Prologue

PROLOGUE

The slower the bottle spins, the faster my heart beats. My eyes move around the room, making me dizzy like I'm the bottle rather than the person who spun it. They're all laughing at me, barely hiding their sneers and snarky comments.

The bottle slows to almost stopping, and I want to kick it across the room. No, no, no. Don't do this to me. Not him. Not him. Not him.

Laughter and a chorus of oohs break out when it stops on him. Gabriel Rodgers. My body flushes with embarrassment as he wraps his hands around the bottle and takes a deep swig, more than is necessary for the game, as if to make a show out of just how much he'd rather drink the shitty whiskey than even consider kissing me. Most of the guys drink rather than kiss when their spin lands on another guy. It's expected, and they all just laugh it off. I definitely didn't expect Gabe to kiss me, but the way he hurries to drown himself in the shot, not even glancing my way, just adds insult to injury. Never mind that I've secretly had a massive crush on him since before I was old enough to know better. He's my brother's best friend, practically a member of my family. But he's playing into whatever sick game these assholes are playing, or at least not stopping it.

This is stupid.

This game is stupid. These assholes are stupid. I only agreed to come to this party because Elliot talked me into it.

Except where is he now? Off screwing his girlfriend somewhere, while I get roped into being publicly embarrassed— once again —by a bunch of people who have clearly not put the high school bullshit behind them.

He doesn't get it. He'll never get it, because he walks around like he's some kind of king. Everyone loves Elliot Hope. And why wouldn't they? He's the epitome of tall, dark and ruggedly handsome, with a wide, perfect smile that never needed braces, perfectly coiffed hair, and muscles for days. Not to mention he's an all-star athlete destined for the Baseball Hall of Fame. His high school experience has been drastically different from mine. Because despite the way everyone smiles and acts polite to me when Elliot is looking, they're all snickering and pulling embarrassing pranks when he turns his back.

He's my twin, but we're nothing alike. He got the brawn, the beauty, and the brains. I got a heart murmur, anxiety, and a deep sense that he should have eaten me in the womb.

"Third spin!" someone announces.

It gets loud for a moment, while everyone's jeers and groans. Their laughter bounces off the basement walls. For a moment, I consider taking my own swig of the disgusting liquor. But then someone, another asshole from Elliot and Gabe's baseball team, very kindly reminds everyone about the rules of the game. I knew that you spin the bottle, and the person it lands on either has to kiss you or take a drink. I assumed the person would take the drink, everyone would laugh, and then move on so I could leave. But after the bottle landed on a girl I vaguely know from my art class, I was told I had to spin again after her rejection. Surely they aren't going to make me keep going until everyone in this room is drunk and I'm drowned in my own embarrassment. Hopefully, a third spin means the torture is over.

"Whoever the third spin lands on has to spend seven minutes in heaven with Little Hope here, or they have to strip naked and jump into the pool." A hand thumps hard against my shoulder, and I cringe away from the touch, as well as the nickname that marks me as less than my brother.

Kill me now. I seriously regret following Elliot down here, only to watch him make out with his girlfriend and then disappear before I was unwittingly shuffled into my worst nightmare. The moment I saw where this was heading, I tried to stand up to leave, but was offered up as tribute instead. I let them talk me into this mess to avoid any more attention on me, secretly hoping Elliot or Gabe would save me. One of them usually does. As much as I hate it, I'm also grateful, because I seem to attract trouble no matter how much I actively try to avoid it.

My eyes cut to Gabe, pleading with him to get me out of this, but he looks away indifferently. His argument with Shayla, his on-again-off-again bitch of a girlfriend, is more interesting than my oncoming panic attack. I hate her. I thought he'd broken up with her again after she was caught blowing one of the guys on the cheerleading squad. But she's drop dead gorgeous, and apparently does something with her tongue that he really likes, because he keeps going back to her. All things I wish I didn't know but am forced to hear when I'm sitting in the backseat of my brother's Jeep on the way here.

My wicked, bruised heart rejoices at the fact that she'll be going to a different school in the fall, while Gabe, Elliot, and I are headed out of state to Huntston University. She didn't have the grades to get accepted. Although, technically, neither did I. I'm pretty sure I only got in because the baseball coach pulled strings for my brother. He's going to hate me, but I don't want to go. I'm tired of living in his shadow—not my brother's. His. Because even now, while he's ignoring my existence and my embarrassment, I still want him.

Swallowing, I reach for the bottle and spin it hard enough that it goes completely off track, hitting Gabe in the shoe, and my stomach drops. I'm going to be sick. With a look of bored disgust, he kicks the neck of the bottle.

