When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Truth or dare?” I whisper.
“Dare.”
“Take off your jacket.”
He does, tossing it onto the deck. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“Take off those shoes. They’re killing you.”
I slip off the Louboutins with a sigh of relief. “How did you know?”
“I see you,” he says simply. He runs his thumb along my ankle. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“Come swimming with me.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Neither do I.” He stands, setting me on my feet. “That’s the point.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, Stefan is stripping off his shirt. The moonlight catches the scars and tattoos I’ve memorized in better days and makes them glow. He kicks off his shoes, unbuttons his pants.
My eyes track each revealed inch of skin. My breath catches as his pants drop. But instead of stopping this, which would be the only reasonable response, thestrong womanresponse, I do the dumb, reckless thing instead.
I reach behind me and unzip the Dior dress. It pools at my feet in a puddle of silk.
Stefan’s eyes go black. “Fuck, Olivia?—”
“You dared me to go swimming.” I unhook my bra and let it fall. “I’m going swimming.”
I walk to the edge of the yacht and dive in before I can change my mind.
The water is cold enough to shock, but warm enough to bear. I surface, gasping, and find Stefan already in the water beside me.
“Truth or dare?” he asks, swimming closer.
“Truth.”
“Do you want me?”
“Yes.” I cling to his shoulders for buoyancy. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Do you want me? Not just because I’m carrying your baby. Not because of the clinic. Do you want me for me?”
He pulls me against him, our bodies slick and warm in the cool water. “Yes, Olivia. God, yes.”
We kiss under the full moon, treading water, hands exploring skin we’ve memorized but somehow never reallytouched. Not truly. The game continues between gasps and moans.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
