Matched

by Angela Graham

  Before I can formulate an answer, Oakley takes care of it, pulling out and setting me on my feet. “Turn around, baby. Brace your hands on the wall and bend over for me.”

  I do as he says and he pushes down on my back, bowing me further. My ass pops higher into the air. “Look at this.” He gropes both cheeks in his hands, humming his approval deep in his throat. “You’re my perfect girl.”

  He slips inside me again, languid and tender, reaching around to work my clit like only he can. “Better, baby?”

  “Uh-huh.” My head drops forward, a gasp escaping every time he bumps that extraordinary spot inside me. His fingers stroke frantically, his breathing growing faster and louder as his soft plunges turn into vigorous poundings.

  “Yeah. Damn, Har, there you go. Come for me. Fuck yeah. Squeeze it out of me…take it.”

  His dirty, grunted plea tips me over the edge. I bite down on my lip to stifle the screams clawing their way out as every muscle in my pussy and entire body thrums in and out with the prolonged release I’ve been needing. Oakley drops his head against my back. His mouth is open, releasing a muffled roar against my skin.

  After a few moments of catching our breath, he helps me stand and turn. He curls his arms around my waist, giving me a sated smile. “Even better than last time, and I waited a long time for that. Fucking unbelievable.” He kisses me, dragging me closer.

  When our mouths break apart, I grin. “I love you, Oakley. Now go get me some clothes while I actually bathe, ’cause mine are…” I look to the floor and laugh. “…a little wet. And then I wanna ask you something.”

  Cruz and I returned from our massages last night to find an almost empty house. Emma and Court were the only ones here, playing two-handed Spades at the breakfast table. They opted out of going to a club with the others. Emma complained of a headache—which I translated to mean her brother would’ve gone postal if she went—and Court said, “I hate clubs…loud and obnoxious.”

  Cruz was unconvinced—which I know because I translated the frown etched on his face to mean, “Just cards? Then you won’t mind if I join. No hanky-panky on my watch.” So he took to guard duty and plopped down in a chair, complete with a cranky, “Deal me in.”

  I, on the other hand, went to bed, wondering why Oakley hadn’t waited for me. And now I’m going to get my answer.

  When he returns with something for me to wear, I keep my focus on the convenient task of drying off before finally clearing my throat. “So…what time did you get back last night?”

  “Not sure. Wasn’t too late. I came to check on you, but you were making a sweet little noise, seemed like you were sleeping really good, so I figured I let you be. I went to bed too. Why?”

  “Just curious.” I wrap the towel around my hair and pull on my panties and bra. “My massage was great. How was the club?”

  Do I think he did anything over-the-top wrong besides not waiting for me? No. If I did, I wouldn’t have just had sex with him. But would he be upset if I went traipsing around the club scene with six guys who weren’t him? Absolutely. And I’m not about to let double standards slide long enough to become habit.

  “A club’s a club,” he laughs, stepping in front of me to grasp my chin between his thumb and index finger. “Look at me, Har. You mad I went?”

  The best answer to a question is often another question. “Would you be mad if I went out clubbing with a bunch of single guys I barely know without you?”

  He struggles with a feeble attempt at a stoic expression, but the pulse in his temple pounds faster with each passing second. His brow wrinkles from his efforts. “Yeah, I would be,” he blows out in admittance. “Shit, this is hard, Harlow. We were apart for so long I guess I forget to look at every situation like a boyfriend. It never occurred to me I was doing anything wrong. And besides going, I didn’t—I swear to you.” His voice strengthens with conviction.

  “I believe you—all of it. But,” I say, rising on my toes to reach him, “start thinking like a boyfriend, because too many of the girls here are thinking like piranha. A woman on a mission will outsmart you every time, and before you ever see it coming, she’ll have pissed me off. So eyes open, okay?”

  I place a nimble kiss on his lips then turn to tug on my shorts, needing to be dressed as much as he needs an undistracted minute to absorb the gravity of my request. I want to ask if he danced with any of them, did body shots, was the victim of “accidental” brushes of their hands, or anything else he didn’t realize was wrong, but I don’t. He said it was nothing, and I have to believe him…or really, what am I doing here in the first place?

