Chapter 8: Orders
The cold hit her the second the sliding door cracked open, a solid, furious wall of air that stole her breath. It wasn't playful or picturesque; it was violent. The balcony was a white tomb, the railing barely visible under a sculpted drift. Snow whipped sideways, stinging her cheeks like tiny needles.
She stepped out.
The door slid shut behind her with a final thump, muffling the world. The howl was immediate, a deafening roar that vibrated in her teeth. Her sweatshirt and sweatpants might as well have been tissue paper. The wind knifed through the fabric, freezing the sweat from her earlier nervousness against her skin. It found every gap, searing the strip of bare stomach, rushing up her legs.
Inside, Liam’s amused grin vanished. He watched her through the glass, her blonde hair whipping into a frenzy, her body bracing against the gale. She wasn't just standing in snow; she was being assaulted by it. The sixty-second dare, conceived as a goof, felt suddenly cruel. Idiotic. Her skin was turning from pink to a frightening, blotchy red.
He was at the door, hand on the handle, ready to yank her back in early, when she turned and met his eyes. Hers were watering from the cold, but they held a fierce, determined gleam. She shook her head once, a sharp movement. Don’t you dare.
He watched, helpless, as she planted her feet wider, leaning into the storm like a sailor on a deck. The minute stretched into an eternity. When she finally tapped the glass at sixty, he flung the door open.
She stumbled in, a blast of arctic air following her. The heat of the apartment felt like a physical slap. She was shaking uncontrollably, her entire body a series of violent, chattering tremors. Her teeth clicked together. Her lips were tinged with blue.
“Jesus, Cass, I’m sorry, that was stupid, I didn’t think—” The words tumbled out of him, laced with genuine panic. He reached for her, his hands hovering, unsure where to land.
She waved him off, her movements jerky. She went straight to the fire, kneeling so close the flames almost licked her. The shivers wracked her frame, deep and seismic. She held her palms out, but the heat couldn’t penetrate the deep cold lodged in her bones. Her whole body radiated a profound, alarming chill.
An idea cut through the brain-numbing cold. A classic. A cliché, maybe, but physics was physics. Internal heat.
She looked over her shoulder, her voice a ragged stumble. “D-do you have… any alcohol? Anything?”
Liam, who had been standing frozen with guilt, jolted into action. “Yeah. Yes.” He hurried to a small, cluttered cabinet above the fridge. He moved a box of pancake mix and a bag of rice. “My dad gave it to me for… I don’t know, existential crises? Here.”
He pulled out a bottle. It was comically stereotypical: brandy. The liquid inside was the color of weak tea. The label featured a faded, gilt-edged crest.
“Perfect,” Cass breathed, the word shuddering out of her. She took the bottle from him, her icy fingers brushing his. The touch was a brief, electric shock of temperatures. She struggled with the cork for a second before he took it back, twisted it open with a soft pop, and handed it to her.
She didn’t bother with a glass. She tipped the bottle back and took a large swallow.
It was fire. Cheap, sweet fire that blazed a trail down her throat and exploded in her stomach. She coughed, her eyes watering for a new reason. “God, that’s terrible.”
“Told you it was for crises,” Liam said, watching her closely.
She took another, smaller sip. This time the heat spread more gently, a warm pool beginning to fight the deep freeze in her core. She let out a long, shaky sigh that trailed into a residual shiver. “Okay. That’s better.” She held the bottle out to him. “Your turn. You sent me out there. You have to suffer too.”
He took the bottle, his fingers wrapping where hers had been. He took a dutiful sip, his face contorting. “Wow. That tastes like burned raisins and regret.”
A laugh hiccupped out of her, mingling with a final, smaller shiver. “Sit,” she commanded, nodding to the floor in front of the hearth.
He sank down beside her, leaving a careful foot of space between them. The brandy bottle sat on the stone hearth between them like a totem. The firelight danced over their faces, the only light in the deepening gray afternoon. The storm shrieked its outrage against the windows.
Cass watched the flames, feeling the brandy’s warmth seep into her limbs, loosening the last of the brutal cold. It also loosened something else. The careful distance, the polite truths. The near-miss of the balcony had scraped away another layer. She was tired of the dance.
She picked up the bottle, took another sip, and passed it to him. This time, when her fingers brushed his, she didn’t pull away. She let them rest against his for a half-second longer, her skin now warmer, almost matching his.
“My turn to ask,” she said, her voice lower, smoother now, the shivers gone. “Truth or Dare, Liam?”
He took a swallow, wincing less this time. “Truth.”
