To make cocktails

Someone on the far side of the circle finally spoke up.

“Chloe. Truth or dare?”

Chloe turned toward the voice, still wearing that small, sharp smile. She glanced once at Brian and Katie, then back at the group.

“Dare,” she said without hesitation.

The person who had asked leaned forward. “All right. I dare you to make everyone cocktails. Proper ones. No rushing. And everyone else has to come into the kitchen with you while you do it.”

A few people laughed. Chloe’s smile widened.

“Easy enough,” she replied.

Brian’s hands were still on Katie’s bare hips. He gave her another slow roll beneath him, and a soft sound slipped from her throat. Chloe looked at the two of them and added, almost casually, “Brian and Katie are still finishing their dare. They can stay in the living room. The rest of us are going to the kitchen.”

The group started standing. Someone clapped you on the shoulder.

“Come on, Dylan. You’re coming too.”

You opened your mouth to refuse, eyes still fixed on Katie’s naked back and the way Brian held her in his lap. But the pressure was immediate—voices overlapping, hands steering you toward the hallway, the same familiar insistence that you weren’t going to be the one who ruined it. Before you could dig in, you were being guided out of the living room with the others.

The kitchen was bright and suddenly crowded. Chloe moved to the counter and began pulling out bottles, glasses, ice, mixers. She worked slowly on purpose, measuring, stirring, tasting, starting over when something wasn’t quite right. Minutes stretched.

From the living room, the sounds carried easily through the open doorway.

First it was the same soft, uneven breathing you’d been hearing all night. Then it grew louder—wetter, more rhythmic. A clear moan from Katie, higher than before. The low creak of the couch. Brian’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, followed by another sharper sound from your wife. The noises didn’t stop. They built. Long, broken moans. The wet slap of skin. Katie’s voice rising in short, helpless bursts that left no doubt what was happening on the other side of the wall.

Chloe kept making cocktails, unhurried. The others leaned against counters, sipping whatever she finished, occasionally glancing toward the doorway when a particularly loud sound cut through. No one suggested going back early. No one suggested checking on them.

You stood near the fridge, forced to stay with the group, listening to every rising moan and every shift of the couch while Chloe took her time with the drinks. The “last round” was still going.

And whatever Brian was doing to Katie in the living room, he was no longer being quiet about it.