"Do you want to play?"

A roar from the surrounding crowd makes me jump, and I realize that the current game just ended as the short guy with the man bun that I saw earlier on the dance floor downs his cup of beer. He holds up his middle finger at the players across the table while they chant along with the rest of the crowd for him to chug.

"I don't know how to play," I shout over the chanting. "I would be really, really bad."

When James steps up to the other side of the table and sets up fresh cups, Tristan claims the other side.

"That's perfect, actually. We'll finally have an even match for James." Tristan raises his voice just enough for the man in question to hear him over the pounding music. James doesn't look up from pouring the frothy liquid, he just shakes his head with a smirk.

"Abs! I'll play if you do," Jenny says, stepping up to the table. She's pulled her long blonde hair into a high ponytail since I saw her last, and her cheeks are bright pink when she steps into the light. She must be a few drinks deep to get that kind of glow.

"Come on, Ryan." He grins, nodding for me to join him. "Live a little."

He holds my gaze and the smile he seems to be fighting dents his dimple just enough to give him away.

I fold instantly.

"Alright, how does it work?" I step up beside him.

He sets up our cups, arranging them into a triangle as he explains the game. "The objective is simple: get this ball into any of their cups. If we make it, they drink. If they make it, we drink. Whoever loses all their cups first loses the game."

"That...is a lot simpler than I thought it would be," I admit.

"We're playing the Little League version since it's your first time. No rules or stipulations, just simple shots."

James seems to be explaining the same thing to Jenny, pointing to the cups on our side and leaning down to whisper in her ear. When he pulls back to make sure she understands, her eyes dip to his lips.

Tristan calls out something as he throws the ball. When it lands in the dead center of the triangle, I realize he was calling out the cup he was aiming for—and he made it.

He holds out his hand to me in a low five, and just as I slap it, James sinks his own shot.

"I'll take this one," he offers, drowning the cup quickly and handing me the ball.

I consider the cups, trying to pick one to aim for. I decide on the front one, narrow my eyes, and take my shot.

It doesn't have the same controlled arch that Tristan's did, but it still makes it to the cluster of cups. It bounces off the lip of one cup and falters for half a beat before falling into the cup beside it. It's not even close to the one I was aiming for, but I throw my hands up in shocked celebration anyway.

"Damn, Ryan, are you sure you've never played this before?" Beck laughs, elbowing me in the ribs lightly as we watch Jenny chug the cup. Her nose wrinkles in disgust when she hands the empty cup to James.

"I guess you can add beer pong champ to that list of secret talents." I shrug, mirroring his amused smile.

I try to pay attention to Jenny as she narrows her eyes on our own triangle of cups and releases the ball, but the tingling traveling up my arm as he brushes against me makes it difficult to think of anything other than how warm he is, and how he smells like the most intoxicating mixture of woodsy spiced cologne and beer.

By the end of the third game, I'm definitely a little drunk.

I only planned on playing one round, but after James demanded a rematch, it was Jenny, of all people, who demanded another. She only made one shot in the second game, which is one shot more than I made. In fact, the only shot I've made this entire time was the very first one I took. To be honest, it was really just a game between Tristan and James. Jenny and I only dragged them down.

"Wooo!" I throw my hands into the air as Tristan's final shot lands perfectly, winning us the third game.

The buzz from the beer is settling over my skin in a pleasant, warming sensation. Tristan, whose cheeks are now flushed, grins as I hold my hands above my head for a double hive five, which he slaps with surprising accuracy.

He motions for the next team to take our place.

He nods to the bar. "Let's go get a drink."

I nod quickly. I'd drink anything right now if it would wash away the tinge of cheap beer lingering on my tongue. I follow him through the crowd, marveling at the way he moves through the sea of bodies. He doesn't have to navigate it like a maze or worry about someone knocking him over the way I do. Instead, the crowd seems to move around him, parting like the Red Sea as he walks straight through.

I follow behind, awestruck. I can't help but wonder if this phenomenon is simply a side effect of his height, or if it's because he's...well...Tristan Beck, USW superstar.

