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“Yes . . . Sir,” I breathe. Oh, holy fuck, fuck, fuck, sexy bartender man. Hell yes, sir.
“She’s ready,” says the bartender.
I can’t see a damn thing. No light filters through my blindfold. There’s a rustle of clothing and a soft whump as something hits the floor. I try to close my thighs, but the Brit’s hands are there, stopping me and spreading me back open. I can’t believe this is happening. Where are the other contestants? Where are the cameras? Where are the producers? Shouldn’t someone be pulling me aside for an interview by now?
And what the fuck is he doing? I can feel the Brit breathing over my exposed pussy. His mouth is a hairsbreadth from lighting upon my achy, needy flesh and I can’t stand the anticipation. A whimper escapes me. Fuck it. I rock forward, pressing my hungry cunt against his mouth. I bite my lip as I thrust against his mouth, desperate to order him to eat my pussy, but a line from contract stops.
This is round one. There is no bargaining until round two. “Tanner,” the bartender’s voice is a whip, stinging my flesh. “Put her succulent cunt in your mouth and feast.”
“Yes, sir.” Dear God. He speaks directly into my flesh, his words echoing through my clit and into my belly as he wraps his lips around the little bundle of nerves that my ex-husband didn’t know existed. He sucks, just once, before relaxing his mouth. Keeping his face pressed between my legs he grips my ass and lifts, jerking me closer to the edge of the stool. Something cool, with a rounded tip presses against the entrance of my vagina as he alternates sucking and licking.
I suck in a breath through my teeth, the air making a hissing noise so loud I’m sure both men heard it. Never once in twenty years together did my husband ever use a toy on me. The man behind me notices immediately. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly.
“I . . . I . . .” I gasp, each syllable louder than the next. I want to explain to him that I’m fine, but I can’t form a coherent thought.
“Answer me, Whitney.”
Before I can speak, the vibrator slides into my dripping cunt. An orgasm rips through my nervous system with blinding intensity. A keening moan tears out of my throat. When my vision returns, the Brit is on his feet. He leans over me, his hands once again resting on my thighs. The bartender lets go of my arms. I crook one elbow and rest my head against my fist. I reach out, laying my other hand against the Brit’s cheek. Guiding his face to mine, I lick the sweet, satisfying taste of my own cunt off his glistening lips. He kisses me tenderly, curling one arm around my back as he leans over me.
“Hello, Tanner. I’m Whitney. I’m from Michigan and sometimes, when I’m in a new place, I drink classic beverages like vodka cranberries.” His mouth moves over mine like we’ve been kissing each other forever. It’s thrilling and new but comfortable. It’s exactly what I need. If getting my mind blown via oral sex and kissing Tanner is the game, I never want to stop playing.
He draws back, his eyes still while mine rove over his classically handsome face. “Hello, Whitney. I’m Tanner Mounteney. I drink scotch like a typical prick Brit. Your pussy is the first I’ve had. If vodka cranberries are what make you taste like that then I shall have to insist you imbibe regularly during your stay at Starlight Creek.” He unwinds his arm from my back and leans over me, resting his elbows on the bar.
“How’d I do?” He asks the bartender, as my eyebrows knit in confusion. The man behind the counter grasps Tanner’s chin between his thumb, curling his index finger underneath.
“Her chest is heaving. Her pupils are blown wide. Can you not feel the way her thighs her are still quivering?” Their mouths collide in a kiss so hot my cunt clenches. The vibrator squirts out. The men jerk apart as the device clatters to the floor. The bartender sighs and tosses a remote next to my sweating glass. “You did great, my love. Now, do it again. This time, you’re on your own while we watch.”
CHAPTER THREE
WHITNEY
Article 4, Section 3
The contestant will eat, hydrate, and complete all requested physical and psychological examinations prior to and after each round. Upon request, the contestant will dine with the host three meals per day. All other meals may be taken in the sunroom or in the privacy of the living quarters provided to the contestant. All meals and lubricants will prescribe to the contestant’s completed survey of likes, dislikes, allergies, and dietary requirements.
Nema literally tucks me in.
After the fourth orgasm, as I lay trembling and gasping on top of the bar, just as Tanner was shucking off his pants to give me the dick I was desperately longing for, his pocket rang. My pussy dried up as fast as the pallor stole over his face. Whatever news the caller delivered drained the blood from his cheeks completely. Gray eyes immediately led him out of the room. His sole focus was Tanner. He never introduced himself, never spared me a single glance.
And I wasn’t offended. A little lost, sure, but mostly worried for Tanner. Nema showed up by the time I had finished my drink and poured myself another. Although only minutes had ticked by, the time alone was enough to reflect on the fact that in all my years married to Jason, I couldn’t think of a single time he’d shown that kind of concern for my welfare. Beefcake bartender with the corded forearms and toe-curling tattoos would have burned the world down if planet dared step in between him and the Brit. The way he wrapped his arm around the other man and lead him from the room was beautiful.
That intimate tender gesture was also a giant laser pointer, highlighting all the inequities of my marriage. Not that it matters. That institution is deceased and buried. So dead that I’m fucking strangers on top of the grave and there isn’t a single ghost who cares.
Nema led me back to my room. After a quick shower I found red satin two-piece pajamas laid out on my bed. By the time I had finished my nighttime skin routine, she appeared with a cart with two silver cloches and a variety of a beverages, grilled chicken sandwich, and sweet potatoes fries that were obviously fresh cut and fried to perfection.
“If you like, I can take my evening meal in here with you, or, I can leave you to rest. Your choice.”
“I would love it if you stayed,” I respond eagerly, almost cutting her off.
“I warn you, I cannot discuss anything relating to the game or my employers.” She tilts her chin to the side and raises an eyebrow. She pulls back a set of heavy, midnight drapes and reveals a set of French doors. “Grab the plates, please,” she asks as she disappears into the night.
I pick them up and follow her out. Oh. Wow. Dusk has painted the mountainous landscape in an array of pinks and oranges. The view is stunning. “You dress me, style me, wait on me, feed me, basically handle me, but you aren’t allowed to conduct one of those psychological examinations I may be subjected to at . . . Wait,” Setting the plates down carefully, I tap my finger on my scrunched-up lips as I roll my eyes up and stare at the brilliant sky. “Oh. Yes, prior to or after each round of the game.”
“Not bad,” Nema chuckles, her expressive eyebrows shooting up as she nods. “Impressive.” She jogs back into the room and comes back with two glasses of ice water with lemon wedges.
I pick up my sandwich. My teeth sink into a perfectly grilled chicken breast that’s obviously been marinaded in some kind of world-famous sauce. “Oh, fuck me,” I moan. “This is divine. This is literally the best chicken sandwich I’ve ever had. Like this ridiculously lavish room,” my arms sweep back to the room then down, just in case Nema doesn’t understand English a la mouthful of chicken, “and these pajamas.” I mumble, swallowing. “Wait, don’t tell me, the yarn is spun from the beard of a unicorn, cured in twenty-seven organic botanicals found deep in the jungles of South America, then spun by an astral projecting, portal hopping, Fae witch for,” I finish dramatically, “the Queen of England.”
Nema chokes. A tiny jet of lemon water shoots out of her left nostril. I grin and tear off a huge bite. I can’t remember the last time I was this famished.
