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When the crowd's cheers simmer, King Idris's authoritative voice rumbles. "Well run, Alaric!"

I snatch the name from the air and clutch it to my chest. Alaric.

The king makes a sweeping gesture to indicate my colleagues and I. "As today's champion, you have earned the honor of First Stud. Please choose our First Mare."

Alaric's expression turns sly. He walks down the line, unhurriedly examining my colleagues. He returns Thea's flirty smile, nods solemnly at Anna, and smirks at Elle as she bats her eyelashes coquettishly.

"Hmm…they're all beauties, aren't they?" he remarks. He's still a little breathless. It's the first time I've heard his warm, tenor voice.

My heart is running its own frantic race. Alaric is close enough to taste his rustic, masculine scent. His proximity alone makes me salivate…yet he hasn't looked at me. Did I imagine our connection when our eyes met in the palace?

No, I didn't. I'm sure I didn't. My pounding heart slows. Calm premonition fills my chest. Even when Alaric pauses before Blake and tilts his head thoughtfully, I know who he'll choose — and I know he knows I know.

Alaric stops in front of me. Our eyes meet. I read the mischief there — the unspoken acknowledgment that he was teasing me by pretending he'd choose anyone else.

"Hmm. I think this little pussy-cat looks like he could use a belly full of warm cream." Alaric bows, one foreleg extending as he chivalrously dips low. "What do you think? Are you hungry, Kitten?"

He winks. Anticipatory heat licks across my skin. I take my Stud's offered hand with a smirk. "Starving."

Chapter Three

"I'm not joking, Caden. Go slow," Thea says firmly. "That one who picked you isn't small — and some of the others are a lot bigger."

We're back at the palace, in the comfortable dressing room where our bags were brought in from the carriage. We're each completing our respective routines to freshen up and prepare for a full night of work.

Four heads nod in agreement. If I thought my colleagues' compulsion to advise me was bad before, their well-meaning assistance has tripled since the race. I couldn't even speak to Alaric on the walk back to the palace. My colleagues swarmed me, and the centaurs trotted off to the showers.

I drag my comb through my honey-blond hair. When I flip my head to reset my wavy locks, I accompany the gesture with a dramatic eye roll. "Stop trying to scare me. I can handle it. I've bottomed for a whole werewolf pack before, and I sucked off a minotaur bachelor party last week. This ain't my first gangbang."

Anna touches up her eyeliner to highlight her ice-blue irises. She doesn't look away from her handheld mirror as she mutters something under her breath about werewolves being "entry level." I narrow my eyes at her.

"Awww. Baby's so confident." Elle grins wide, revealing the silver tongue piercing clients go crazy for. "You know a centaur's junk is as long as your arm, right? Note that I didn't say your forearm. I said your arm."

"Shit, really? I should've looked that up before I took this job, huh?"

Elle ignores my sarcasm. "Which means…if they go deep and then you panic, you've screwed yourself. If you tense, it's really hard for them to get out safely. You can safeword anytime, but you're still stuck with a centaur cock all up in your guts until you calm the fuck down. Sooo…y'know. Don't panic."

Nervousness skitters across the back of my neck like an insect, raising goosebumps on my skin. I slam my comb on the mahogany dresser harder than necessary and laugh. "Enough! Worry about your own assholes, not mine."

Friendly giggles fill the room. As they die down, Blake muses, "Hey, does anyone remember what the record is? I don't think I've managed more than a dozen in one night."

"Jasper took sixteen once," Ashton states.

"Oh, yeeeeah, I do remember that! Poor guy was wiped. He said it was worth it, though." Blake shakes his head mournfully, auburn curls bouncing. "Damn. I still can't believe Jasper is gone. He used to love these parties."

Elle tsks. "Oh my gods, Blake. He got married! Stop talking about Jasper as if he fucking died!"

"Same thing. Another victim of true love." Blake sighs dramatically. "Did you hear Sir bitching about it? This is a pleasure agency, not a godsdamn matchmaking service."

We all laugh. Everyone heard Sir bitching about it up and down the halls. Threatened that the next employee to fall in love would get their ass beaten. He's full of shit, of course. Whenever someone finds a partner and leaves the profession, our boss sends them off with generous wedding gifts, fierce hugs, and lots of grumbling.

Blake is right, though. There has been a recent streak of workers falling in love and fucking off into the sunset. Everyone seems to think they'll be next. They conveniently forget that catching feelings for a client usually ends in heartache, not a honeymoon.

The conversation flows to other topics. My colleagues speculate about why King Idris isn't joining the orgy; they worry that he's sick. I listen absently to their chatter as I fiddle with the thin silver chain around my neck, rolling the jewelry between my fingertips. Each light tug is connected to my nipple piercings, sparking a warm sensation low in my stomach.

My mind drifts to the image of Alaric's dark eyes and sly smirk.

I smile.