All morning, the bowl is whispering to me. It’s telling me to pick a date and let someone cure the ache I have between my thighs. Just the thought of another night of unbelievable passion is enough to dampen my panties. The whisper of more pleasure is enough to dampen down the tendrils of worry around my heart.
As I reach and touch the three pieces of paper, the names of the remaining men spin like a Vegas slot machine; Nash, Noah, and Dex. Nash, Noah, and Dex. Who will it be?
My fingers are drawn to the most tightly folded piece. Whoever put it in the bowl wanted to make sure that the details wouldn’t be visible to me before I selected it. That extra level of secrecy has my interest.
Nash, Noah, or Dex.
I inhale a deep breath and unfold, taking my time until the writing is visible.
What the hell?
Carl.
He wasn’t supposed to have put his name in the bowl. He told me he was staying out of this to maintain a professional distance. He hasn’t been himself since the start of the game, and I’ve been walking on eggshells in case he’s mad at me.
I mean, he hired me to do a job, not become a sex toy for his staff.
And I’m doing the job. I’m doing it well, and I know he’s pleased because he tells me every day how great everything is, but that hasn’t stopped the corners of his mouth from sloping or the center of his brow from furrowing. It hasn’t stopped the frustrated glances at the rest of the Ink Factor team, as though he’s resentful of them partaking. As though he’s jealous.
And now he’s put his name in the bowl.
I have to sit down on my chair behind the reception desk and fold the paper back up into its neat, tightly closed original form. My hand goes to my mouth as I blow out a controlled breath through pursed lips.
I glance back at the bowl and then rummage to make sure I’m right. There are only two more dates left in the bowl, which means one of the others has pulled out, but who?
For the first time since the game started, I’m tempted to open all the remaining dates to find out what the hell is going on. Why would someone else not want an evening with me? Who could it be?
It wouldn’t make sense for it to be just one of the triplets. If Niall didn’t have a good time, then I’m sure both of his brothers would have made the decision not to go ahead. My mind drifts to our time under the stars, and I shake my head. Niall came so hard that night. And he’s been the sweetest to me ever since. There’s no way it’s him.
So maybe Lex didn’t have a good time. It was the first night, and I was more nervous than I’ve been since. Was our foodie sex a disappointment? Has his twin decided to pull out?
That wouldn’t make sense either. This whole thing was Dex’s idea. How could he be the one to decide not to go ahead?
My hand hovers over the bowl, but I can’t do it. I can’t look without disappointing myself. The old Kyla would have had a pathological need to know and be in control. The new Kyla is working hard to leave all of that behind and let the universe sit in the driving seat. Fate is guiding my hand. Fate is steering this ship.
The game is all about living in the moment. It’s about throwing caution to the wind. It’s about taking control of my nerves and pushing through to become a more confident me.
Carl.
He’s thrown his hat into the ring. Something’s changed but I don’t know what.
It’s only then that I realize that I didn’t register the other information on the paper. Opening the folds again, my eyes scan the details of what’s to come.
CARL. MY HOUSE. CALL ME SIR.
Holy shit.
24
CARL
When Kyla appears in the doorway to my office, I know. It's there in the way she shifts on her feet and the way she grips the door frame tightly. It's obvious from the way her eyes meet mine just for a second, then drop to the floor.
My cock stirs in my jeans at the hint of her submission.
"You put your name in the bowl?" Her voice has a breathy quality that's new. If I could rewind time and watch her open my date, I would pay good money to see her shocked reaction.
Shit. Just putting the paper in the bowl was enough to give me full-on wood.
"You picked my name out?"
"Yes," she says. "I'll need your address."
"I'll write it down." Grabbing a pen, I find a sticky note and scribble my address out quickly. I write 8 pm because I want to have enough time to prepare.