  “Oh yeah, one other thing,” I toss over my shoulder with effortful nonchalance. “Did your agent or whoever say you had to be here for a certain number of episodes?”

  “No, he just said the longer, the better. Most publicity possible. Why?”

  “Just curious about that too.” I smile sweetly and breathe in a lungful of relief. I knew he’d have a plausible explanation, and Cruz definitely needs to mind his own business. This crazy, claustrophobic atmosphere toys with my mind and securities enough. The last thing I need is him planting his meddling, bipolar seeds of doubts there too.

  It’s big-challenge time again. Running shoes are the only requirement, and now I see why as we stand at the edge of the jungle. Or maybe it’s a forest? Either way, it’s intimidating as hell—far different from the beach where Tom usually welcomes us.

  “How’s everyone doing? House roomier with only fourteen?” he asks, getting a few cheers and laughs for an answer. “Before we get started, let’s do a quick tally. In the main bank, we’ve got fifty grand.” Everyone, including me, whistles and claps. “And Miles, Harlow, Jasmine Cox, and Cruz McCall each have $5,000 earned in their individual accounts.”

  Applause. Apparently, though not surprisingly, only the celebrities’ notoriety warrant the mention of their full names. But little ol’ me won the same money, the same way, as Mr. McCall.

  “Now, today is an individual event, and addresses the second-most-common quality you all agreed was most important in a relationship, listening. Let’s find out who’s been doing just that, shall we? Today’s challenge is called ‘Quizzical Nature.’ Behind you, amongst the lush greenery of beautiful Seychelles, is a mile-long maze, the path marked by neon-orange flags.

  “Every 375 feet is a wooden post displaying a fact about one cast member. The crewmember at each post will accept one answer from you on who you think the fact represents. If you’re right, you move on; wrong, you go back to last post, touch it, then turn around and try again. The person to come out at the end of the trail first wins a dream date with anyone they wish, and the pick of which couple goes into the Soul Search next. Any questions so far?”

  No one has any. Half the cast are stretching their legs to prepare, while the group of “other girls”—meaning not myself, Jasmine, Emma, or Callie—slather on more sunblock. Oh, did I mention they’re wearing bikinis? Yeah, with nothing but tennis shoes. Chic!

  “Someone’s totally checking me for ticks after this,” Jasmine says, laughing.

  “TICKS?” Nadia shrieks, eavesdropping as usual. “No vay! If anything creepy-crawly comes at me, my agent vill hear about it!”

  Wyatt strides up behind her to offer his assistance. So much for nothing creepy near her. “No worries, doll. I’m the only creepy-crawly you’ll need to worry about in there.”

  Huh. He read my mind.

  “You, I can deal vith,” Nadia purrs, sliding her hand down his bare chest as I shake off a wave of nausea.

  “One last thing,” Tom adds. “We’re taking off in two flights of seven. The person to shout the correct answer to my question here first gets to choose which other six leave a full minute early with them. You only get one guess, so be specific. And here we go.” Tom holds up an index card and reads, “According to a recent study posted in the Journal of Sex Today, what is the average length and girth of a male penis?”

  Right off the bat, most
of the guys yell out ridiculous numbers and get eliminated, but Peyton waits for a chance to speak and asks the age and nationality of the “average male” in question. Tom looks to Adam with an inquisitive expression, but the only response he receives is Adam shaking his head slowly with a hint of a smile.

  Peyton huffs, guesses, and gets it wrong, grumbling about vagueness being at fault long after his turn is over.

  “You make good vith him?” I hear Nadia whisper, though not quietly enough.

  I peek subtly in her direction to see she’s talking to Rachel, whose smile is conspiring. “Adam’s all business, but just wait till I catch him alone again. He’ll be sorry he turned me down.”

  And here I thought they’d meant Peyton. Instantly, I feel really bad for Adam; she’s entirely not his type. And, evil or not, no one should be forced into alone time with Rachel.

  They continue to whisper as my attention’s drawn elsewhere. Cruz is visually commanding Emma not to participate in the penis game, so she very boisterously guesses ten inches long, ten inches wide. Wrong, but hilarious.