She watched the firelight catch the amber in the bottle between them. Her mind raced through options, skirting the edges of what she truly wanted to ask. Who have you fantasized about? What do you touch yourself to? Too much. The memory of his embarrassed regret when she stumbled back in from the balcony was still fresh. She needed a key, not a battering ram.
"Okay," she said, her voice a gentle nudge in the quiet room. "You said the whole... 'sports carburetor' thing usually complicates everything. Makes people expect a performance." She traced the rim of the bottle with her thumb. "But has there ever been a time when someone's interest in you felt... real? Not just about that?"
The question hung in the fire-warmed air. It was forward, but soft. It wasn't about mechanics. It was about recognition.
Liam’s gaze stayed fixed on the dancing flames. He let out a long, slow breath, as if releasing a held truth. "Once," he said, his voice quieter than the crackling logs. "In high school. A girl who was a friend first. She liked my stupid jokes about our history textbook." He took the brandy bottle, his fingers tight around the glass. "It felt real because it started here." He tapped his temple.
He took a drink, the liquid disappearing in a slow swallow. "It didn't last. But it was the only time it wasn't a transaction." He finally looked at her, the fire reflecting in his eyes. "It's the part people skip. They see the packaging and go straight to trying to open the box."
The raw honesty of it sat between them, more intimate than any physical description. He wasn't just answering her question; he was giving her a blueprint of his loneliness.
He placed the bottle carefully back on the stone. A log shifted in the grate, sending a cascade of sparks upward. His eyes, still holding hers, held a new, tentative charge.
"My turn," he said, the words a low murmur that competed with the storm. "Truth or Dare, Cass?"
Cass felt the shift. The air thickened, charged with a potential that made her skin hum. The brandy warmth in her belly spread. It softened the edges of the room, making the firelight seem to pulse. She met his gaze across that careful foot of space.
"Truth," she said, the word leaving her mouth easily.
Liam studied her. The fire carved shadows under his cheekbones. He took a slow breath, clearly weighing his question. He wanted to know, but the engineering of it mattered. He couldn't just ask for a list.
His fingers tightened slightly on his knees. "You said the assumption that you're empty is the hardest part," he began, his voice thoughtful. "So, when people get past the assumption... what are they usually looking for instead? What's the...transaction?"
He was asking about her sex life. Not the mechanics, but the economy of it. Cass appreciated the obliqueness. It gave her room.
She took the bottle back, sipping, letting the sweet burn give her a second. "They want the story," she said, finally. "The experience of having been with the girl from the poster. It's curated. It's about them getting to narrate it later." She thought of the football players, the fraternity presidents. "It's never messy. It's all highlight reel. Which means it's not real."
She looked at him, her expression frank. "It's efficient. And lonely as hell. You perform, they applaud, everyone leaves satisfied but untouched."
Liam absorbed this. He nodded slowly. The parallel was obvious. Performance for expectation. His was physical; hers was social. Both were cages.
"My turn," she said, but he shook his head gently.
"No. My turn to answer one. Truth or Dare?"
He didn't hesitate this time. The brandy, her honesty, the isolating howl of the storm pushed him. "Dare."
A slow smile touched her lips. He was finally stepping off the safe ledge. She looked at the bottle in her hand, then back at his guarded, hopeful face. Loosen up. She needed the careful, overthinking Liam to recede.
"I dare you," she said, her voice low and playful, "to catch up. Seriously. Three big swallows. Right now."
He blinked, then a real grin broke through. It transformed his face, making him look younger, less burdened. "That's your dare? That's just expediting the evening."
"Consider it a catalyst," she said, handing him the bottle. "Clock's ticking."
He took it, his eyes locked on hers. He tipped it back and took a long, unhurried pull, his throat working. The liquid level sank noticeably. He came up for air, his breath hitching, and immediately went back for a second. A third.
When he lowered the bottle, his eyes were watering. A flush was already spreading from his neck up into his cheeks. He set the bottle down with a decisive click on the hearthstone.
"Done," he said, the word a little fuller, a little looser. He shook his head once, as if clearing static. A different energy settled around him. The shyness was still there, but it was underlined now by a deliberate, simmering focus. He didn't look away from her.
The fire popped. The wind screamed against the glass. The foot of space between their knees on the rug felt like a canyon begging to be crossed.
The brandy hummed in Liam’s veins, molten and bold, shortening the gap without moving an inch. He watched the firelight trace the curve of her cheek.
