One Bride for Five Mountain Men: A Reverse Harem Romance
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - Prologue
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21 - Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
One Bride for Five Mountain Men
Jess Bentley
Copyright © 2018 by Jess Bentley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1 - Prologue
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21 - Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Chapter 1 - Prologue
Jake
“You want me to have sex with all of you,” she enunciates slowly. “Is that what you think I don’t understand? I think I understand it pretty well. Sex. With each of you. All five of you. Maybe all at once? Should we start now?”
Her green eyes flit from brother to brother, challenging each of us. The twins hold their hands in front of them, careful not to give into the impulse to simply pounce on her. Timothy, the youngest, bites his lower lip and scowls.
I watch Carty closely, trying to measure his dedication. He is the reason we are all here, the reason why we agreed to this life of solitude. And now that there is a spark of hope in the form of a beautiful auburn-haired goddess who seems legitimately excited at the prospect of enjoying us together, as hers, will he be able to let himself be happy?
The mountain light seeps through the tall windows, transparent on this side but protectively mirrored on the opposite side. We are truly alone in this secluded mountain habitat. No one in the world knows that we are here. Our security is practically impenetrable. Society has forgotten about us. Among the millions of acres of wild mountain terrain, it is practically impossible to find our fortress.
It’s possible that she is simply daring us, and will crack under the pressure. Sex with five men? Five grown, sturdy men who’ve been alone for years? No woman could undertake that effort without serious thought. In fact, maybe no woman should. Even the suggestion is preposterous.
But she is no ordinary woman. I can tell when she meets my eye. She reaches inside me to the wordless place I have kept hidden all this time. She finds me in my solitude, and to my surprise I am glad to have her there.
To say that solitude has been a struggle would be an understatement. It seems that fate has decided to intervene. Lola has arrived, and now we have to ask ourselves if we will all be ready to share our life with this strange woman.
And is she ready to share her life with us?
She holds her hands out in invitation, challenging Carty with her stare. “If I can handle it, you have to let me stay,” she purrs, her smile defiant and confident. “Okay? Do we have a deal?”
I think Carty agrees, but I know for certain everyone else does. Timothy and Liam tug at her sleeves, revealing the taut, smooth expanse of her skin. As though we have been waiting—and, indeed, we have been waiting—we set upon her all at once. Each of us strokes and explores one beautiful part of her body after another, curious and inflamed. Beneath us, she smiles and moans, settling in as though she was made just for this. She interlocks with us, easily navigating five sets of hands, five pairs of lips. Somehow, there is enough to go around, more than enough woman to get us all turned on, to satisfy each of our tremendous needs.
I pray that it always stays this way.
Chapter 2
Lola
After sundown, Lake Tahoe casinos are almost rowdy. All the skiers and snowboarders get back from the slopes and start hitting the blackjack tables and restaurants, preparing for a night of fun in the clubs. Among these young, wealthy, and well-muscled studs, there must be someone to entertain me, right? I mean, it can’t all be retirees and townies. There has to be somebody.
It’s definitely not Vegas, where hooking up is almost a given. Here, I have to put in a little work to
find a candidate. The casinos are smaller and less flashy, but there’s definitely still a lot of money happening here. A lot of younger money—kids who are spending off their inheritance before they get it and newly divorced women looking for their next husband, that sort of thing.
I lean one elbow on the bar behind me and chew on the tip of my straw, sipping the vodka and soda slowly as I scan the parade of snowboarders. Dark-washed jeans, woolen beanies, and tight half-zip nylon shirts seem to be the trendy uniform this year, coupled with an attractive amount of stubble and ski slope sunburn across well-chiseled features. That will do just fine.
Crossing my legs in the opposite direction, I catch the flickered glances of several men in their twenties who react to the sudden motion of bare skin in a predictable way. But none of them have that real athletic aggression that I’m looking for. They’re all just a little bit too soft for me.
On another day, sure, I might look for the sensitive type. I might want to discuss somebody’s feelings or long-term plans or something like that. But today, I want something just a little bit less complicated. I want something abbreviated and bound to end with a definitive sort of punctuation.
I just want to find a fuck, not a friend. Is that so wrong?
I feel the barstool next to me swivel as Nance settles into it and raises a finger toward the bartender for a drink. After a few moments, she turns out in the same direction I am facing, unconsciously mimicking my pose. In her long, skintight jeans and short shiny boots, she is fierce and unforgettable. I watch the men glance at us, startled by the new force of nature next to me.
“You’re going to scare them off,” I mutter sourly.
She sucks the inside of her cheek. “I’m just here to make sure you make good choices,” she mutters back. Twisting the straw between her fingertips, out of the corner of my eye I see her drag it across her full lower lip.
“I don’t need to make good choices,” I counter. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I just need to work out some nervous energy.”
“I know, I know, Lola,” she sighs dramatically. “And for the record, I am one hundred percent in favor of this plan. It will be nice if we could all just move past the Lola is Dumped and Super Sad chapter of our mutual fairytale. Oh, what about that one?”
She kicks the pointed toe of her boot in the direction of a tall, slightly block-headed jock in a lavender hoodie unzipped to his sternum. He’s talking with a group of friends, but posing in such a way that he thinks we’re looking at him, for sure.
“It looks like… what is that? Is he just wearing a hoodie? With no shirt underneath it?” I squint, trying to figure it out. “I mean, I can see his nipples. Is that a thing? Do guys wear that?”