  I quietly track all the incorrect answers. It’s finally down to Miles, Cruz, and me, eyeing each other in a “You go first” standoff.

  “Fine,” Cruz says, cocking a brow. “Eight inches long, six wide.”

  “So far and so close, Cruz, but unfortunately wrong. Miles, Harlow, let’s hear it,” Tom prompts.

  I have carnal knowledge of exactly one penis off which to base my answer, but twelve stats of right and wrong in my head. Either Miles will win before me, or I’ve got this.

  Finally, he gives in and answers, “Five inches long, five wide.”

  All the other guys laugh and snort, but I know he’s closer than any of them if I read Tom’s reactions to each of their lame attempts properly.

  “Ohhh.” The infliction in Tom’s response to Miles’ guess confirms my inkling, and he looks at me. “Harlow, up to you. I’d be very specific with my answer.”

  A flaming blush scorches my face as I stare at the ground and speak. “Five point five inches long, and four point nine inches wide.”

  “Harlow wins it!” Tom shouts. “Scarily accurate, too. The correct answer was five point six inches long and four point eight inches wide. How’d you get so close?” he teases with his signature acting-class “Something you wanna tell us?” face. I tsk, shaking off the disturbing innuendos by a man old enough to be my father.

  “I’m good at math and power of elimination…and I sit back and listen.”

  “Well, it worked. So, which six others will be leaving early with you?”

  “Oakley, Jasmine, Emma, Callie, Miles, and Cruz,” I answer automatically. The six of them gather around me; some of the others shoot me daggers.

  “All right, Team Harlow goes on the horn. Ready? And…”

  The horn blares, and we take off.

  Just like the panties, the answer to question one is me. They might want to mix it up, or people will catch on. I write my name on a little board and pass it to a crewman. He nods, already erasing it as he allows me to pass.

  When I reach the second post, Oakley, Cruz, and Jasmine are right beside me, each speed-reading. I’m clueless as to who plays classical piano, so I guess Emma. Incorrect, I have to turn around and go back, and I pass some of the second team on the way. Winded when I return, I pull Ivy’s name out of the air this time and am told to advance. By the time I reach the seventh fact, I’ve had to turn back two more times. I’m exhausted, and haven’t seen Oakley since the beginning; I’m long forgotten by the most competitive man alive.

  I spot Emma sitting on the ground. She seems even more tired than me, so I take a seat beside her. “You okay?”

  She nods, but her complexion’s paler than usual and her chest is heaving way too much for my comfort, both contradicting her answer. I look around, not seeing anyone—not even Cruz, which more than surprises me.

  “You want me to scream for your brother?” I ask, completely serious.

  “No!” she spits out, her eyes bulging.

  It’s then I notice a cameraman off to the side, hiding behind a tree. I stand, wipe the dirt from my ass, and am about to walk toward him when she catches my hand.

  “I’ll be fine, really.”

  What looks like embarrassment crosses her features as she stares at the cameraman. She drops her head and I hear her murmur, “I can do this.”

  I have no doubt she can, but am still taking the reins to make sure she does. “Okay, then how about a piggyback ride?” I offer cheerfully.

  She laughs, but it’s a shallow, worried sound from her chest. I squat in front of her, taking away the option. She weighs maybe 100 pounds. I got this.

  “Jump up. No arguing.”

  Up she finally goes. She giggles a bit, which eases my unable-to-ignore prickle of panic, and we’re mobile again.

  Question seven is, “Who wants to be a ballerina?”

  “It’s me,” Emma whispers. We both turn to the crew guy and chime “Emma” in unison instead of using the board to write. He simply smiles and motions for us to continue.

  We ace questions eight and nine miraculously and come upon Cruz at question ten—the man, not the answer—just as he’s about to leave. His pupils dilate until only a ring of the sinister, unhappy shade of blue is visible.

  “What the fuck?” He stalks toward us. “God damn it. On me, Em—now.”

  He turns so she can switch to his back. She does so without argument, but only after whispering softly for my ears only, “He really is a sweet guy.”

  I have no retort, but instinctually, I don’t doubt her either.