It spins once and lands on Shayla of all people. I stand up to leave, because fuck this , but she shrugs and says, "Alright."

Everyone either gasps or gawks, but Gabe is shaking with laughter. This seems to piss her off, because she stands up and stalks toward me. "I'm curious to see if Little Hope has a big dick like his brother."

Something flashes in Gabe's eyes that feels like more than anger. I know he knows I don't want to do this, so I don't understand why his anger is directed toward me. I'm not interested in Shayla or any other girl here. I'm not interested in girls at all. And while I'm not out at school, my parents know, and Elliot knows. Which means Gabe likely does, too. And he must know that Elliot never would have done anything with his girl. I'm not sure if he's aware of Elliot's dick situation, but I grew up taking baths with him and, like mine, it's pretty average. Unlike Gabe, who is rumored to be swinging more than one kind of bat around. It's obvious that Shayla is just trying to piss him off. Gabe's smarter than letting her games work on him, so why is he mad?

Shayla pulls on my shirt, leading me to what looks like a utility room. My mind is too busy reeling with a way to get out of this without embarrassing myself further. Not because I care what any of these assholes think, but because I'm tired of looking like a weak loser in front of Gabe. Would it impress him if I turned his skanky girlfriend down? Or is just going with the flow the better move, here?

She pushes me through the door and presses her perky breasts against my chest. Horrified, I back up against the stacked washer-dryer. There isn't enough room to get away. I feel one of her hands on my ass, and I snap out of my paralysis. This is not happening. I'm not letting my first kiss be with some hateful bitch who probably had her mouth on my crush's cock within the last hour. I'm not that desperate to taste him.

Pushing Shayla away from me, I start to stutter my excuses. "Look, no offense, but?—"

Shayla cackles like a witch from a cartoon. As soon as there's more than a foot between us, I see she has my phone in her hand. Holding it up like some kind of victory trophy, she quickly backs out of the cramped room and slams the door shut. I lunge for it, but the knob is frozen. There's no lock or key slot on this side of the door. Before I can figure out how to unlock the door, something heavy scrapes against the other side. They've either propped a chair under the door handle or done something to block it, because it won't open.

"Hey!" I shout. "What the fuck! Let me out!"

There's laughter on the other side of the door, but no one pays attention to me. When I finally stop beating on the door and yelling, it's silent. The thump of music playing starts overhead, filtering down from where the party has moved on in the main house.

"This isn't funny!" I scream, but no one can hear me. And that bitch stole my phone, so I can't even call my brother to help. All I can do is hope he comes looking for me at some point. I'm sure Gabe will at least tell him where I am when he sees him, and then he'll have to face my brother's wrath for letting it happen in the first place .

Resigned to my fate, I find a rolled up sleeping bag to sit on and settle in to wait. At first, I think being in here is probably better than having to deal with these assholes I went to high school with. I'm looking forward to never seeing most of them again.

But the longer I'm in the room, the smaller it feels. My body is vibrating with tension and anxiety. There's not enough room in here to pace or move around. I end up digging through all the drawers and boxes, no longer caring about messing with someone else's stuff. There's nothing in here but craft supplies and basic home stuff like lightbulbs and duct tape. But at least I find something to distract myself.

With several pots of acrylic paints, I start painting a small mural on the far side of the washer-dryer setup. Typically, my art pieces are darker, and I gravitate to alternative styles of impressionism and mixed media. But since what I have is a set of pastel acrylics, and at some point, someone might find this and trace it back to me being locked in here, I keep it light and do a pretty landscape. A pebbled beach forms, leading up to a rocky cliff where a waterfall feeds into deep, blue-green water. The deeper I build and blend the colors, the more the water transforms into something more than a watery oasis. The exact shade of Gabe's eyes blossoms before me, and I become transfixed on the painting.

I'm so focused that I don't hear the chair moving, or the door unlocking. I don't notice or look up when someone enters the room. My concentration is only broken when the room descends into pitch black darkness. The paintbrush falls from my hand, and I step back, cursing as the small of my back makes contact with the corner of the countertop behind me.

There's shuffling, and then a firm grip on my elbow makes me shriek. I assumed whoever turned out the light had left, thinking it was another funny prank. But I'm not alone in here. Instinctively, I pull my arm away and turn away from them .

"Wha—" I barely get a sound out of my mouth before the person clamps a hand over my mouth from behind.

