Opus

9. Fake

I'm wearing shorts and above-the-knee socks instead of pants. What's the point, right? I've ruined four pairs of pants so far, one per set. The shorts seemed a good idea at the bar six hours back, but now? I'm rethinking the entire thing as I freeze my ass off. Cuts and nicks on numb-frozen skin aren't painful, which defeats the purpose. Worse, cold-burn skin breaks too easily, turning my thighs into a messy patchwork of grooves and holes. My socks are soaked. Life is peachy.

Halfway through the set.

I am hungry.

Still half to go. Fuck!

Three hundred and fourteenth minutes.

I am sooo cold.

Four hundred and twenty-fourth minutes.

That's it. I am done.

OK, just one last sphere. I see one glowing four feet away. I'd be stupid not to take it. Only one point. I'm still on the average.

Four hundred and ninety-fourth minutes. The witching hour. I like that expression. The playground is so dark, who cares what time it is in the real world, the witching hour it is here in my little solitary bubble of doom.

Five hundred and fourth minutes. I am truly done. A little more than slightly above the median now, I was on a roll. I was willing to use any tactic to avoid overthinking my relationship with Jaz, or lack thereof, and running aimlessly in the underworld is a pretty damn effective mind-numbing occupation. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and now I'm exhausted, yet too tired and wired to nap. Hence, my thoughts return with a vengeance. I haven't seen Jasper since our night together, or rather our one-time fuck since he disappeared as soon as the deed was completed. Granted, I haven't sought him out. But neither has he.

Rule 6: The competition starts at noon on the tenth day of the year. Each set lasts ten hours. A new set begins every five hundred hours after the end of the previous set.

The sibs have been moping since that night, avoiding my company as a childish form of punishment. A welcome break. Hell, even during that one bed-play with Bree afterward, she was sulking.

My once-in-a-lifetime... opportunity with Jasper wasn't such a life-altering event, so why am I obsessing about the guy?

I stretch on the bed and crook my finger at him. Does he notice that my hand trembles? I'm about to fornicate with some pagan demigod look-alike. I'm playing way out of my league here.

"You're so fucking gorgeous."

My eyes flutter closed at his breathed words. His voice is gravelly, so very deep that it vibrates over my skin. His breath caresses my temple, cheek, lips. A nanosecond before his mouth makes contact with mine, I turn my head with a fake moan and offer my throat. Undeterred, he chuckles and nibbles a sinuous path between my collarbone and my ear.

His hands roam over my body, exploring, petting, kneading while I keep my fists at my sides. I'd rather not actively participate the first times, it feels too personal. Hence, I usually prefer to redo average lays instead of seeking new dicks.

"Tell me what you like, Caelina."

Skillful, feather-light brushes over my clit work me up. "Do whatever. I'm easy." Even though only four cocks have sunk into me, I've had many a hand and tongue down there. I am indeed easy.

"You ain't easy, doll. Believe me."

That's the problem, isn't it? I don't trust anyone. I didn't even trust Kendrick entirely, let alone some barbarian heathen, especially since I find him physically impressive thus intimidating. To the point that I'm embarrassed by how wet I am already. Which is a shame, really, considering I'm too self-conscious to enjoy it.

He rubs his dick into my folds. His movements are smooth, regular, controlled, assured, my cream making his thrusts fluid.

"You fertile?"

What an odd phrasing. "Doesn't matter. You still need a raincoat, referee."

"OK for now. We'll revisit this conversation in the near future, though."

I keep my eyes closed while he rises to his knees, rips the foil package of what I assume is a condom. When he returns between my thighs, he resumes his thrusts against my sex. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times−it's like the bastard knows my weakness for quadrumvirate−before sinking his length midway into me in one long powerful push.

"You good, princess?"

"Uh." The guy is hung. I feel too stretched already, too full to speak. To move. "You?" I'm passive but polite.

"Fuck, yeah."

I wish I could watch us from above. The play of his shoulders and back muscles. The undulation of his spine. The sweat making his skin glow. The tightening of his ass. His ass!

My climax takes me by surprise. The soft mewling sigh that falls from my lips cuts it short, though. The female equivalent of coitus interruptus, the story of my life.

Unaware (or uncaring) of my inner struggle (damn, I'm so witty), Jaz carries on, chasing his own orgasm. He rides it better than I did for one, two, three, four balls-deep thrusts later, he stills and comes with a grunt. Men are such bastards.