Page 16 of Room One Hundred and Eleven

Who wouldn’t have signed up for that?

So what have I gotten myself into?

I unfold the document, sliding onto a chaise lounge piled with pillows. I imagine this is what it feels like to sit on a cloud.

The paper starts to wave in my hands, which tremble harder the more I read. Most of it is a blur of legalese, but some phrases stand out:

Willingly submit to all forms of sexual contact with each of the three men.

Right, check.

In room 111 of Club Sin, reserved for breeding fantasies.

What does that even mean exactly? Keep reading…

Without condoms or barriers of any kind.

Um, that sounds dangerous.

Requisite health screening attached.

A scan-through shows their lab work is in order and notarized. Okay, never mind.

Will exchange bodily fluids.

Same as above.

Undersigned relinquishes all rights to any child resulting from the weekend to the offering parties with assurance that all prenatal and gestational needs will be fully provided for if conception occurs.

Good grief, there’s the doozy.

What. The?—

Are they looking for a virgin to triple-team or a surrogate?

Their stipulations would freak me out. Except there’s a loophole.

I’m on birth control.

No condoms or barriers required to keep me safe from becoming a billionaire’s broodmare.

My IUD hasn’t been in for very long, but I’m covered.

What kind of nurse would I be if I didn’t take my own sexual health seriously? The moment I realized working at Gunner’s was making me curious, I had that taken care of. Just in case.

See, not so impulsive now, am I?

Besides, the whole getting knocked-up thing is definitely described as anIF. Probably required by the club’s lawyers in the event there’s an oopsie situation. Otherwise, what woman would agree to be used like this?

All of this is moot.

Oh, thank heavens.

Maybe if the rest of the weekend goes to plan, they won’t tell Gunner that I almost screwed everything up. I won’t have to worry about forfeiting this weekend away, the experience they can give me, or the sweet gig at Gunner’s club that pays my tuition and bills.

My head falls back onto the armrest of the chaise as my entire body goes limp and relaxes.

There’s a tap at the door. Knox calls softly, “Your luggage, beauty.”

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