Chapter 9
Tori
I was going to kill Chet Bosworth.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Possibly with one of the ridiculous inflatable horses currently bobbing in the resort’s Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“Laaaaadies and gentlemennnnn!” Chet’s voice boomed through the sound system, echoing across the water and bouncing off the stadium lights they had somehow managed to install around the pool deck. “Welcome to the WARLORD’S TOURNAMENT!”
The crowd—consisting mostly of camera crews, production assistants, and the other contestants who weren’t currently being forced into humiliating swimwear—cheered with wildly exaggerated enthusiasm.
I stood at the edge of the pool with my arms crossed tightly over my nearly naked chest, staring at the chaos before me.
The elegant resort pool had been transformed into some kind of medieval-themed fever dream.
The water glowed an unnatural shade of bright blue that probably violated several environmental laws.
Inflatable castles floated at either end like props from a children's birthday party.
Plastic drawbridges bobbed lazily in the chlorinated waves.
And in the center of the pool… the "steeds." Pink, inflatable horses. Sparkly ones.
I closed my eyes briefly. I should have told Egon everything last night. About Derek. About the fact that, technically, I was still married.
But we’d returned to his suite and he’d pounced.
I had no will to resist when his mouth closed over my pussy and he made me beg for release.
Wasn’t going to bring up Derek when his huge cock was pumping into me, making me lose my damn mind.
And after? God. He held me like I was breakable.
Ran his dinner-plate sized hands over every inch of me like he would never get enough.
I had never been touched like that. Ever. He was lethal. Irresistible.
And I was still keeping secrets. Damn it. I should have told him. My stomach twisted.
I'd called my lawyer yesterday morning. He'd left a voicemail while we were filming, asking me to call him back as soon as possible.
Apparently, Derek's lawyers "weren't cooperating.
" I still had no idea what that meant. Why wouldn't they cooperate?
Derek had wanted this marriage to be temporary.
That had been the whole deal. Six months.
Clean divorce. He gets what he wanted. I get paid. Everyone moves on.
Unless…
No. I pushed the thought away. I didn't have time to spiral about my maybe-not-yet-annulled marriage while standing next to a pool full of inflatable horses.
"Each contestant will mount her noble steed!
" Chet announced dramatically, his neon green suit shimmering under the lights.
Today's costume appeared to be "insane medieval king.
" A plastic crown sat crookedly on his head while his usual feather boa had been replaced with something that looked suspiciously like a curtain tassel.
"She will take up her lance—" He gestured toward a rack beside the pool.
Bright yellow pool noodles. Each one wrapped with duct tape handles.
"—and joust for the honor of the Warlord! "
The camera operators zoomed in dramatically. "The last lady remaining on her horse wins the coveted Golden Rose and a private dinner with Egon!"
I stared at the inflatable horses again.
This was humiliating. This was absurd. This was, without question, the least dignified thing I had ever been asked to do in my life.
And that included the time in college when I had worn a giant hot dog costume for six hours to promote a campus deli.
I was a grown woman. A veterinarian-in-training.
Someone who had spent years studying animal behavior—fear responses, bonding patterns, nonverbal communication.
And now I was expected to climb onto a glitter-covered pool toy in a barely-there bikini and smack other women with foam sticks?
"Contestants!" Chet's voice rang out again. "Are you ready to fight for your Warlord?"
I opened my eyes as the rest of the women screamed in enthusiasm.
One glance at Egon and I forgot the inflatable horses.
Egon was watching me. He sat on a throne—an actual throne—carved from foam and spray-painted gold, positioned on a raised platform at the far end of the pool.
The man looked absolutely ridiculous. And somehow…
magnificent. Gorgeous. His dark hair made my hands twitch to touch.
His lips needed me to kiss them. I could just tell.
My pussy clenched as every cell in my body flashed back to last night.
I wanted him. Again. I’d somehow gone from a sex-starved woman with no thoughts of dating to a sex-crazed maniac who couldn’t think about anything other than climbing that Atlan Warlord like a tree and going for another ride.
