Page 5 of Bitter Truths

His voice is thick. “Happy birthday, Bumblebee.”

The way he says it hits me hard.

“Spin again,” Owen growls, impatience obvious.

My laugh comes out breathless and a little hysterical.

I reach for the bottle, still catching my breath. It spins and lands on Tristan.

While Freddie waits for permission, Tristan doesn’t.

He moves to me within seconds, fisting one hand in my hair and wrapping the other around my neck, thumb against my pulse. I gasp, my palm flattening against his chest.

“Happy birthday, Bianca.” His voice is sexy and low.

I melt.

Then he kisses me. His kiss is hungry, coaxing pure need out of me. His thumb grazes my neck, and I let out a tiny whimper. He takes it as a challenge, deepening the kiss until I lose track of where I am.

When he pulls away, I brace myself on his shoulder.

“This isn’t over,” he says, as he brushes his thumb over my lips, and I believe him.

Before I can spin again, Owen grabs the bottle.

“My turn.”

He doesn’t even pretend to let it spin. He just slaps his palm down so it points at me.

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“Strategy,” he replies, and that’s all the warning I get.

His hands are on me before I can blink, gripping my waist and lifting me so my legs wrap around him. His fingertips burn against my skin where he holds me, touching me in ways no one ever has.

Then his mouth crashes into mine—rough, demanding, with no hesitation.

His tongue pushes past my lips like it belongs there. I grip his shoulders because everything else in me is breaking apart.

His low growl reverberates through my entire body. The noise sends a thrill through me, and a breathless moan escapes. He pulls me tighter, adjusting me so I can feel him, hard and unforgiving, between my thighs.

By the time he pulls back, I’m dizzy. My whole body hums.

“Fucking hell, Princess.”

Owen lowers me to my feet, and my legs feel like jelly.

Weller doesn’t speak right away. His gaze is unreadable, the silence stretching just long enough to make my breath hitch. His look is unnerving.

I struggle to sound composed. “You playing or not?”

He lifts his chin. “I don’t play games, Bianca.”

My body goes tense.

“But for you... I’ll make an exception.”

Weller approaches, his hand rising to my face, fingertips brushing my jaw. The contact is light but feels like too much. I look up at him, searching for answers I’ve been longing for.