Cass felt the change in his stillness. It wasn’t nervous anymore. It was patient, potent. The performance anxiety he’d described seemed to dissolve in the heat. She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, the position deliberately open.
She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, the position deliberately open. The fire painted her in shifting gold and shadow, and the silence between them was no longer empty. It was full of the brandy’s heat and the things they’d just said.
“Okay,” Liam said, his voice a little rougher than before. The alcohol had sanded down his edges. “My turn. Truth or Dare, Cass?”
She let the question hang for a moment, watching the flames dance in his eyes. “Truth,” she answered, her voice quiet.
He didn’t look away. The storm outside seemed to pause, holding its breath. He searched for the right question, the one that wasn’t about bodies or performances. He wanted the person behind the image, the one who got cold on a balcony and laughed about sports carburetors.
“What’s a sound you love?” he finally asked. “One that isn’t music or a crowd cheering. Just a… a good sound.”
It was the softest of softball questions, yet still personal. It bypassed everything expected. Cass blinked, surprised. Her practiced answers—the roar of a stadium, her favorite song—died on her tongue. She actually had to think.
“The sound of a coffee maker finishing its cycle first thing in the morning,” she said, the answer forming as she spoke it. “That last, wet gasp. It’s the sound of a day being possible. It’s quiet, and it’s just for me.” She felt a little foolish saying it. It was so small. “That’s a weird one, isn’t it?”
“No,” Liam said, a softness in his gaze that made her stomach flip. “Mine’s the scratch of a pencil on good paper. The graphite kind, not mechanical. It’s a full sound.” He mimicked a short scribble in the air. “Satisfying.”
His hand, resting on his own knee, was only inches from her bare foot on the rug. The proximity was a live wire. Every nerve in her felt attuned to that gap. The brandy hummed a low, encouraging note in her blood.
“My turn,” she breathed. The game had shifted. The rules were gone. “Truth or Dare?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back up. “Truth.”
“Truth.” His voice was steady, but a new tension threaded through it.
She didn’t look away from the fire. The brandy heat was in her cheeks, in her chest, giving her a calm, solid bravery. The careful dance of metaphors and half-truths had been beautiful, but it was a prelude. She wanted the specific fact now, the one he’d woven his awkward poetry around. She turned her head slowly, meeting his eyes. The playful daremaster was gone. In her place was a woman asking for a straight answer.
“Your sports carburetor thing,” she said, her tone conversational, almost gentle. “It’s your penis. Isn’t it.”
It wasn’t really a question. The words, plain and anatomical, dropped into the room like a stone into a still pond. All the delicate, swirling tension they’d painted froze into a single, sharp point.
Liam’s breath caught audibly. The flush from the brandy deepened, flooding his neck and ears with crimson. He didn’t look away, though his eyes widened just fractionally. Every muscle in his broad shoulders seemed to lock. The fire crackled, obnoxiously loud in the silence.
“Yeah,” he said, the word scraped raw. He looked down at his own hands, clenched in his lap. Then, with a visible effort, he made himself look back at her, his expression a complex map of embarrassment, defiance, and relief. “The 1970 Pontiac Super Duty 455 of penises. Completely mismatched with the rest of the hatchback.”
The self-deprecating humor was a shield, but it was a transparent one now. He’d confirmed the central fact of his physical life. The thing he was proud of and cursed in equal measure was now a acknowledged object between them, named and placed on the table beside the brandy bottle.
The thing he was proud of and cursed in equal measure was now an acknowledged object between them, named and placed on the table beside the brandy bottle. Cass didn’t smile, didn’t look away. She just held his gaze in the firelight, her expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, she reached for the brandy.
Her fingers closed around the neck of the bottle. She didn’t break eye contact as she lifted it. She took a long, deliberate pull, her throat working as she swallowed. The liquid sloshed inside the glass. She lowered it, her lips glistening, and extended it to him.
A silent challenge. A toast to naked truths.
Liam accepted the bottle. His eyes, dark and intent, stayed locked on hers. He tilted his head back and took a huge swing of brandy, the muscles in his neck corded tight.
The alcohol was a current now, pulling them both toward a deeper, swifter channel. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice, when it came, was thicker, stripped of its careful academic layers. “Truth or Dare, Cass?”
She took the bottle back from his hand, her movements fluid. She mirrored him, tipping it up for her own huge swig. The burn was a welcome spear, lighting up her insides. She met his stare over the glass. “Truth.”
The fire snapped, casting a wild shadow across his face. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the space between their bodies charged and crackling. The shy tutor was gone, eroded by cold and confession and cheap liquor. What remained was startlingly direct.
