The bottle spun with a lazy whir, a glassy vortex on the polished concrete floor of the training facility’s common room. It was a rare night off, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and the easy, rambunctious energy of a dozen wrestlers letting loose. The bottle slowed, wobbled, and with a final, teasing rotation, its neck came to a stop, pointing directly at Alexa Bliss.A collective, rowdy cheer went up. Cora Jade, who’d spun it, grinned wickedly. “Alright, Bliss. Truth… or dare?”Alexa’s blue eyes, already sparkling with a few drinks' worth of courage, flicked across the circle. They didn’t land on Cora. They didn’t land on AJ Lee, who was curled up on a couch looking amused. They landed, for a heartbeat too long, on Jon Moxley. He was slouched in a worn armchair, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, his gaze a steady, smoldering counterpoint to the room’s chaos. That look, that unspoken current that had been arcing between them all night, was the real truth of the evening.“Dare,” Alexa said, her voice a confident purr that silenced the chatter. “Always dare.”Cora’s grin widened. She’d seen the looks, too. “Perfect. I dare you to give Moxley a lap dance. A proper one.”Another roar of approval erupted. Moxley didn’t smile, but a slow, dark heat ignited in his eyes. He took a long, slow pull from his beer, his Adam’apple bobbing, and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. An invitation. A challenge.The music changed. Someone with a phone queued up a song with a deep, throbbing bassline that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. Alexa rose, a tiny powerhouse in ripped jeans and a black crop top. Every eye was on her as she closed the distance, the crowd parting like the Red Sea.She stopped in front of his chair, looking down at him. The energy shifted from party-game fun to something far more primal, more intimate. The spectators weren’t just friends anymore; they were an audience to a private performance that was about to become anything but.“You comfortable there, Mox?” she asked, her voice dropping to a register meant only for him.He leaned back, spreading his legs just a fraction in the wide chair. A king on a battered throne. “I’m getting there.”She started slow, a subtle sway of her hips, a roll of her shoulders, moving with the sinuous rhythm of the music. She turned her back to him, glancing over her shoulder, and let her hands slide down her own sides, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. It was a tease, a preview.Then she turned back and lowered herself.She didn’t just sit on his lap. She melted onto him. Her ass settled against the hard plane of his thighs, and she felt the immediate, rigid proof of his interest press against the denim of her jeans. A sharp, pleasant jolt went through her. She ground down, a slow, circular motion, and heard the air catch in his throat—a rough, ragged sound that was better than any applause.Her arms snaked back, her fingers finding purchase in his hair, tugging gently, earning herself another low growl. She rocked against him, the friction a delicious, building heat. Leaning forward, she arched her back, presenting herself to the cheering room before pressing herself back against his chest.His control was fraying. One of his hands, calloused and strong, settled on her hip, his thumb pressing into the bare skin above her waistband. The other remained fisted around his beer bottle, his knuckles white.She rose up on her knees, turning to face him, straddling his legs. Her face was inches from his. She could smell the beer on his breath, the faint scent of his sweat, something uniquely, dangerously him. Her hands framed his stubbled jaw.“You just gonna sit there and take it?” she whispered, her breath ghosting over his lips.That broke him. The beer bottle was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. His hands, both of them, came up to grip her waist, hard. He pulled her down, grinding her core against the hard ridge in his jeans. The sensation was electric, a direct line of pure need that made her gasp.“What do you want me to do, Alexa?” he rasped, his voice gravelly with want.Her answer was to capture his mouth with hers.It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision—all hungry lips and clashing teeth and invading tongues. It was a release of all the pent-up tension from hours of stolen glances. One of his hands slid from her waist down to her ass, gripping a handful of denim-clad flesh, pulling her harder against him, matching the rhythm of her hips with his own upward thrusts.The room around them exploded in whistles and catcalls, but the sound was muffled, distant. The only music was their ragged breathing, the only world was the space between their bodies.His free hand slipped under the edge of her crop top, his rough palm skating over the smooth, hot skin of her stomach. She moaned into his mouth, her own hands sliding down his chest, feeling the powerful muscle beneath his shirt. She could feel the frantic, thunderous beat of his heart against her palm.She broke the kiss, panting, and leaned her forehead against his. Her hips never stopped moving, a steady, sensual roll that was driving them both toward a fever pitch. She looked into his eyes, dark and blown wide with lust.“They’re all watching,” she breathed, a wicked, turned-on smile playing on her kiss-swollen lips.His grip on her tightened possessively. “Let them watch.”He shifted beneath her, his hands moving to the button of her jeans. The metal popped open with a sharp click that seemed deafening. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans and her underwear beneath, tugging them down just enough to expose the delicate skin of her hip bones, the very top of her pubic mound.The cool air hit her heated skin, a shocking contrast to the searing heat of his touch. His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate path along that exposed line of skin, dipping just slightly, teasingly, lower with each pass. Her eyes fluttered closed, a low whimper escaping her as her entire world narrowed to that single point of contact, a promise of what was to come.

During a night off, the wrestlers played a game of truth or dare, and Alexa Bliss chose dare.  Cora dared Alexa to give Jon Moxley a lap dance.  Alexa gave Moxley a lap dance and they started kissing.

The bottle spun with a lazy whir, a glassy vortex on the polished concrete floor of the training facility’s common room. It was a rare night off, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and the easy, rambunctious energy of a dozen wrestlers letting loose. The bottle slowed, wobbled, and with a final, teasing rotation, its neck came to a stop, pointing directly at Alexa Bliss.

