The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(59)

“If I didn’t know better, I might think you were really into me,” Creed says, shoving his arm across his mouth.

“You’d only be so lucky,” Tristan purrs as Creed washes his mouth out with vodka and swallows a generous amount of alcohol.

He waves his hand in Zack’s direction.

“You. Brooks. Truth or dare.”

“Dare,” Zack says, narrowing his eyes to slits and focusing his attention on Creed in challenge. “Give me your worst, Cabot.”

“I dare you to make yourself come. Right now. In front of everyone.” Creed’s face is absolutely wicked as he spits out his directive, and Zack lets out a series of mumbled curses, raking his fingers through his hair. He glances over at me, and my cheeks flush warm.

“You can tell him no, and do a truth instead,” I suggest, but Zack looks determined, and that scares me.

“In our version of the game, you get one chance to swap a truth for a dare, or vice versa. If you fail again, you lose, you’re out.” Zayd sits up, like he’s gearing up for a particularly vicious game. These boys sure do like making bets, whether or not they’re doing it in an official Infinity Club capacity. It’s a symptom of their privilege, their lack of ever wanting for anything. They need challenge; they crave it.

“What does the winner get?” I ask, and Zayd grins, shrugging inked shoulders at me.

“Bragging rights?”

“How about a trophy?” I counter, and he cringes, pretending to brush off a burn.

“Ouch, Charity, ouch.”

“I’ll do it,” Zack says, nostrils flaring as he pulls in a deep inhale, and then … spits in his palm. Holy crap. He slides his hand inside his boxers, his eyes focused on mine. I can’t see anything, but I definitely notice the change in his breathing, his dilated pupils, the sweat that beads on his forehead.

“Fuckin’ hardcore, man,” Zayd laughs, chugging another shot’s worth of rum. “Show us what you’ve got.”

“Shut the hell up, dickhead,” Zack grumbles, closing his eyes. I’m not sure how long it takes, but with the way my skin aches, and the way my core flushes with warmth, it feels like forever. I shift and wiggle on the cushion, glad that I’m not sitting on anyone’s lap.

With a deep, guttural groan, Zack finishes, and I can see his muscles going tight, body shivering with climax. He exhales sharply and hangs his head for a minute. Windsor digs into the bag by his side and pulls out a roll of paper towels, tossing them Zack’s way.

“I’ll … be right back.” Zack takes the paper towels, and I glance away so he can have a second of privacy. He then disappears in the direction of the bathrooms.

“Well, holy shit,” Zayd whispers with a chuckle. “He seriously did it. Maybe I don’t hate the guy quite so much after all?”

“Is there a reason you guys hated him in the first place?” I ask, looking between the three Idol boys.

“Besides the bet he made with Lizzie?” Zayd asks, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. He’s just always been an asshole. He never liked the status quo.” His grin gets a little lopsided, and he reaches out to ruffle my rose-gold hair. “Little bit like you, I guess.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, but my heart is still racing, and I can’t believe I just saw that. Zack, masturbating, right in front of me. And I liked it, too. It feels so wrong, sitting in a place we’re not supposed to be, with a stolen set of keys, hard liquor, and a game with no real prize.

Just because.

We’re doing this for the fun of it.

Zack comes back fairly quickly, face flushed, and sits with one knee up, his elbow propped against it, and his face in his hand. He looks right at me, too, and shrugs those broad shoulders of his.

“I hope you’re not like, scarred for life,” he says, and I get one of those rare, warm smiles of his.

“If I were going to blame anyone for the trauma, it’d be fucking Creed,” I say, giving him a look and taking a sip of my juice. He just stares at me with those bedroom eyes of his, and then smirks.

“Alright,” Zack says, sitting up straight and glancing over at Windsor. “Your Majesty, truth or dare?”

Windsor reaches up and fixes his plastic crown.

“Truth. Because any idiot can jump through hoops, but it’s much more difficult to lay your soul bare. Have at me, you fuckin’ wanker.” Zack flips Wind off, but the gesture does nothing to clear the haughty expression of superiority on the prince’s face.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Zack lifts the bottle of beer to his full lips and studies the prince through narrowed eyes. “Why the fuck did you crash that yacht into the harbor? There’s a girl still in the hospital, isn’t there?”

Windsor’s face … God, if I could only describe the way he shuts down. There’s a hardness that comes over his features that’s ten times worse than the stony mask that Tristan wears.

“Technically,” he says, his voice ice-cold, “that’s two questions. Pick one.”

“How did you end up crashing?” Zack repeats, and Windsor reaches up to take off his crown, spinning it around in his fingers, his hazel eyes so dark they look more like Tristan’s charcoal gray than their usual bright multi-faceted brilliance.