The Silver Swan (The Elite King's Club 1)

Nate points to the tent entrance. “Bumboy, close the tent!” Carter looks at him with narrowed eyes before getting up and shutting the entrance.

I bring it to my mouth and inhale like I’ve seen in movies. Thanks, Redman and Methodman. The smoke hits me right in my throat and then in my chest. I cough spastically, my lungs feeling like they’re closing up, before handing it to Carter. A second later, my eyes are heavy and the thick smoke that’s starting to fog up the tent all starts to swim around everyone’s frames, slowly getting thicker and thicker.

I lean into Nate and laugh. “Are we hot-boxing the tent?”

He kisses me on the head. “Yeah, kitty, we are.”

My eyes find Bishop’s. He’s leaning on his elbow, but slightly into Tatum. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, but again, it looks like he’s open to her. He grins at me, and then leans into her, whispering something into her ear. Anger, jealousy, and hate fills me to the brink as I look to Tillie, trying to find something to take my mind off whatever the fuck Bishop is doing.

“Tillie! Come here.” I wave her over as she takes a long hit on the joint. “Whoa,” I laugh, as she takes a seat between Nate and me. “You’re hitting that like a pro.”

She shrugs. “I mean, it isn’t my first time.”

Nate grabs onto her and places her on top of his lap. “You’re so fucking sexy right now. I could eat you.”

“Please don’t,” I murmur, taking the joint from Tatum and bringing it to my mouth before taking another hit. This time, it goes down my airways a little smoother. I let the taste sit on my tongue, closing my eyes and feeling every inch of myself relax and loosen. All the stresses and worries I had thirty minutes ago mean nothing. Bishop across from me whispering sweet nothings into Tatum’s ear? Means nothing. I lay on my back with the joint between my fingers.

Carter bends over on his elbow, taking the joint from me. “The thing is for sharing, Madi. Puff, puff, pass!” He laughs, moving in closer to me once again.

I laugh. “Oh, Carter,” I announce loudly. “I don’t share anything, and if something of mine thinks I do share, I can show them in more ways than one on how I don’t.”

The tent falls silent, everyone understanding the meaning in my words. Everyone but Carter. Stupid Carter. I bring my hand up to my face, an inch away, but the smoke is so thick I can barely make out the outline of my fingers.

“But!” I add. “Good thing I’m a free agent, huh?”

A hand glides up my leg, and I know it’s not Bishop’s slightly rough hand. This hand is too soft. “Yeah, lucky for me.”

I turn my head toward where I know Carter is.

Nate laughs, but it sounds like it’s muffled. “Maybe we should get Hunter someone to play with. Then this can be one big orgy.”

Filled with anger, betrayal, and jealousy—jealousy, because Tatum probably has Bishop’s hands on her—my thoughts pause. My core clenches and sweat beads on my head. The thought fills me with excitement, hate, jealousy, and… lust? Why? Why does that thought turn me on? Annoyed at myself for being such a mess, I turn onto my stomach.

“Naw.” I giggle, my eyes lazy and my movements slow. I rest my head down on my arm. “Hunter can play with me. I can take two… just ask Bishop. He knows just how much I can take in bed.”

Hands wrap around my ankles, and I’m suddenly tugged roughly, flipping onto my back. Yeah, those hands… those are Bishop’s. The weight of a body falls over me, lips coming down to my ear. He pulls my lobe into his mouth. “Careful, kitty. I don’t share either.”

“You be careful.” I shove at his chest and he laughs. “Go back to doing what you were doing.”

Bishop pulls out his phone and flashes it into the corner, where two people are making out. Hunter and Tatum. They must have connected after the smoke got too thick.

“Hmm,” I murmur, tilting my head.

He looks back to me, pressing his lips against mine. “But the questions is, why did that bother you so much, kitty? Do we need to have the talk?”

Carter murmurs from behind me, “I’m just going to go.” Then he slips out of the tent quickly, letting some of the smoke out, but not all. At least now I can see the profile of Bishop’s face, just as Breaking Benjamin’s “The Diary of Jane” starts playing out of the dock.

“I don’t know. I’m not very good at this,” I reply.

“At what?” he whispers across my lips, pushing me down onto my back with his body. He stretches my legs wide with his, resting in between until his bulge is digging into me—right there. “At this!” I gesture between us. “I… I don’t think I can do it and not feel, Bishop. I’m not you.”