Page 65 of Ten Mountain Men

“Do you want one of us to return the favor?” Buck asks me.

“I’m very good with my tongue,” Clay says. “Just a general FYI.”

I squirm because yesssssssss please. I am already very much back to tingling between my legs, and as a thirty-year-old woman who has never experienced receiving or giving oral, yessssssssss please.

But also…

My legs are already spreading, and not because Clay and Buck are both holding a thigh, teasing me with their touch. I want them in me so damn badly that the lack of control I feel when these dudes are touching me is scary. It’s got to be something chemical or maybe biological, because my body is reacting to them like their cocks are a science fair project and my pussy wants to win first prize. Wait…what?

But if I don’t watch out, the next reality show I work on could bePregnant by the Mountain Bros, with me as a star, not a producer.

That thought is so ludicrous I almost laugh. One day, I’ll be a mom, but it’ll be after I’ve found my soulmate—the one and only man I’ll ever marry, ’til death do us part—and then I will have a perfect little baby at the perfect time. I already have a Pinterest board where I’ve designed the perfect nursery.

Clay keeps stroking one of my thighs while Buck strokes the other one, patiently waiting for my response.

“Let’s just talk for a bit?” I suggest.

I have to keep us from going too far, if for no other reason than I have no doubts that there are no condoms in the world large enough to sheath their schlongs—and more serious doubts that the birth control pills I’m on to control my periods would do anything to defeat their supersperm from impregnating me.

And I am truly attracted to Clay and Buck and Lynx and Nash…

But, I’m sorry, no. My first child, little Cameron Quinn (the perfect name for a boy or a girl), will not be born with hairy legs and a five o’clock shadow, as I’m sure any of the Björnsson brothers’ offspring will certainly do.

One hand still on my thigh, Buck tucks my curls behind my ear and kisses me sweetly on the cheek, his scaled-back beard tickling my skin. “Sure, we can talk. I’d love to know where you come from. What you do there. Where is home, Goldie Locke? What’s your family like?”

I blow out a breath. If we get to that last question, my vag will go from ripe plum to shriveled-up raisin real fast.

“Well,” I say, pushing thoughts of Mother and her many marriages and the fact that the last thing I heard from her was that she and Clive are dunzo out of my head. “I really don’t have a home. I mean, I have a place I live. It’s an apartment.”

A perfect apartment, as much as any apartment can be perfect.

“But I didn’t spend much time there,” I admit.

“Why not?” Clay asks. His big hand is splayed across my belly, his long, thick fingers tracing circles on the skin just below my ribs. It tickles a little but mostly just feels good.

“Well, the job I had, it involved a lot of travel.”

“The job you had?” Buck’s hand has slipped underneath my neck and he’s kneading it in a way that feels heavenly. “Past tense?”

I sigh.

“Do you know what reality television is?”

“Yes,” Buck says, which surprises me, since they don’t even have a TV unless it’s buried underneath a pile of something or other and I just haven’t seen it. “Some folks at the tavern explained the concept. They told us about this show, Survivor, and said we should try out for it.”

I laugh. “I bet Grumpy Luke loved that idea.”

“He said he’d sooner yank his own dick off and eat it in tiny bites than let anybody film his every move.” Clay laughs too, but I nearly cough up a damn lung thinking of the cameras in the living room. The cameras I put in the living room.

“You need me to whack you on the back, sweet thang?” Clay asks.

As him doing so would probably dislodge every tooth from my mouth, I catch control of myself and shake my head which hopefully he can feel if not see. After I gulp, I try to say as normally as possible, “I need you to not call me sweet thang, I think.”

“Go ahead and tell us your story, Goldie,” Buck urges. “Were you on one of those reality television programs? Was that your job? You’re so pretty we shoulda guessed you were some kind of television star.”

I blush. “No, I wasn’t on one of the shows. I was a producer.”

“What’s that?”

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