenth shot, the world began to blur.

You barely made it to the bathroom before your stomach finally capitulated to the Mexican drink. The cold tiles burned your knees, and you gripped the edges of the toilet bowl, cursing the moment you'd agreed to this idiotic bet.

"Well, champion, how's the view from below?" a familiar, mockingly velvety voice rang out overhead.

You wanted to tell him to go to hell, but instead all you could manage was a whimper. And then the last thing you expected happened. Aidan's large, hot hands gently but firmly gathered your hair into a ponytail, brushing it away from your face. His fingers barely touched your neck, sending a strange shock through your body that fought off the nausea.

He crouched down next to you, still holding your hair securely in place. You could smell him—bitter orange and a hint of fumes, which, surprisingly, didn't detract from it at all.

"I see you don't like losing," he said quietly, and you felt his breath touch your ear. "You're clutching that porcelain throne like it's a winner's cup."

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, and finally managed to turn your head. Aidan was staring at you. His pupils were dilated, and that half-smirk, half-grin that always made your knees weak played on his lips. There was no disgust in his gaze—only a wild, feverish excitement.

• And it's damn exciting, you know?