“Tell me about the best orgasm you’ve ever had,” he said.
The question didn’t shock her. It settled into the room, logical and inevitable as the next step in a formula they’d been writing all day. It was crude, but it wasn’t leering. He was asking for a data point, a coordinate on a map he was trying to read.
“It was last semester,” she began, her voice calm, analytical. “After we won the regional finals. The energy was… insane. Unspent. Maya was there.” She glanced at him, saw his slight nod—he knew Maya, the sharp-eyed stats student he’d tutored. “And this guy, Brett. A linebacker. All that adrenaline had to go somewhere.”
She took another, smaller sip, buying a second. “It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even really about him. It was about the three of us being this perfect, efficient machine. No one was performing. There was no audience.” She described it plainly: the hotel room, the way Maya’s knowing smirk had met hers, the sheer, focused physicality of it. Brett was strong, a catalyst, but the real current flowed between her and Maya. It was a pact, an extension of their friendship into a purely physical realm.
“Maya knew exactly what I needed without me making a sound,” Cass said, her gaze distant, seeing the patterned hotel wallpaper. “And I knew what she needed. Brett was just… the fortunate conduit. The finish line. When it happened, it wasn’t a wave. It was a detonation. From the inside out. Silent, for a second. Then just this… collapse.”
She fell quiet, the memory’s echo fading in the silent apartment. She looked back at Liam. His expression was fierce with growing arousal.
His expression was fierce with growing arousal. It wasn't just a leer; it was a profound, focused absorption.
Cass watched him process it, the firelight moving in his dark eyes. She felt utterly seen, not as an object, but as a complex organism of want. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
“Your turn,” he finally said, his voice rough. “Truth or Dare?”
She didn’t blink. “Truth.”
He leaned closer. The brandy was on his breath, sweet and sharp. “Was that a test? Telling me that?”
“No,” she said, the answer immediate and sure. “It was an answer. Your question deserved a real one.”
He nodded slowly, accepting this. The tension between them was a physical thing now, a pliable wire pulled taut. He exhaled, the sound shaky. The directness had cost him something, but it had also freed him.
“Okay,” Cass said, drawing the word out. She tilted her head, studying the new, loosened set of his jaw. “My turn. Truth or Dare, Liam?”
He didn’t even pretend to consider. The alcohol and the confessional atmosphere had burned away his hesitation. “Truth.”
She mirrored his earlier posture, leaning in so their faces were only a foot apart in the dim, jumping light. The storm was a distant drummer now, background noise to the pulse in the room. She asked the same question he had, her voice a low, deliberate mimicry. “Tell me about the best orgasm you’ve ever had.”
A sharp, surprised laugh shot out of him. He looked down, a slow smile spreading. “Fuck. Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in wilder tufts. He reached for the brandy, took a fortifying swallow, and passed it to her.
“Senior year of college,” he began, his eyes gaining a distant, heated focus. “Couple days before graduation. My girlfriend at the time.” He paused, a smirk touching his lips. “A verified slut, in the best possible way. No illusions, you know? Just a pure, unapologetic appetite.”
Cass took a sip, her eyes never leaving his face. She nodded for him to continue.
“We’d been at it for hours,” he said, the words coming faster now, fueled by memory and drink. “I was just… greedy. She was the first person, the only person, where I didn’t have to be in my head. Didn’t have to worry about if I’d fit, or if I was going too hard, or any of the fucking performance review. I could just… throw myself into the action. Not think. Just feel.”
His hands moved slightly as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air between them. “I lost count of how many times she came. Seriously. It was a lot. She was finally done, completely spent. She couldn’t take another second of me inside her.” He met Cass’s gaze, his own blazing with the memory. “She said she didn’t want to be in orgasm debt. That it was bad etiquette.”
Cass let out a soft, genuine laugh. The phrase was perfect.
“So she pushed me onto my back,” he continued, his voice dropping. “And she just… went to work. It wasn’t sentimental. It was technical. Surgical. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she was doing it to settle a score.” He swallowed, the memory vivid on his face. “It was the most focused, relentless thing I’ve ever experienced. I saw colors. I think I blacked out for a second. When it was over, I couldn’t speak. My hands were shaking. She just patted my leg and went to get a glass of water.”
“Surgical,” she repeated, her tone thoughtful. “I like that.”
Liam drunkenly cuts her off, "I don't. I want more, and real, and love , and all that shit. But I also want to be the guy who gets to fuck you until you can't walk straight. Is that too much to ask?"