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.
I forced my gaze away from him. Unfortunately, it landed on Jessica. She was already climbing gracefully onto one of the inflatable horses, her long blonde hair gleaming under the lights, her tiny chainmail-print bikini leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Her smile was sharp. Confident. Predatory. The other contestants gathered around the pool laughed nervously as they adjusted their own costumes—armor-print bikini tops, fake leather belts, decorative "battle skirts" that barely covered their hips.
Reality TV had officially reached peak stupidity.
Then my gaze drifted toward the velvet pillow near Chet's podium. The Golden Rose rested there. A ridiculous prop. A fake prize. But the reward attached to it was very real. A private dinner with Egon. Hours alone with him. Even if cameras hovered in every corner.
No way I was allowing Jessice, or any of these other women, to spend time alone with Egon. Not fucking happening.
The image flashed through my mind before I could stop it— Jessica winning. Jessica draped over Egon during dinner. Jessica giggling while touching his arm. While I sat locked safely inside our suite, two very serious Prillon warriors standing guard outside my door.
No. Absolutely not. A sudden spark ignited in my chest. Hot. Fierce. Completely irrational. I was going to win. Not because I wanted the rose. Not because I needed validation from a reality TV competition. Because every woman here looked at Egon like he was a trophy. A prize. Something to win and display.
