The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize (The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection #30)

1. Marla

MARLA

The fire crackles in the stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the worn wooden floors of my cabin. I curl deeper into the oversized armchair, clutching my mug of chamomile tea like it might give me courage.

My best friend Sharon sits across from me on the couch, her short blonde hair catching the firelight as she leans forward with that concerned expression I know so well.

"So what's really going on, Mar?" she asks, her green eyes studying me. "You've been weird all week."

I take a breath, then another. Sharon's my best friend, the only person in this world I trust completely, but saying this out loud feels ridiculous. "I want to start writing romance novels."

She blinks. "Okay? That's great! You're an amazing writer. Your blog posts are incredible."

"Yeah, but..." I set my mug down on the side table, fidgeting with the hem of my oversized sweater. "I don't have any experience. With romance, I mean. Or sex. Well, not that much, and not anything to write home about."

Sharon's expression softens with understanding. She knows my history.

The endless rotation of foster homes, constant moving, and the way I learned early that getting attached to anyone was a guaranteed path to heartbreak.

Making friends was hard enough. Relationships? Impossible when you knew you'd be ripped away at any moment.

"You're twenty-two, Marla. You've got plenty of time to—"

"I can't write convincing romance when I've never even had good sex," I interrupt, heat flooding my cheeks. "I've read all the books, watched all the movies, but it's not the same as actually experiencing it. My writing feels flat. Fake."

Sharon sets her own mug down and crosses her legs beneath her, the movement deliberate.

I recognize that look.

She's formulating a plan, and I'm not sure I'm going to like it.

"Okay, so here's what you need," she says, pointing at me. "You need to have sex. Good sex. With a hot guy who knows what he's doing."

My face burns hotter. "Sharon—"

"No, listen. You're terrified of relationships, right?

The commitment and attachment, all of that scares the hell out of you because of your past. I get it.

So don't have a relationship." She grins, clearly pleased with herself.

"Have a one-night stand. Or two. Or three.

No pressure, no commitment, just hot sex with a talented guy who can give you some real material to work with. "

I stare at her, my heart hammering. The idea is both terrifying and thrilling. "I don't even know where I'd find someone like that."

"The Ivory Wolf," she says immediately, referring to the restaurant and bar where she works. "Marla, you should see some of the guys who come in there. Gorgeous, confident, and most of them are total playboys. They're not looking for relationships either. It would be perfect."

I chew my bottom lip, considering.

The Ivory Wolf is a restaurant and club about five miles from my cabin, closer to the heart of town.

I've never been, but Sharon's worked there for six months and loves it.

"I don't know..."

"Come tomorrow night," Sharon urges, leaning forward. "Friday night. The place will be packed. Just come, have a drink, and see if anyone catches your eye. No pressure. If you're not feeling it, you can leave. But if you find someone you're attracted to..." She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

I laugh despite my nerves. "You make it sound so easy."

"It can be easy. You're beautiful, Marla. Any guy would be lucky to take you home." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You deserve to feel good and experience this. And hey, it's research for your book, right?"

I take a shaky breath, then nod. "Okay. Tomorrow night. But you're staying with me the whole time until I decide if I'm doing this."

"Deal." Sharon grins, her whole face lighting up. "Trust me, this is going to be exactly what you need."

The Ivory Wolf is nothing like I expected.

I stand just inside the entrance, taking in the sophisticated ambiance that somehow manages to feel dangerous at the same time.

The lighting is low and warm, casting everything in shades of amber and gold.

Dark wood panels line the walls, and the bar stretches along the left side of the space, all gleaming bottles and polished surfaces.

Small tables dot the main floor, while booths line the perimeter, offering shadowy privacy.

Music pulses through the space, not too loud but insistent, a steady beat that thrums in my chest.

But it's the clientele that makes my breath catch.

These aren't normal guys out for drinks on a Friday night. They wear expensive suits and don't act like the usual bar guys who yell obnoxiously and try stupid pickup lines. I relax a little.

"Come on," Sharon says, tugging my arm. She looks completely at ease in her black work dress, the fabric hugging her thin frame and showing off her curves. "Let's get you a drink."

I follow her to the bar, hyperaware of the eyes following us. I chose my outfit carefully tonight: a deep green dress that hugs my curves, the neckline showing just enough cleavage to be interesting without being obvious.

The hem hits mid-thigh, and I paired it with black heels that make my legs look longer.

I left my red hair down in loose waves, and I'm wearing more makeup than usual, my blue eyes lined with dark shadow.

I feel exposed and powerful at the same time.