I grab onto the bar top to steady myself in my heels as he peers down at me.

"You okay?" he teases. I faintly smell his cologne again and the scent relaxes me as I nod up at him. His eyes trail down my body, but they flick back up quickly when he realizes he's been caught.

"I'm good." I grin as I look from the dark jeans up to the t-shirt that hugs his shoulders and arms snuggly. He really should wear short sleeves more often. My eyes catch on the trail of ink climbing up his arm and I'm tempted to lean in and examine it more, to see what each tattoo actually is, but his words pull me away before I can.

"Are you checking me out, Ryan?"

I look back up to see him smirking down at me.

"Are you checking me out?" I counter lamely.

His smirk deepens, and the dimple in his cheek appears. He steps closer and leans down slightly so I can hear him over the music. "It's hard not to when you're dressed like this."

I swallow hard as I breathe in his cologne, trying to ignore the way it warms me, even more than the beer coursing through me right now. I climb onto the stool next to me, but when my foot slips and I grab for the bar top, he reaches out to steady me. His hand grips my waist, and I can feel the warmth of him through the thin, lacy material. My breath catches in my throat as I look up at him, and when he pulls his hand away, my gaze dips to his lips. His eyes flick down my body again, and I take a deep breath, imagining what his hands would really feel like on my body.

The bartender places two glasses of water in front of us, and the sound of the glass sliding across the bar top pulls me from my quickly spiraling thoughts. I turn on my stool, cheeks burning, and take a few slow sips of the water, trying to ignore the voice in my head repeating Jenny's comment from a few nights ago. Who better to fuck around with than Beck?

"I think I need to use the restroom," I say, throat tight.

"You know where it is?"

I shake my head.

He points over the crowd but seems to catch the lack of attention I'm paying to his directions. I'm terrible at remembering directions on my best day, and right now, it's going in one ear and out the other.

"Follow me, Ryan." He grabs my elbow to keep me steady as I slide off the stool, and I follow him through the bar. He leads me past the lounge to a dark hallway with a few flickering lights. Following the hall around a corner, he finally stops at the end of the walkway and nods toward the door with a ladies' room sign.

I thank him before pushing it open. It's a tiny room with a toilet, sink, and mirror.

Surprisingly, it looks like the cleanest room in the entire building. Probably because it's hidden away back here. I've been to this bar more times than I can count and never knew they even had a bathroom.

Unfortunately, there's no toilet paper, so I stick to the sink.

I turn on the water, letting it run to heat up as I pump the soap dispenser a few times. It's soothing—the warm water and the feel of the hand soap lathering up between my palms. I watch the bubbles rinse down the sink before looking at myself in the cloudy mirror.

My cheeks are flushed, though I'm not sure if that's from the beer or flirting with Tristan.

When I turn off the water, I consider my reflection. The girl staring back at me looks the same, but feels so different.

This Abby is drunk on cheap beer. This Abby plays beer pong with basketball players. This Abby flirts with Tristan Beck at the bar while fantasizing about his hands on her body.

The thought sends a shockwave of heat through me. I try to shake the image of his hands sliding up my skirt as I turn toward the paper towel dispenser. I pull on it once, twice, three times, and nothing.

"No, come on," I whine, knocking the top of the dispenser with my fist.

That doesn't help. All it does is send a loud noise echoing through the room.

"Ryan?" I can barely hear him through the thick door. "Everything okay in there?"

"Yes," I shout.

He's silent for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

I shake out my hands a little, which does...nothing to help.

Admitting defeat, I open the door.

Tristan's leaning against the opposite wall, legs crossed at his ankles and hands in his pockets.

"You didn't think I could find my way back?" I accuse, stepping back to let him in.

"You could barely sit on the bar stool. I had to make sure you didn't fall into the toilet."

That might have actually been a valid concern had I used the toilet.

Holding up my wet hands, I nod toward the dispenser.

