One Bride for Five Mountain Men

Reaching forward, he takes me by the elbow and guides me toward the bed with one hand while he fists his cock with the other. It’s long and sort of slender, but probably will work well enough. His hand moves quickly along the shaft, almost roughly.

I’m a little off balance and stumble toward the mattress, barely catching myself before I slide to the floor. Pasting a smile on my face, I try to arrange myself gracefully across the quilted silk comforter and reach for his shoulders to attempt round two of making out.

“Yeah, yeah,” he groans as he almost falls on top of me, jerking himself and rubbing against the hinge between my thigh and my hip, poking uncomfortably at some part of my intestines.

“Oh, excuse me,” I mumble politely, attempting to rearrange us into a more graceful coupling. “Just let me get —”

His weight dumps on top of me all at once, pinning me to the mattress below. There is a sharp pain in my side as his ring scrapes across my waist over and over again and he arches and curls around me.

“Hold on!” I call out, realizing what’s going on. His legs are tense and knotted, and he kicks me in the shin, twice.

“Oh! OOOOHhhhhghhhhgggg!” he groans into my hair, lying across me diagonally. I feel something hot and sticky shoot between us, seeping over the ticklish edge of my ribs and landing on my blouse that’s pinned beneath me.

Politeness dictates that I don’t disturb him during the last few seconds of his orgasm, I’m quite sure. But it takes almost all of my strength to keep from kicking him off the side of the mattress.

Panting and heaving, he continues to flop on top of me until his balls are spent. When he finally slides away, I can hear the sticky sounds of our skin separating again, and I want to throw up.

As soon as I’m free, I roll toward sitting, pulling my shirt up behind me. It’s cold and heavy where his spunk has left a distinctive splotch on the fabric.

“Oh, you are amazing,” he moans into the comforter. “I knew you would be. I just knew it.”

His arms are flung out on either side of him as he relaxes completely, apparently going to sleep.

For a few minutes I just stand there, stunned. What exactly is the protocol for this situation? I mean, what on earth just happened here?

Finally, with a mixture of disappointment, confusion, and somehow shame, I just stumble back toward the elevator door and punch the button with my thumb. When it finally dings to announce its arrival, I glance back and see this guy doesn’t even notice. He’s probably asleep.

And I realize I didn’t even get his name.

Chapter 3

Lola

The next morning, I find that I am in just as crappy of a mood as I was yesterday. If there was a way to fly back to Sacramento today, I would do it. Unfortunately, I left all of my travel docs in Nance’s room. And if I know her, there’s no way she’s letting me out of this early.

But it’s worth a shot.

With a fresh grande latte in my hand, I shuffle down the silent hallway to Nance’s suite and kick gently at the door. There’s no answer.

A small family, probably here for a ski vacation, hurries behind me with the mom guiding the children in front of her like they are baby ducks. Glancing over my shoulder at them, I wait for them to pass before kicking more forcefully at Nance’s door.

“I know you can hear me,” I say at the shiny wood. “Open up, Nance. Don’t make me make a scene.”

Finally I hear the deadbolt unlatch and the door opens three inches. I push it open the rest of the way and walk in, watching her long limbs stretch over her head as she walks, naked, to the row of bright windows.

Funny thing about Nance. She loves being naked. If sh

e could take meetings naked, she would. Not that I blame her: she does have quite the glorious body. Long and muscular, smooth as if carved out of marble. Tiny, pointy tits and a perfectly round belly button like somebody just plucked a jellybean out of the middle of her.

“I brought you a latte,” I explain shyly, leaving it on the desk and plopping into a chair. I’m pretty sure that my travel docs are right there, in the satchel with all the papers spilling out. Maybe she’ll go to the bathroom or something and I can dig them out of there.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she sighs, leaning dramatically to one side in some kind of yoga pose. Triangle? “I’m only drinking yerba maté this year.”

“Figures,” I scowl.

She rises back to standing with her arms out like an airplane, then tips to the other side. Despite myself, I can’t help but watch. She really is something else.

For a long time, she doesn’t say anything. I suppose I’m supposed to wait here while she completes her bare-assed sun salutation or whatever the hell it is that she’s doing over there. I squint at my reflection in the mirror. My auburn hair curls around one side of my face, framing my green eyes. It’s a good look for me, part bombshell and part intrepid reporter from the 1930s. I mean, that’s basically the look I was going for. It works.