I gasp and struggle, but their hold on me tightens. He's large, much taller and broader than my five-foot-eight slim build. My back is pinned against a muscular chest, warmth seeping through the layers of cotton between us. Whoever he is, his heart is beating just as frantically as my own. For whatever reason, that takes some of my panic away, and I relax, sucking in a much-needed breath of air through my nose.

His mouth lowers to the shell of my ear, the soft susurrus of a shush sending gooseflesh skittering across my skin. The tight press of his hand over my mouth falls away, and his hand slides over my chin to my pulse point. He presses against it, no doubt feeling the intense rhythm of my heartbeat. His touch is tender as his big hand cups my face, turning my face to the side as his other hand guides my waist, turning me around to face him.

No matter how much I blink to adjust my eyes, it's too dark to make out anything. My hands instinctively come up to rest on his broad chest, and he holds one of my hands against him, his other hand sliding under the back of my t-shirt. His fingers lightly run over the bruise forming at the small of my back, and my breath hitches. This might still be a cruel prank, but I don't think he's here to hurt me. Hell, I know this must be a prank, because the way he's holding me close, like we're slow dancing in this dark, quiet space, feels… good.

Too good to be real.

This has to be a trick. My head tilts, straining my ears to listen for any sign of a crowd growing outside, looking for signs of an ambush. If he were recording, I'd see a red light or something, right?

I try to step away, to save myself from the embarrassment of falling for such a ridiculous trick. What am I doing, melting into some stranger in the dark? Am I really that starved for affection that I'd fall for this?

There is barely enough room for me to take two small steps before my back meets the counter again. The stranger follows, pressing closer to me, plastering his body to mine. The heat of contact along the front of my body has me chubbing up embarrassingly, but there's nowhere to move. Stupidly, I don't push him away or tell him no. I'm afraid if I do, he'll stop.

I'm balancing a fine line of resisting enough to not completely embarrass myself when the rug gets pulled out from under me, but also giving in to the tiny amount of ridiculous hope that this is real.

My breath catches when both of his hands touch my hips, pressing me against him in such a way that lets me know he feels my arousal. Both hands trail up the sides of my waist, all the way up my chest. His touch is soft and exploring. Tentatively, I place my hands on his hard stomach, intending to find the resolve to push him away. He must feel me tense, because he lifts my chin, holding his big hand over my throat again, and the heat of his breath is suddenly floating over my lips. I breathe in, sucking the taste of cinnamon liquor and chlorine into my lungs.

Something like panic, mixed with agonizing, desperate need, freezes me to the spot. I'm still aware this is likely all part of the joke, but I can't do more than wet my lips. Every contact point on our bodies, from his thighs pressed against mine, to his tender grip around my throat, burns. A moment of tension hangs between us and pulses. He mumbles something, soft and low, but the thudding of my heart muffles my ears. My name?

He closes the sliver of distance between us, pressing his lips against mine. Despite being trapped there, barely a breath between us, I gasp in surprise. The opening of my lips encourages him, and he goes in for the kill .

I've never been kissed. Not really. When I was ten, we played a much more innocent version of spin the bottle, and we giggled as I pecked a neighbor girl on the lips. Come to think of it, that might have been the very day I knew I felt something for Gabe. I can still feel the heat of my blush when I noticed him watching me. It was like my entire body lit up at his attention. He was all I thought about from then on. I knew I was gay by the time I reached middle school, but didn't tell anyone until I was fifteen. Considering I was picked on a lot at school for something I'd never admitted to, I was annoyed when my family and closest friends acted like they already knew all about it. I casually flirted with an out boy in our high school during sophomore year, but when he tried to kiss me, I shied away. I completely froze, couldn't move or react at all, so it was mostly just him pressing his lips against the cheek that I turned toward him. And while I might have frozen when this kiss started, my hesitation doesn't last long.

This kiss is all-consuming. Heat flushes through my veins. When his tongue lightly brushes mine, electricity shoots down my spine, all the way to my toes, which flex and lift me higher. I press into him and let out a little whimper when his tongue licks into my mouth deeper. He groans and holds me close, exploring my mouth with his. He licks and nips at my lips, tangles his tongue with mine, and steals my breath with every experimental movement of his mouth on mine. My hands fist into the front of his shirt, holding him hostage against me as I submit to this stranger willingly, desperately.