  Cruz looks back my way, staring at me as though he wants to say something. But he doesn’t.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Emma shouts, smacking the back of his head playfully.

  “Going,” he grouches and heads to the post.

  Following a few steps behind, I read the question—“Who has eighteen scars?”—and try to recall all the male athletes I haven’t already used as guesses.

  Cruz and Emma must guess correctly, because the crewman moves aside for them. They start to proceed, but Cruz stops short, catching my eye. With a provoking smile, he rolls up his shirt sleeve slowly to reveal the tribal tattoo I’ve seen many times before. But never having examined it, I move closer. I release a tiny, undefinable noise when I realize the tattoo does a beautiful job of almost completely camouflaging a jagged but faint scar running down his arm.

  I say his name to the crewman and he steps aside.

  We walk to the next post, and I hear Cruz’s faint “Thank you.” I peer sideways at him to find his eyes as tender as his gratitude. “I shouldn’t have left her.”

  I open my mouth to speak, our eyes clinging to a connection I’m lost on how to interpret, when he breaks first and clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Em,” he says. It’s rushed, but sincere.

  “Hush.” She kisses the top of his head, then rambles on about our chances of getting bitten or attacked by something dangerous out here. Not what I need to hear right now, but a distraction from whatever it was I felt when her brother looked at me like that is more than welcomed.

  The three of us are fewer than ten steps away from post eleven when we hear the horn blast through the air. Someone’s won—probably Oakley, which means I’ll be getting a dream date tonight!

  “So…high-school cheerleader, huh?” Cruz smirks at me as we amble toward the finish line, in no hurry now. I already knew he’d gotten question one right, as we were neck and neck then—I’m just not sure how. “I can definitely see that.”

  “Yep.” I bounce my shoulders. “Kept me in shape, and it was a lot more fun to get the PE credit that way.”

  “Ugh, PE sucked,” Emma adds as we reach an opening in the forest. The beach greets us on the other side, reuniting us with the others waiting at the finish line. Emma smacks Cruz’s shoulder to set her down, and with only a feeble complaint—for him, anyway—he complies. Although it’s too late, be
cause all eyes are now on our trio.

  “You all right?” Court is the first to ask Emma, and her face lights up instantly. Must’ve been some card game we interrupted.

  “She’s fine. Tweaked her ankle is all,” Cruz snarls at him, moving in front of Emma.

  “Protective much?” I jibe, elbowing Cruz as I brush past with Emma at my side.

  “Just checkin’, man. This shit show annoyin’ ya, or were you just born a dick?” Court jokes, but two crew guys have a hand on each of their chests before Cruz can react.

  “Great job!” Tom says in an uncomfortably loud voice. Wonder why. “Congrats to our winner, Nadia!”

  “Got stuck on twelve,” Oakley, who’s now beside me, pouts in my ear. “What happened to you?”

  “I stopped to help Emma,” I whisper. “Now shhh.” I nod toward Tom.

  “So, Nadia, your dream date tonight includes dinner served on a glass-bottom boat and a picnic dessert by firelight on the beach. Which lucky man will be joining you?”

  She basks in the power and attention, tossing her hips side to side in saucy contemplation while she purses her lips and considers each guy up and down.

  “I’ll enjoy my evening vith…Oakley,” she coos, staring me dead in the eyes.

  Bitch! I wonder how many good slaps I can get in before they remove me?

  My violent thoughts are disturbed when Oakley’s hand goes noticeably rigid against my back, where before it’d been trailing its rough fingertips subtly across my hips. He shoots his arm around my waist and pulls me flush against his side, but I don’t even think about allowing my face to twitch.

  “Okay! You two be at the dock by eight o’clock tonight. The rest of you, enjoy yourselves until they return—when Nadia will be announcing who’s going into the Soul Search.”

  People begin to scatter, but I don’t budge. I refuse to look at Oakley.

  Jasmine comes over and snares me away from Oakley for a hug, a condoling frown on her face. “Don’t worry. She’s a dumb skank.”

  Callie’s screaming that same sentiment at Nadia’s retreating back, but it only fuels the snake in the grass to shake her ass more as she slithers away.