Afternoon sunlight caught the bronze-gold tone of his skin, the faint shimmer of glitter someone in wardrobe had apparently decided was now permanent. His dark hair fell loosely over his forehead, slightly wind-tossed by the warm ocean breeze drifting through the open resort courtyard.
But it was his eyes that held me. Golden.
Focused entirely on me. Even from across the pool, I could feel the intensity of that gaze like a physical touch.
Like heat sliding slowly across my skin.
He looked at me like that when he pushed his cock deep.
When he pulled out. Thrust. When he watched me come.
I couldn’t fucking breathe.
God. We had only made love twice. Twice.
And already my body reacted to him like it had been waiting for him my entire life.
The memory flashed through my mind without permission—his hands gripping my hips, his voice low and rough in my ear, the way he looked at me afterward like I was something precious and dangerous at the same time.
My face grew hot. Thank god for my darker complexion or I’d look like a ripe tomato about now.
Across the pool, Egon shifted slightly in his throne.
The movement was subtle, but I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his massive hands gripped the armrests.
Even from a distance I could read him now.
The restraint. The hunger. The possessiveness he was trying so hard to hide for the cameras.
And something else. Something darker. His gaze dropped briefly to the contestants gathering around the pool.
Then returned to me again. Locked there.
Unmoving. Like a predator who had already chosen his prey.
It was the beast looking at me now. The beast Egon had told me could not come out until I had the mating cuffs around my wrists. The beast Egon confessed he wasn’t sure he could control.
Hell, yeah. I wanted the beast, too. I could see him, wild and primitive and fierce.
Maybe I should have been afraid. I wasn’t.
I wanted all that intensity and fire and raw, primal need to consume me.
I didn’t want gentle from the beast. I wanted to watch him lose control.
Surrender. Claim me. I wanted this to be real.
Behind me, Jessica flipped her long blonde hair dramatically and grabbed one of the pool noodles. I tore my gaze from Egon.
"Well," she said loudly, clearly for the cameras, "may the best woman win." Her eyes flicked toward Egon. Then toward me. The smile she gave me was sharp. Predatory.
I forced myself to smile back and stretched, raising my hands over my head.
I thrust my breasts out and arched my back.
Across the pool, the Warlord watching me looked very much like he enjoyed the show.
Besides, if Jessica tried anything too aggressive…
the inflatable horses would not be the only things getting knocked into the water.
I could take that bitch. I was tired of playing nice.
Time to win another intimate dinner with my ‘Barbarian King’.
The costume department had clearly decided subtlety was not part of today's theme.
Egon wore a fur-lined cape—fake fur, I hoped—that hung from his broad shoulders.
Leather bracers wrapped his forearms, emphasizing the powerful lines of muscle beneath.
And on his head sat a crown that looked suspiciously like it had been stolen from a fast-food mascot and spray-painted gold.
Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Yet somehow, he still looked like he belonged on an ancient throne carved from stone and conquest.
His chest was bare, as always. The muscles there gleamed, the usual ridiculous glitter enhanced with dark tanning oil that made his golden skin glow like he'd stepped straight out of a myth.
A sun god. A warrior king. A very large, very dangerous alien male who had already made me scream his name twice in the last twenty-four hours.
My stomach flipped. God help me. He looked like sin given physical form.
And he was staring at me. Not casually. Not politely. He was staring the way a starving man stared at food. My bikini suddenly felt criminally small.
The "medieval maiden swimwear" the wardrobe team forced on us consisted of a silver chainmail-print top that barely covered my breasts and a matching scrap of fabric tied at my hips. It was cute in a ridiculous, reality-TV way. It also left very little to the imagination.
Our eyes met across the pool. His massive hands gripped the throne's armrests hard enough to dent the foam beneath the gold paint. The muscle in his jaw ticked. If we were alone right now, he would already be moving toward me. Already lifting me. Already—
Heat rushed through my body. The memory of his mouth on my skin, the deep rumble of his voice when he said my name, the way he'd held me afterward like I was something fragile and precious.