Spicy Honey (The Salt Collection #2)

1. Sloane

Sloane

“So how long have you been a unicorn?” The woman opposite me leans over as she says it, placing a delicate hand lightly on top of mine. Her palm is damp, and I bite back the urge to shake her off.

We’re in a classy cocktail bar in Soho, and the couple before me are squeezed onto a small loveseat.

Marisa is wearing a little black dress that wouldn’t look out of place in the fanciest bit of Selfridges, and her fine blonde hair sits wispily around her shoulders.

She’s pretty in a conventional – if slightly brittle – way, and if it weren’t for the idiot she came with I might actually be attracted to her.

She’s perched on the edge of a single cushion like a robin on a branch, whereas he’s spreading himself across three-quarters of the seat. He’s casually nudged his shirt cuff back three times now to show off his Rolex. The man is not subtle.

I wrinkle my nose as I assess them.

They’ve contacted me through an app because they’re looking for another woman to join them in bed.

I’m not actually a mythical horse, but I do play around with couples if the chemistry is right.

Big emphasis on the if . Because two minutes with these two tells me that I’m going home to my toy box before 9:30pm.

“Oh, on and off for a while now.” I plaster on a smile, evading the specifics.

I’m not a professional, and the quickest way to ruin group sex is to feel like a novelty brought in for one night to perform.

Sometimes you’re the clown, sometimes you’re the lion tamer.

But you’re never just Sloane, ordinary human being who happens to prefer team sports .

“This is our first foray into it,” she whispers, her voice giddy with nerves.

No shit .

“Marcus has always wanted to see me with a woman and… well… I thought it might be fun to give it a try.” Her cheeks blaze pink.

I tilt my head at Marcus, giving him an obvious appraisal. He hasn’t spoken much, but he doesn’t have to. I know all I need to, because everything from his posture to his ugly designer suit gives him away. His stare lingers on my breasts like they’re his birthright. What a catch .

“So, tell me what it is you’re looking for,” I say, pulling my hand back as I look at the twitchy blonde before me.

“Well—” She flicks her gaze to Marcus, who ignores her, then swallows and looks at me again before carrying on. She starts talking rapidly about how hot she thinks a threesome with me would be, but her shrill little laughs in between breaths give her away.

Nerves are hardly unusual, but the way she checks his face before every sentence tells me it’s his fantasy, not hers.

I’ve seen this before. Couples who think wanting a threesome is the same as being ready for one. It rarely ends well.

Most vanilla couples need to be ironclad in their relationship before colouring outside the lines. What I see in Marisa and Marcus isn’t a partnership, it’s a performance. And a weak one at that.

I give Marcus a hard stare. He looks bored.

“Marisa,” I say softly, causing her to lean in again.

“You’re a beautiful woman. I’d take you to bed in a heartbeat.

” She gives me a single wide-eyed blink that confirms she is not up for that.

“But… I don’t think you’re doing this for you.

” I pause, just long enough for Marcus to shift in his seat.

She’s blinking so erratically it looks like she’s attempting morse code. Time to abort.

“I know I’ve only just met you, but if I were your friend, I’d tell you that you might be happier if you found someone who shows you a bit more respect than Marcus here. You deserve better than being cornered into a threesome you don’t actually want.”

She gapes at me, and Marcus’s mouth twists into an angry line. He’s rising to his feet, but I’m quicker.

“Goodnight, and good luck, honey. I hope you find someone more worthy!” I call as I sail out into the night.

The fresh air hits me like an icy blast as I stride down a side street towards Shaftesbury Avenue. London is its usually buzzy self, but it’s not dazzling me tonight. The irritation of the encounter lingers with me as I make my way home.

It’s not as if it’s the first time the chemistry hasn’t been right. The apps are hit and miss, even for people dating more conventionally than me. But this is the third date in a row where I’ve gone home alone.

It just feels as though I’m having identical conversations over and over, the same premise on rinse and repeat. And while I never minded being a guest star before, I can’t seem to find a couple that pulls me in anymore.

I blow out a breath as I head towards the tube. London isn’t exactly lacking in options. I could get laid anytime I want. I just… don’t seem to want to anymore.

I make my way down the steps, my hair whipping around my face as the tube screeches into the platform.

This is definitely a problem. Because if I no longer want to do the unicorn thing, it leaves me with a very big, very scary question.

What the hell do I actually want?