Nance sighs heavily, tipping her head thoughtfully to one side. “You know what, you’re probably right,” she nods. “We don’t want you hooking up with someone who is not wearing the proper number of layers.”
I just shrug. “What? Is that wrong? I mean… you do see his nipples, right?”
“I see them,” she confirms, slurping noisily at the bottom of her drink and twisting to order another one immediately. “So pick somebody else. What about the guy in the baseball cap?”
As if he hears us, a broad-shouldered young man stands up a little straighter, raising the palm of his hand to glide it across his gleaming, wavy hair. His friends pivot away, probably talking about us.
“He’s got some potential,” I admit. “But in general, a backward baseball cap doesn’t signify a lot of masculine ability in my book. Can we save him on the shortlist?”
“Yeah, you’re probably maxing out at four minutes with that guy,” Nance observes over her new drink.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m looking for at least six minutes. At the very least.”
“At the very least,” she repeats, sitting up straighter and craning her long, beautiful neck as she surveys small groups of people walking across the aisle in front of us.
The slot machines are bright, noisy monoliths placed in rows. Chasing lights ring the tops of some of them with promises of a hundred thousand dollars, a million dollars, ten thousand dollars. I wonder how many times people actually win those prizes.
They’re arranged in short rows, with aisles crossing here and there. It’s sort of confusing, like a maze. People wander in and out, stopping for a little while at the different machines to try their luck. For the most part, they seem to walk away disappointed.
But here in front of the bar, there are only a few electronic poker machines. The table games are off to my left. In this area, it seems to be a sort of staging ground for younger people who might be up for the clubs, or might be up for the bar, or might be up for dinner or a show… Whatever. Nobody here is that dedicated to slot machine life. We’re all sort of wondering what’s going to happen next. It’s a good place to try to find a date, I suppose, while we drink free booze.
My drink is almost gone, but I don’t want to order a new one. I’d rather not get drunk. Since Scott and I broke up a few weeks ago, I seem to have spent more nights drunk than not. It’s getting confusing trying to remember where I’ve been, the writing deadlines I’m avoiding and the random texts I’m also avoiding.
Apparently I’ve had quite a good time here in Lake Tahoe, licking my wounds and an assortment of strange men too in the process. When I get a text from a number I don’t recognize, now I just go ahead and block it automatically. I figure I am saving us both a lot of time.
But I’ve always known that this vacation was temporary and that I’d have to get back to the writing. I’ve always known that it was supposed to help me get over Scott and the three years that we spent together. And now that there’s just a couple days left before we have to go back to the office in Sacramento, it seems like there’s still a stunning amount of healing I still have left to do. A stunning amount of forgetting.
So I’m going to need the services of a stunning man.
“You know, I’ve always had a thing for blonds,” Nance muses. She twists slightly back and forth in her swivel chair, rocking distractedly. With her elbow, she gestures toward a Thor-looking guy in a cable-knit sweater.
“I think a Viking would suit you well,” I agree. “He’s checking you out, too. Why not give him a try?”
She leans away from me, casting back a surprised look. “I already told you I’m not dating men this year,” she reminds me. “I’ve got a whole series of articles planned. Vikings are not on the menu.”
“Oh yeah, your Year of the Lady piece,” I sigh. “I hope that works out for you.”
“Me too, honestly,” she sniffs. “I hate using my sexuality as bait for readers, but what is an artist supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to live for your art,” I reply dutifully, though to be honest I’m not entirely convinced. It never seems like “living for her art” also means going to the grocery store or paying her bills on time. But when presented with the opportunity to make a fuss or leave a train wreck in her wake, Nance is all about living for her art. And everybody else has to just go along with it.
The Viking still seems to think we are discussing him, though, and has now turned fully to face us. His arms are out slightly from his sides, his hands open and twitching as though ready to wrestle a bear or something. His nostrils flare as though sniffing the air for her.
“Jesus,” I hear Nance exclaim under her breath.
“Stay strong. Think about your art,” I caution her wryly.
Behind the Viking, the crowd shifts, parting as someone cuts across it. A man in a midnight-blue suit strides purposefully among the jocks, his gaze intently trained on the bar next to me. As though receiving some kind of silent command, people naturally shift aside to allow him to pass. When he walks right next to me, I feel a sort of buffer, a kind of electrical buzzing around him.
He leans against the bar with his palms, flexing his arms as though ready to do a push-up and jerks his chin at the bartender. She offers him a cockeyed sm
ile and nods breathlessly.
“Patron, neat,” he answers her unasked question.
I lean toward Nance. “Yes?” I ask her confidentially.
“Oh, yes,” she mutters almost inaudibly, careful not to look at him directly.
With her approval, I turn my barstool, crossing my legs in the opposite direction. His eyes track the movement automatically, and his cheeks cave in as his lips purse.
“Lola Grace?” he purrs, his eyes fixed on my bare kneecaps. My skin almost sizzles under his inspection.
“Yes?” I ask, surprised. “How did you —”
“You’re easy to recognize,” he answers in his silky-smooth voice, dark as chocolate. “I was hoping we would get to meet before you left.”
Brazenly, his eyes rake over my body. He takes his time, sliding from my throat, down between my breasts, then over my thighs and between, into my skirt. Somehow I feel as though he’s dressing and undressing me over and over again, and his confidence is impressive.
Recognizing that I have finally found the animal I was looking for, I slide off the barstool and place my drink back on the bar, knuckling my hip and casting my weight to one side. His eyes track every movement, as though matching me dance move for dance move.