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“Holy shit, this place must have cost the producers a fortune to rent,” I marvel as I take in my surroundings. The four-poster canopy bed behind me is huge. Diaphanous panels of sheer fabric hang around the head, beckoning.
There is nothing I’d like more than to crawl into that luxurious nest of expensive fabrics and . . .
“Can you manage to wash and blow dry in thirty minutes? There is nothing to shave, correct?” Immediately I blush as Nema drags me out of my daydream.
“No. I’ve been waxed within an inch of my life, per the contract.”
“Excellent. Let’s get you ready for dinner. You’re going to knock their socks off when I’m done with you.”
* * *
Fucking hell. “What kind of witchy magic were you born with?” I mutter, inspecting the seductress staring back at me in the mirror. My hair is shinier than a new penny, falling in gleaming waves down my back. My lids are dark and dramatic yet understated enough not to compete with the berry stain spreading across my plumped lips. The burgundy body con dress hugs my body like a second skin and is the exact same shade as my lips. My legs and shoulders glow with a golden shimmer.
I search inside for the discomfort I expect to feel, but I find the exact opposite. I look like a smoke show.
I have no idea what I’ve signed myself up for but I’m ready.
A satisfied smile curls across Nema’s lips. “This is going to fun.”
“What? What does that mean?” I ask, trying not to sound alarmed. She pats my shoulder. “See that woman?” She points to the mirror. “That’s you. Don’t forget that and you’ll be fine. Follow me.”
* * *
“Hello.” Finally. So much for a fashionably late entrance. I had hoped for at least a gasp or a wow when I made my entrance, but I was the first contestant brought in. And that was twenty minutes ago. I’ve been sitting at the admittedly gorgeous bar ever since, making small talk with the bartender. I twist on my stool, immediately intrigued by the crisp masculine voice greeting me. Holy man candy on a 6’2” drop dead gorgeous stick. “I’m sorry but is that a vodka and cranberry?” he asks in an English accent, heavy on the incredulousness.
What the fuck? The bartender coughs, shaking his head and glaring at the blond Adonis. I tamp done my first instinct, which is to snap, “What the fuck is it to you?” and respond politely. I shrug and turn back to the bar. “It’s a comfort drink. I know exactly how this drink affects me.”
“That’s smart,” he says warmly, with a hint of admiration in his voice. His head snaps up as the bartender approaches with a tumbler of scotch. How typical. Tuxedo, accent, and a drink that probably cost as much per glass as my monthly alimony payments. Weird. His response seemed genuine, but he looks like his family has more money than God. He holds his hand out, and the bartender places the glass directly within his grasp.
He’d dropped mine on the bar top. That’s odd. “May I?” Blondie asks.
“Whitney. Nice to meet you, May I.” I gesture to the stool next to me as I cringe internally. Why do I have to be so awkward?
The bartender snorts and chuckles. The sound grabs my attention. Black hair peppered with steel gray, the exact same shade as his eyes. He’s wearing a white button up over black pants, with the first button undone. The sleeves are unbuttoned, the cuffs rolled up. Black ink, some kind of script, is scrawled over his entire forearm. Thicker line strokes peek out of his shirt, winding around his neck.
My right index finger circles the glossy sheen of the bar as I imagine tracing the calligraphy that dances up his arm. “Do you like what you see, Ms. Pierson?” he asks, arching a brow. His lips purse as he stares at the same place on his arm. My cheeks burn. Fuck. Busted.
“I apologize,” I offer, meeting his eyes. My pulse is pounding, hammering through my body, driving sharp spikes of desire into my clit. The small scrap of fabric between my legs is soaked, and I’ve all but forgotten the sexy Brit beside me.
“Don’t,” the bartender puts his hands on the bar, leaning over, his shoulders and chest bunching under the constraints of the innocent shirt that he looks so out of place in.
I swallow hard. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t ever apologize for taking what you want.” The Brit leans in, his lips brushing my ear. His warm hand grasps my arm as he slides off the stool and spins around to face him. His other hand slides up my thigh, under my dress, his fingers brushing the wet lace across my cunt. In one smooth move he grasps the fabric and yanks. He balls up the underwear and brings them to his nose, inhaling, his eyes fluttering shut, his face rapturous.
His tongue darts out, his wrist dragging the scrap of fabric against the flat plane. “She tastes divine.” His eyes rove, over my head, searching.
My brows knit. “Game number one.” Just before a band of silk settles across the bridge of my nose and over my eyes, I see the Brit’s eyes. They don’t settle on the man behind me until he spoke. A whiff of cedar and moss, and maybe mint, emanate from the warm cloth as fingers brush a curl off my cheek. Something is off with the Brit. But what is it? He’s incredibly handsome. He seems quite genuine from the lack of artifice in his voice. Even though he’s dressed like he’s worth millions, I get the distinct sense he defers to his employee behind the bar.
The fabric is tied tightly to the back of my head. Thicker, rougher fingers than the ones that slide up my thigh grasp my upper arms. The scent from the fabric intensifies as the man behind leans over the bar, pulling me back. “Do exactly as I say. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I nod. The Brit’s palms are warm against the tops of my thighs as he spreads my legs open. The dress slides up, enough that I can feel the temperature of the air change as the Brit kneels. “Shh. Slow your breathing down. Purse your lips. Deep breath in, long, slow exhale.” Mindlessly, I follow his instructions as a steady stream of warm air blows over my pussy. My thighs are quivering, but the breathing tips help. “That’s a very good girl,” he purrs, sucking my earlobe into his mouth. He sucks gently, before nipping the very bottom. He runs his nose down the shell of my ear, each warm breath lighting my nervous system on fire. Before my brain can form a cohesive thought, the Brit slides his hands up and around, pushing the dress up over my ass.
“Do you remember your words? There is one to end the round and one to end the game.” This time he tugs on my arms. Not hard, but enough that my spine arches over the bar. The Britt slides his hands back over the top of my thighs, pushing my legs wide open. My breasts follow the curve of my spine, up and over, barely contained by the low-cut dress.
“I do,” I gulp, my cheeks aflame as my pelvis rocks on the stool.
“Lock your heels into the footrest.” I lift my feet and slide the red bottomed heels over the slats at the base of the stool. He lets go of one arm and winds a hand through my hair, tugging the locks until my scalp tingles. “What do you say?”