He doesn't look surprised. He grabs the lever and pulls it much harder than I could. With a loud pop, the dispenser is in working order again. He pulls a handful of paper towels from the roll and hands them over. When I take them from him, my fingers graze his, and I look up to find his eyes trained on me.

My gaze flicks down to his lips for a beat too long before looking back up to his eyes. I'm acutely aware of how close his body is to mine, and when the humor pooling in his eyes quickly evaporates into something more intense, he takes a step toward me.

My breath catches in my throat.

"You're drunk, Ryan." His voice is low, nearly a whisper, and the sound makes my skin flame as I watch his eyes flick down my body slowly, indulgently, before finally meeting mine again.

"So?" My voice catches in my throat.

"So, you're only looking at me like that because you're drunk."

"I'm not looking at you in any way." I stumble over my words, but I know he heard me because his lips quirk up into a cocky smirk.

"You're looking at me like you want me to touch you," he counters, taking another step toward me.

"Hmm," I hum absently as I watch his eyes trail down my body again, lingering on my barely there lingerie top.

"Do you want me to touch you, Ryan?"

I can barely hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in my ears, and I stop breathing when I take a step back and my feet hit the wall behind me.

Do I want him to touch me?

My eyes flick down to his hands, and all I can think about is how they'd feel slipping under my skirt.

"Yes," I admit.

He takes a step toward me, close enough that his minty breath hits my cheeks as he lowers his head, hovering inches away from my lips. His eyes are glassy and hooded, but even in his drunken haze, he places both hands on the wall on either side of my head and moves his lips to my ear.

"We're both drunk," he says slowly, deliberately, and the feel of his hot breath on my cheek sends a shiver down my spine in the warm bathroom. "So I don't want to touch you unless you really want me to."

He pulls back to search my face. I want to look into his eyes, but my gaze won't break away from his lips, which are parted and moist—waiting.

"Abby." He groans inwardly, begging me to confirm that I want this, that I'm not too drunk to consent, that he's not crossing any lines.

I don't bother answering him. Instead, I rock up onto my toes and crash my lips onto his, reveling in the instant response from him. He wraps his arms around me and swipes his tongue across my lips.

I open my mouth for him, but he pulls away with a groan, stepping back long enough to lock the door before connecting our lips again. This time his hands grab the back of my thighs, and he hoists me up around his hips, pinning my body against the wall as his beer-tinged tongue rolls against mine.

I gasp at the contact, my skirt riding up around my hips, leaving nothing but my thin underwear as a barrier against his jeans. He brings up a hand and cups my cheek, tilting my head back a little more so he can explore my mouth. When he rolls his hips, a jolt of electric pleasure shoots through me, and I moan against his lips. His fingers tighten on my thighs, and he breaks the kiss to lick the sensitive skin just under my jaw before biting down hard and sucking.

Oh—

He sucks and nips his way down my throat to my chest, and when he gets to the top of my shirt, he looks up, eyes clearing for a moment. I lift my arms, and in an instant, my shirt is crumpled in a tiny pool of lace across the room. His eyes widen as they linger on my bare breasts, and then he dips his head down, and my skin explodes in a rush of goosebumps as he takes my nipple between his teeth.

My head falls back against the tiled wall, panting hard. I squeeze my eyes shut, rolling my hips against his as he palms me, rolling my nipple between calloused fingers. The heat pooling between my thighs flares uncomfortably as a desperate moan slips from my lips.

I tug at his shirt, and he reaches an arm behind his head to yank it off, dropping it behind him. Grabbing his face, I bring his lips back to mine, desperate to taste him again. I open my mouth for his tongue to slip through, and I savor the groan that vibrates in the back of his throat as my hands dip down to explore his hard chest, sliding down to trace the hard indents of each muscle on his stomach until I stop at the top of his jeans.

He steps away from the wall, letting my body slide down until my feet are back on the ground again. Dropping to his knees, he hikes my leather skirt up further and loops his thumbs around my underwear. When his gaze darts up to meet mine, I know he's waiting for confirmation.

