One Bride for Five Mountain Men

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks suddenly, sharply.

“No reason,” I say. Because I want to fuck you until you scream. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” she answers.

“Jordan,” I say. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“No rea—”

“You don’t get to say that more than once,” I admonish her. “Tell me.”

“To get the hell away,” she says. “I had to get the hell away.”

“I understand.”

The restaurant is getting darker, and as she places her next snail on the crispy, soft baguette, I find myself feeling the buzz of the wine slipping its shadowy fingers around the parts of me with good sense, and wresting them away. I begin to fantasize about Jordan more openly and look at her more baldly, without apology. She sneaks looks back at me. Does she see me as an authority figure? A dirty old man? A creep? A sexy older man? I don’t know.

She herself changes in the light. The wine is getting to her too. She’s slurring a bit.

Our food comes, and the night gets a bit late, a bit blurry. Before I know it Jordan and I are tumbling out of the restaurant, full of delicacies and wine, and she’s on my arm, laughing up at me. We’re stumbling toward my car service. Her foot goes out in front of her at a funny angle and she nearly falls.

“Jordan,” I say, “watch it—” and she’s in my arms, and we’re facing each other, and looking into each other’s eyes. “Careful,” I whisper, and everything disappears. It’s just her, and me, and the light of the streetlamps, and the endless infinity of her eyes.

“Oops,” she says even more softly, and leans almost imperceptibly toward me when suddenly I hear a shout.

We pull apart. It’s someone yelling at Jordan. In French.

He’s calling her a slut, a piece of ass. He says go back to your room and touch yourself, you trashy bitch. She’s staring up at me now, her eyes alarmed and worried.

“What is he saying?” she asks. Maybe she truly is innocent.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, pulling her by the arm toward the car. “He just wants your money.”

Her face is doubtful; she’s not convinced.

“Are you sure? Because I thought—”

“I’m sure. Now come with me.” My driver pops out of his side and goes to open the door, and Jordan almost falls into the car. I try to help her, and then I hear the shouts again.

“You’re a lucky man aren’t you, a famous piece of ass like her?”

“Shut up and go home,” I tell the man. I’m bristling. I don’t want to get in a fight, but I won’t shy away if I have to.

“You fuck off, you go home,” he says angrily, and my driver places himself in between us. He’s trained in martial arts, so I know he’ll defuse any action against me, but it’s a mistake to rely on someone fully, no matter how trustworthy he or she might be. Justine taught me that for one.

“Move along,” says my driver in a firm voice, the kind used for training dogs.

“Only too happy to,” he says with a sardonic laugh. “I hope you enjoy your piece of ass. I know I have.”

I wonder if this is what it would be like to be with her. Is this the kind of thing she experiences all the time? Or is it new? She seems shaken up by it, but wouldn’t a person have known it could happen? Wouldn’t a person have hesitated for this exact reason rather than take such a risk?

I put myself in the car and see that she’s sprawled out across the seats. Poor girl, she’s drunk as anything.

Don’t touch her, R, says one of my voices. The other argues and wins. I lift up her head, and sit on the seat underneath it, cradling her head between my thighs.

She makes a sweet sound and nestles in, and I feel a twinge of guilt, but not enough to make me stop. Her mouth is mere inches away from my cock. Her soft mouth. Her soft mouth that almost kissed me. One of her arms slips around the small of my back, and she’s hugging me as if I were a teddy bear.

With fear? Trepidation? I let my hand softly alight on her hair, its softness inviting me to stroke it. A sound comes from her throat, a small moan of happiness, as I let my fingers take one of her curls and tuck it behind her ear.