I would meet them in hell and play their horrid games. I’ll come out the victor.
Grabbing a tiered platter of paté, crusty bread, and pickled vegetables, my mouth watered.
I’m so hungry.
My stomach growled, sending spasms of pain. I’d never gone this long without food, and the lack of sugars and vitamins faded the edges of my vision. My fingers whispered over a piece of roasted potato. Just one little taste…
“Hurry up,” Mr. Hawk ordered.
Shaking my head from the overwhelming need to shove a handful of delicious looking food into my mouth, I turned to face the table. I’d never waitressed before, but I guessed the man in charge would get first choice.
That means passing him again.
Holding tight to the platter, I held my head high, and made my way past Jethro. His mouth twitched as he once again blocked my path. I kept my lips tight together, not looking at the challenge in his eyes.
“Not interested in me anymore, Ms. Weaver?” he purred.
Mr. Hawk looked over his chair and pointed at me, then placed his finger over his lips in the universal ‘hush’ sign. A non-so-subtle reminder that I wasn’t permitted to speak.
When I didn’t respond. Jethro smiled. “I’m impressed.”
He might terrify me, but he needed to know I wouldn’t give up. I had plans for him, and I wouldn’t be so easily cowed. Plus, he had my vomit on his shoes, he shouldn’t be so smug.
I let myself glance into his golden eyes. You don’t scare me.
His capricious demeanour shifted slightly, a silent message glowing in his gaze. Give me time.
He let me pass without another word.
Breathing shallowly, I came to a standstill beside Mr. Hawk. He nodded, choosing a selection from the platter. “Good girl. You may now serve the rest of the table. Left to right, if you please.”
Straightening, I forced myself to truly look at the men before me—the gauntlet of masculinity I had to travel through to reach my destination.
My heart raced; a cold sweat broke out down my spine.
Stay cold. Stay free. And you’ll get through this.
I placed one foot, then another. My heartbeat ratcheted as I came to a stop beside a large man reeking of damp leaves. He had orange hair and a tattoo snaking up his neck.
My vision wobbled; I tottered to the left as a small wave of vertigo reminded me I’d been stable up to this point thanks to a miracle. Orange Tattoo shot out an arm, preventing me from slamming into the table.
He grinned. “Steady, I won’t bite.” He brought me close, smiling so deep a dimple formed. “I’ll lick though.”
Before I could move, his tongue landed on my thigh, licking long and slow like a giant animal.
What?!
I squirmed, almost dropping the tray. His grip was absolute, holding me firm until he’d tasted his full. The rush of vertigo turned to nausea. The sickly scent of my previous sickness didn’t help my stomach from rolling like a shipwreck.
Letting me go, I stumbled and tried to rub away the silvery glisten of wetness from his awful mouth. It only transferred to my naked elbow.
Orange Tattoo beamed, licked his lips, and took a selection of breads and pickles. “Thank you, Ms. Weaver.”
I spun to face Mr. Hawk.
This couldn’t be true. He expected me to let this happen. From everyone?
Mr. Hawk chewed thoughtfully, raising an eyebrow, daring me to speak.
My lips parted—to demand to know what happened. Was that the token of gratitude he spoke of? A lick?
My chest puffed, sending a wash of embarrassment through me. Not only was I naked but I had to permit them licking me!
Mr. Hawk pursed his lips, waiting for me to explode.
He’ll punish you. Don’t ask. Do. Not. Snap.
It took more courage and energy than I had. But I managed to suck in a breath and release the stress swirling in my system. I had too many other things to focus on to care about an unorthodox dinner soirée.
No speaking.
I had to pretend I had no tongue. Otherwise, waitressing would be the least of my problems.
Glancing back at the men, they grinned, knowing I had no choice but to continue.
Jethro’s voice ghosted behind me like a dark cloud. “You’re the main course, Ms. Weaver. Each brother gets a taste—anywhere he chooses. You’d be wise to allow it.”
My heart thundered. Anywhere?
But if it was just a lick—was that so bad? Perhaps this dinner party might not be as awful as I’d feared. A lick I could tolerate. A touch I could handle. Full penetration would drive my mind from its sanctuary straight to an asylum.
It was as if Jethro knew that. Pushing me, little by little, past my comfort zone.
I moved to the next leather-jacketed man. This one was skinny but had an edge of violence. His shaved head shone as he helped himself to the food before placing his finger in the top of my pinafore and pulling me down to his level.
His tongue lashed out, tracing my cheekbone all the way to my ear.
Shuddering, I swallowed back my repulsion.
You can handle it.
The moment he’d finished, he said, “Thank you, Ms. Weaver.”
What did they want for me—permission that it was okay? That I was grateful?
Standing upright, I struggled to move. Struggled to keep going when I knew how many more licks I’d have to earn before it was over.
“Proceed, Ms. Weaver. Don’t disappoint me.” Jethro’s gravelly voice invaded my ears. Damn him. Damn all of this.
Swallowing hard, I moved to the next.
He was handsome. Quite like Jethro in a stockier, less devilish kind of way. He had dark hair with flecks of grey and a bird of prey tattooed on his forearm.
Never taking his eyes from mine, he took a few items, then hooked a strong arm around my waist and pushed up my maid’s uniform. His lips pressed a kiss on my hipbone, the wet tease of a tongue hidden by the warm pressure of his mouth.
Every inch of me revolted but I didn’t flinch.
Smirking, he let me go. “Thank you, Ms. Weaver.”
It was the smirk that gave him away.