I don't even know how long we've been here, lost in this insanity. My lips are swollen and nearly numb from use, but our kiss grows from tentative to heated. My hands disappear under the hem of his shirt, fingers digging into the sweat-dampened skin of his muscular back. When he drops his mouth and grazes his teeth lightly along the column of my neck, I lose all semblance of self-control. My hips buck against his, my throbbing cock brushing against his muscular thigh. A needy moan escapes me; I'm too far gone to be embarrassed or hold myself back. My stranger dips slightly, grasping the back of my thigh to reposition my body against his. With one leg hiked up around his hip, he settles his meaty thigh between my legs. Taking my mouth again, he kisses me ravenously while he uses his grip on my thigh to grind me against him. My hands rake into his short hair, and I moan into his mouth.

The small space grows humid with our combined body heat and heavy breaths. The sharp tang of the forgotten paints mixes with the smell of chlorine and sweat. Pleasure builds at the base of my spine, and my head feels fuzzy. Tearing my mouth from his, I pant heavily, trying to get the wherewithal to tell him I want—no, need —more. I'm so close. I don't want to embarrass myself, but I don't want to stop. I don't ever want to stop.

His forehead presses against mine, and he whispers, "I want to make you come."

I can't manage more than a moan as he guides me to keep riding his thigh, harder and faster. The friction drives me out of my mind, and not one consideration is given to the noise we're making, or the fact that I'm dry humping a faceless stranger in a random utility closet.

My body locks up as pleasure spikes, and a sound like the wind being knocked out of me is forced from my chest as I tip over the edge. The climax is intense and feels like it goes on forever, and yet not long enough because I'm not ready for this to be over. As the crotch of my pants grows warm with my release soaking through, he takes my mouth again, swallowing my gasps and moans as I ride out my orgasm. He shudders as my nails dig into his flesh, rolling his hips against me until I'm all but limp putty in his arms.

Eventually the kisses slow, and he lets me down. The lustful tension bleeds into an awkward silence as the post-orgasm clarity hits me like a ton of bricks. Right here and now, I'd give him every part of me if I knew I'd meet him again outside of these stolen moments. Just as much as me coming in my pants was inevitable, so is this ending with me never seeing his face or knowing his name.

Not ready for it to be over, I reach for the hard ridge of his cock still straining against his shorts, but he grabs my hand. He leans into me again, placing a small kiss on the middle of my palm, before he pulls back and pushes something into my hand. A towel?

Chuckling awkwardly, my embarrassment catches up to me, and I turn around. Before I can do more than undo my pants to clean myself up, he wraps an arm around my waist from behind and kisses the side of my neck. His heat leaves my back, and before I know it, he's gone. I spin around, desperate to see even a profile of his features, but I'm not fast enough, and it's too dark. The door clicks shut, and it doesn't lock.

I barely wipe myself clean, tucking myself back into my pants as I run to follow him. I throw open the door, but it's dark in the basement, too. I hear the door at the top of the stairs close, and I race up the stairs as I zip and button my pants.

The party is in full swing up here, and most people are too drunk or wrapped up in their activities to notice me. I push through the people loitering in the kitchen, skirt around couples making out in the hallway, and squeeze through the mob of people using the living room as a dance floor. Outside, there's more dancing and rowdy games of chicken being played in the pool. On the deck, the hot tub is at full capacity. I see my brother there, his girlfriend straddling his lap while they laugh and kiss. A perfect bikini-clad body stands up and reaches for a beer from Gabe, who passes one to my brother as well as he climbs back into the water. He sits back and takes a deep swig, his eyes finding mine momentarily over the end of the bottle. He looks back at Shayla, and she crawls into his lap. My gaze is fixed on the way his throat moves as he chugs the bottle, then takes the one Shayla is complaining about and chugs it too. I turn away before he finishes drinking, not interested in seeing him make out with the pouty bitch trying to get his attention.

All I'm interested in is finding my stranger. But I have no clue what he looks like, and when I look around, not even one person is standing on their own, looking like they might be even slightly flustered. I feel like I just ran a marathon, and the adrenaline that was keeping me upright is suddenly leached from my body.

Knowing Elliot and Gabe will need a designated driver later, and still without my phone, I climb into the back seat of the Jeep. I roll up one of my brother's discarded hoodies to use as a pillow, but quickly realize that it's Gabe's. It's a hoodie he bought when we got him tickets to see his favorite band, The Foo Fighters, for his birthday last year. It has his distinctive scent of clean, salty sweat and whatever cologne or body wash he uses that smells like soap and lemongrass.

Instead of shoving my face into his sweater and huffing it like the air I need to survive, I pull my shirt up over my nose. In slow, deep breaths, I take in my scent, mixed with chlorine and the slight musk of cum. Blinking back tears and simultaneously ignoring my growing arousal at the memories of tonight, I allow myself to analyze every moment of what is sure to be my awakening.

I've never felt more alive.