The sight of him—drunkenly flushed, looking up at me with the kind of hungry gaze I've only ever fantasized about—sends a rush of goosebumps up my stomach, shaking my shoulders. The pulsing between my thighs intensifies when he licks his lips, and I release a shaky breath as I nod, wiggling my hips impatiently as he pulls my underwear down my legs and helps me step out of them. When his hand trails back up my calf to my knee, he lifts my leg over his shoulder, pulling me closer.

I rest my head against the cold tile, trying not to overthink this.

The part of me that was always too self-conscious to do this with Tyler is screaming to abort mission, but the curious part of me, the part that's literally panting at the sight of Tristan Beck on his knees for me, is telling me to just sit back and enjoy this.

And for the first time in my life, I listen.

I thread my fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck as he bites down on my inner thigh. He's inches away from where I want him most, sending shocks of pleasure up my spine as he sucks hard enough to leave a bruise. When he pulls back, he laves his tongue across the tender skin, but based on the breathy moans slipping through my lips, he knows that I'm desperate for him––for a different kind of touch.

My frustrated pant echoes through the bathroom, and his cheek twitches, failing to hide the most arrogant smile I've ever seen, as if he knows that I'm practically begging, and when he lifts my thigh a little more, exposing me even more to him, his eyes darken. He lowers his head again, but it's not to my thigh, and when his tongue drags across me in a long, languid motion, I gasp as every nerve in my body nearly short circuits. He pulls away and licks his lips, already glossy from the contact, and when his gaze flicks back up to mine, I try to steady my breathing. His cheek twitches before he dips his head back down, and my hips start to rock in time with his tongue, chasing the rush of pleasure building in my stomach. When my fingers grip his curls harder, silently begging for more pressure as the muscles in my legs and stomach tighten, he chuckles, and the vibration nearly makes my knees give out.

Tightening his hold on me, his tongue moves faster, rougher, and my head falls back against the wall as my legs start to shake. He slips two fingers into me, curling them up and hitting a spot that I didn't even know existed, and when he reconnects his lips to me, my entire body tenses. My breathing is fast and sporadic, and each breath turns into a small moan as he focuses on the swollen bud of nerves, licking hard enough to make my entire body go numb as goosebumps break out, spreading like wildfire across my skin.

His tongue slows into a lazy rhythm, a teasing rhythm, and my mouth pops open in a soft gasp as my hips rock forward, pleading for him to keep going. His tongue slows even more, and I don't have to look down to know he's smirking between my thighs.

"Please." I gasp, moving my hips a little more, desperate for contact. "Please, don't stop."

He pulls back until I can feel his breath on the inside of my thigh.

"Say my name, Abby. I want to feel you come on my tongue while I'm on yours."

My lips part as his words register.

"Say my fucking name."

I'm too high on him to be embarrassed, so I rest my head against the tile wall and breathe his name—a plea to touch me, to bring me back to that paradise on his tongue, to never stop.

"Please, Tristan."

He grips my thighs tighter, nearly lifting me from the floor as he pulls me closer, and my breathy moans echo around us as his tongue finds me again, rougher than before. The pressure at the base of my spine builds quickly, and suddenly I can't breathe as I bite down to keep the moan on the tip of my tongue from echoing past the bathroom door.

It happens all at once—every muscle in my body tenses and locks until the pressure in my stomach explodes into a million tiny nerves of rolling pleasure. They flood beneath my skin, through my bloodstream, searing me from the inside out.

I feel myself pulse around his fingers as my heart seems to beat in time with his tongue. I can't hold back the desperate whimpers that slip from my lips, each one a clipped plea of his name.

Oh my god.

Oh—

My—

God—

I heave in shaky breaths, savoring the blissful warmth flowing through my body. Tristan slowly pulls away, and I'm acutely aware of the fact that he's fully supporting my weight since my legs are too weak to hold myself up. Looking down at him, still kneeling in front of me, my stomach tightens at the sight of his lips, wet and glossy from me. It sends a newfound heat through me, and suddenly, I want nothing more than for him to shed his clothes and press me up against the wall.

He groans. "Fuck,