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My plate is half empty by the time she finishes laughing. “I ordered the pajamas for you from Macy’s. They aren’t fancy, just brand new. And yes, I agree, this room is a bit much. Tanner designed it for his sister.” Nema leans over the wrought iron and glass table.
“I’m worried about him,” I confess. “I know you can’t talk about them . . . But his face. Can you tell me if he’s okay?” I plead with my eyes, imploring her to give a sign, even a nonverbal one, that the man who drove me to the best four orgasms of my life is alright.
She sighs, setting her fork down. “Tanner’s had a death in the family.”
“Oh no,” I gasp.
“Oh yes,” she says.
“Oh . . . shit,” I say lamely, not having a clue as to what her tone is insinuating.
“Tanner comes from an important family in England,” Nema is choosing her words very carefully. Obviously, she’s leaving out a great deal of specific information. “The will specifies that he has to marry and produce an heir by the time he’s forty.”
“Oh . . . Hell. That’s . . . is it that much money?” I ask, cringing. Seeing the way her face tightens forces me to spit out the words I’m trying to choose carefully. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t care two figs about money. Easy to say, I know, when you’ve had a life like mine. What I’m trying to say is, I see how much they love each other. It’s not fair that in 2024 those kinds of rules are allowed to exist. His place in his family is his by birth and blood. It shouldn’t matter who he loves.”
She visibly relaxes. “I was hoping I took that incorrectly.”
“What time will my plane leave in the morning?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment.
“What do you mean?” she asks, popping a fry into her mouth.
“One, they probably have to fly to England for a funeral, and two, I’m far too old to be birthing babies. I’m forty-two. I love babies, but my body doesn’t want to have any more.”
Nema smiles. “Like you said. It’s 2024. Figuring out how to have a baby is nothing. Getting his family to change their antiquated views on sexuality and morality? Now that would be a miracle.” She drops a folded slip of paper on the table. “Fill this out. The next round of the game begins tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WHITNEY
Article 5, Section 8
Oxford Languages defines boundaries as “a limit of a subject or sphere of activity.” Consent is defined as “permission for something to happen or agreement to do something.” The signature of the contestant gives consent to all participating members of the game to perform any sexual activity within the boundaries set in writing by the contestant until the safe word is brought into play. The contestant has listed necrophilia, bestiality, vampirism, closed fists, and kicking as hard boundaries. The contestant states she is open to negotiating all other forms of play in the bargaining portion of each round. The contestant shall acknowledge that the other players have submitted no boundaries that conflict with the contestants.
I’m sound asleep, in my pitch-dark room, on my belly, with one leg hitched up when the bedding is ripped away from my body. A heavy body straddles me, sinking my weight into the covers. A gloved hand that smells of brand new, expensive leather presses over my mouth and pushes my head into the pillow. I’m instantly wide awake, my instincts screaming to fight. Moving to be flat on my belly, I push my leg straight and try to turn my face into the pillow. He lets go of my face, letting me turn my head all the way. My right hip protests, sending a jolt of pain through my joint; I ignore it. I slide my elbows back, pressing my palms against the mattress. If I can just get up on my hands and knees, I may be able to buck my assailant off. A fine sheen of sweat breaks over my skin as my forearms tremble, unable to lift the combined weight of my upper body and that of the beast on top of me. Thrashing gets me nowhere. I’m not strong enough to heave him off. After a couple of attempts I give up. The situation is scary, but a piece of me sings in excitement. The next round of the game has begun.
Who is it? Has a fourth player entered the game? Maybe I should count it as two players.
“Arms.” The one-word command is spit in a voice so gravelly I can barely understand. He doesn’t wait for me to obey. Reaching over me, he yanks my upper extremities behind my back. A length of scratchy rope is wound snug around my wrists, pulled tight, and tied. The fibers of the rope dig into my skin and burn. My shoulders ache in protest. I can barely breathe with my face stuffed in the pillow. Alarms that have lain dormant in my brain my entire existence are blaring that my mortal thread is about to be clipped. I should be terrified.
I have no clue where I’m at. I have no means of escape. No weapons with which to defend myself. Not one single ally. I know nothing about either of the men I’ve met, nor any idea who is sitting on top of me. I’m trusting a legally unenforceable contract about sexual activity to protect me. I should be frightened out of my mind.
But . . . I’m not. Because the Whitney I’ve kept buried my entire life, the Whitney who longs for the freedom to be herself, has clawed her way out of the depths of her forty years deep prison. That Whitney is dangerous. She’s hungry for every second she’s been denied. And is very, very horny.
A fair bit of panic sets in as I find myself working harder to draw breath. The pillow is thick and the stuffing my face has displaced is bunched up around my ears, muffling everything but the harsh, ragged sounds of my breathing. “Please, I can’t breathe,” I gasp into the pillow.
“Do you remember your words?” The words drift down from above me, lazily making their way through the pillow as the seconds ticks by. My brain latches onto the sentence, praying it’s the tatted up, beefy bartender slowly crushing the oxygen out of my body. The thick thighs wrapped around mine must belong to him.
What an odd thought. To hope the person asphyxiating you is a specific person. A weak laugh flutters past my smashed lips, soaking into the damp pillowcase just in time to escape my next jagged inhalation. Air enters my lungs, but it isn’t enough. My body begins to fight of its own accord. I should lay still and conserve my oxygen, but my animal brain will to survive has taken over.
His weight shifts as he leans over me. Lips caress the shell of my ear through the pillow, just like the bartender’s as he held me against the bar. “Use your word, Whitney.”
“No,” I burst out, rocking back and forth and a fresh wave of panic bursts through me. I rock and twist jerk my knees up, but I cannot dislodge the mountain on top of me. Would saying the word be so bad? Sure, I’d probably lose the game, but is it worth my life?
“Law.” I stop fighting. That was a different voice. Farther away, from the right. Sharp and demanding, the short, snapped word still carried an undercurrent of fear that I could hear through the pillow. The behemoth on top of me sighs. The thighs clamped on my hips relax infinitesimally. The pillow is unceremoniously ripped out from under me, snapping my head to the right. There is a sliver of moonlight filtering through the parted drapes. It slants across the bed, illuminating what’s happening to me like a spotlight. Cool, fresh, mountain air mingles with the scent of the vanilla citrus spray used on my bedding as I gulp lungfuls of precious oxygen.
I crank my neck around as far as I can. Lavender moonlight drapes softly over a jaw clenched in frustration. His head droops, his shoulder sinking in defeat.
He starts to swing his leg over my back. “Wait,” I entreat.