A collective, rowdy cheer went up. Cora Jade, who’d spun it, grinned wickedly. “Alright, Bliss. Truth… or dare?”

Alexa’s blue eyes, already sparkling with a few drinks' worth of courage, flicked across the circle. They didn’t land on Cora. They didn’t land on AJ Lee, who was curled up on a couch looking amused. They landed, for a heartbeat too long, on Jon Moxley. He was slouched in a worn armchair, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, his gaze a steady, smoldering counterpoint to the room’s chaos. That look, that unspoken current that had been arcing between them all night, was the real truth of the evening.

“Dare,” Alexa said, her voice a confident purr that silenced the chatter. “Always dare.”

Cora’s grin widened. She’d seen the looks, too. “Perfect. I dare you to give Moxley a lap dance. A _proper_ one.”

Another roar of approval erupted. Moxley didn’t smile, but a slow, dark heat ignited in his eyes. He took a long, slow pull from his beer, his Adam’apple bobbing, and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. An invitation. A challenge.

The music changed. Someone with a phone queued up a song with a deep, throbbing bassline that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. Alexa rose, a tiny powerhouse in ripped jeans and a black crop top. Every eye was on her as she closed the distance, the crowd parting like the Red Sea.

She stopped in front of his chair, looking down at him. The energy shifted from party-game fun to something far more primal, more intimate. The spectators weren’t just friends anymore; they were an audience to a private performance that was about to become anything but.

_“You comfortable there, Mox?”_ she asked, her voice dropping to a register meant only for him.

He leaned back, spreading his legs just a fraction in the wide chair. A king on a battered throne. _“I’m getting there.”_

She started slow, a subtle sway of her hips, a roll of her shoulders, moving with the sinuous rhythm of the music. She turned her back to him, glancing over her shoulder, and let her hands slide down her own sides, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. It was a tease, a preview.

Then she turned back and lowered herself.

She didn’t just sit on his lap. She _melted_ onto him. Her ass settled against the hard plane of his thighs, and she felt the immediate, rigid proof of his interest press against the denim of her jeans. A sharp, pleasant jolt went through her. She ground down, a slow, circular motion, and heard the air catch in his throat—a rough, ragged sound that was better than any applause.

Her arms snaked back, her fingers finding purchase in his hair, tugging gently, earning herself another low growl. She rocked against him, the friction a delicious, building heat. Leaning forward, she arched her back, presenting herself to the cheering room before pressing herself back against his chest.

His control was fraying. One of his hands, calloused and strong, settled on her hip, his thumb pressing into the bare skin above her waistband. The other remained fisted around his beer bottle, his knuckles white.

She rose up on her knees, turning to face him, straddling his legs. Her face was inches from his. She could smell the beer on his breath, the faint scent of his sweat, something uniquely, dangerously _him_. Her hands framed his stubbled jaw.

_“You just gonna sit there and take it?”_ she whispered, her breath ghosting over his lips.

That broke him. The beer bottle was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. His hands, both of them, came up to grip her waist, hard. He pulled her down, grinding her core against the hard ridge in his jeans. The sensation was electric, a direct line of pure need that made her gasp.

_“What do you want me to do, Alexa?”_ he rasped, his voice gravelly with want.

Her answer was to capture his mouth with hers.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision—all hungry lips and clashing teeth and invading tongues. It was a release of all the pent-up tension from hours of stolen glances. One of his hands slid from her waist down to her ass, gripping a handful of denim-clad flesh, pulling her harder against him, matching the rhythm of her hips with his own upward thrusts.

The room around them exploded in whistles and catcalls, but the sound was muffled, distant. The only music was their ragged breathing, the only world was the space between their bodies.

His free hand slipped under the edge of her crop top, his rough palm skating over the smooth, hot skin of her stomach. She moaned into his mouth, her own hands sliding down his chest, feeling the powerful muscle beneath his shirt. She could feel the frantic, thunderous beat of his heart against her palm.

She broke the kiss, panting, and leaned her forehead against his. Her hips never stopped moving, a steady, sensual roll that was driving them both toward a fever pitch. She looked into his eyes, dark and blown wide with lust.

_“They’re all watching,”_ she breathed, a wicked, turned-on smile playing on her kiss-swollen lips.

His grip on her tightened possessively. _“Let them watch.”_

He shifted beneath her, his hands moving to the button of her jeans. The metal popped open with a sharp click that seemed deafening. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans and her underwear beneath, tugging them down just enough to expose the delicate skin of her hip bones, the very top of her pubic mound.

The cool air hit her heated skin, a shocking contrast to the searing heat of his touch. His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate path along that exposed line of skin, dipping just slightly, _teasingly_, lower with each pass. Her eyes fluttered closed, a low whimper escaping her as her entire world narrowed to that single point of contact, a promise of what was to come.

A group of wrestling superstars engage in a night of truth or dare, where the game quickly escalates into a heated and public display of desire.

A dare is issued for Alexa Bliss to give Jon Moxley a lap dance, which quickly turns into a passionate and intense encounter.

The two wrestlers put on a heated show for the crowd, with their performance becoming increasingly intimate and charged with sexual tension.

The scene unfolds with a mix of dominance and submission, as the two wrestlers explore their desires and the boundaries of their public performance.

The atmosphere is charged with raw, unfiltered lust and the thrill of being watched by their peers, as the two wrestlers push the limits of their public display.

A Blissful Dare.

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