Sharon orders me a vodka cranberry, and I take it gratefully, sipping the tart sweetness while I scan the room. My gaze catches on three men in particular, and my stomach does a slow flip.

The first sits in a corner booth, his posture relaxed but alert. He's blond, with light scruff along his jaw and eyes so pale blue they're almost gray.

Even sitting down, I can tell he's tall, and the way his black button-down stretches across his shoulders and chest suggests serious muscle beneath.

He's talking to two other men, but something about the way he holds himself screams authority.

The second man stands near the bar, about twenty feet away. He's got shoulder-length black hair and the most intense green eyes I've ever seen.

Tattoos crawl up his neck from beneath his collar, and his muscular build is evident even through his dark suit.

The third is older, maybe mid-forties, with brown hair graying at the temples.

He's leaner than the other two but no less intimidating, all controlled power and sharp intelligence.

He's watching the room like he owns it, and maybe he does.

"See something you like?" Sharon asks, following my gaze.

"I see three somethings I like," I admit, my cheeks heating. "I can't decide."

She laughs. "Then go with whoever approaches you first. Let fate decide."

I nod, taking another sip of my drink. The vodka warms my throat, loosening the knot of anxiety in my chest. I can do this. It's just sex. Just research.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't notice him approaching until he's right beside me.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

The voice is deep and smooth, with just a hint of an accent I can't quite place. I turn and find myself looking up at the blond man from the corner booth. Up close, he's even more devastating.

He's got to be at least six foot two, and the way his shirt fits across his broad chest and flat stomach makes my mouth go dry.

His light blue eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, and there's something almost feral in the way he smiles, like he's a wolf who's just spotted prey.

"I already have one," I manage, lifting my glass.

"Then I'll buy you the next one." He extends his hand. "Russ."

"Marla." I take his hand, and the contact sends electricity up my arm. His palm is warm and calloused, his grip firm without being crushing.

He holds on just a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.

"Marla," he repeats, like he's tasting my name. "You here alone?"

"With a friend." I glance at Sharon, but she's already drifted away, giving me space. Traitor.

"Mind if I keep you company?" Russ asks, but he's already moving closer, his body angled toward mine in a way that feels possessive and territorial.

"I don't mind," I say, and I'm surprised to find it's true. There's something about him that puts me at ease despite the danger radiating from him. Or maybe because of it.

We talk, and it's easier than I expected. Russ is charming and attentive, asking me questions about myself and actually listening to the answers.

He tells me he works in "family business," which I assume means something corporate and boring, though nothing about him seems boring.

He's got a quick wit and a dirty sense of humor that makes me laugh, and the way he looks at me, like his eyes are devouring me, makes heat pool low in my belly.

His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, my throat, and the curve of my breasts in my dress.

It should feel objectifying, but instead it makes me feel desired in a way I've never experienced.

Zach used to tell me I should lose weight, that I'd be prettier if I were thinner.

Russ looks at my curves like they're exactly what he wants.

"So what do you do, Marla?" he asks, leaning against the bar. The movement makes his shirt pull tight across his chest, and I can see the definition of muscle beneath, the way his body tapers to a narrow waist.

"I'm a writer," I say. "Freelance. I work from home."

"What do you write?"

"Blog posts and articles mostly."

"Smart and beautiful," Russ says, his eyes darkening. "Dangerous combination."

I laugh, emboldened by the vodka and the way he's looking at me. "I'm not dangerous."

"No?" He moves closer, and I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and masculine that makes my head spin. "I think you might be more dangerous than you know."

The air between us feels charged. I know what's happening here. I know what he wants and what I want. The question is whether I'm brave enough to take it.

"Do you want to get out of here?" I ask, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.

Russ's smile is slow and predatory. "Fuck yeah."

My hands shake as I unlock the cabin door, hyperaware of Russ behind me, his presence overwhelming in the small space of my porch. I finally get the key to turn and push inside, flicking on the lamp by the door.

"This is me," I say unnecessarily, gesturing around the main room. I put the fire out before I left, but the space still feels warm and cozy. My books line the shelves, blankets are draped over the furniture, and my laptop sits on the coffee table surrounded by notes and empty tea mugs.

"It suits you," Russ says, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock sounds loud in the quiet.

I turn to face him, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, giving me time to change my mind. But I don't want to change my mind.

When he reaches me, he cups my face in his hands, his palms rough against my skin. His thumbs brush my cheekbones, and he studies me like he's memorizing every detail.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he murmurs. "You know that?"

Before I can answer, he lowers his mouth to mine.