Winning the Game

by Leesa Bow

  “Of course I want to, but I’m surprised by your timing.”

  “Which we don’t have much of,” she reminds me.

  “Got it.” I spin her around and unbutton her skirt to loosen it and slide it up her thighs, so it bunches around her hips. “You sure it’s safe in here?” My gaze flicks to the door as I pull down her G-string.

  “No one uses this store except my department. No one will come in. But people work in nearby offices, so you need to be quiet.”

  “Understood.” I part her legs, and Tori bends from the waist, steadying herself by grabbing hold of a shelf. I rip open a condom packet and roll it on.

  “Should I ask why you have a condom in your pocket?”

  “In case you asked me to do this,” I say back at her.

  She sighs and wriggles her arse, as though searching for my dick. I insert two fingers inside to check her first and discover she’s wet, so fucking wet. “Going to be hard to keep quiet, knowing you’ve been thinking about doing this all morning like I have.”

  “Shut up and fuck me.”

  I’m turned on and surprised by her dirty words. Holding her shoulders so she can’t move I sink my thick cock deep inside her. My dick pulses, reacting to her gasps. I don’t hold back. I pound hard and fast, each thrust forcing air out of her lungs in little sighs. If she wants to be fucked, then it’s the one thing I can do, like a professional. I let go of her shoulders and push her legs wider apart. She groans a little, in a combination of pain and pleasure. I hunch over her, looping one hand around her front, and press on her clit. She bucks against me and I breathe in her ear. “Like this?” I press her clit while I’m plunging into her.

  “Yes,” she gasps.

  I’m building quickly. Fuck, this woman knows how to undo me. I let go and straighten so I can take hold of her hips, pull her back and push deeper, pumping into her with everything I have. Our disjointed breaths and the slapping of skin are the only sounds. I’m heady in the confines of a small space. The air fills quickly with the smell of sex. All I smell is Tori, and it’s a scent I want to wear all day long. I yank up her shirt and find her breasts. A raw, guttural sound escapes me as I take the nipple, hard and erect, between my fingers. Her breath is a raspy cry as she comes. I’m burning up with pleasure. Trembling from trying to hold on to the moment, I shudder, losing all control, and come inside her. Breathless and weak, I’m hunched over her as though someone has knocked my feet from underneath me.

  “Oh my God,” she whispers.

  Incapable of more than a few words, I say, “You wanted to be fucked.” The words come out wrong. I meant it to sound more like a mutual understanding. Instead, I sound like an idiot.

  “Yeah.” She flips me off her, cleans herself up a little too readily. “I wanted to know the real you.”

  I take a step back, hearing her tone, gaping at her while she dresses quickly. “The real me?”

  “With your reputation and all.” She nods at my hand holding the knotted condom. “Please dispose of that elsewhere. Not in here.” She flashes me a look, a fucking judgemental one.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on here …”

  “You have exactly fifteen minutes to be back on set. You need to focus. That’s what’s going on. Goodbye, Rhett.”

  “Fuck. Wait up.” She’s gone before I’ve fastened the belt to my pants. I want to call out to her, but if anyone is in the hall it could be detrimental to us both. I spin, looking for something to punch, fists clenched.

  What the hell just happened?

  I pace the length of the storeroom, contemplating my next move. I analyse everything she has said to me over the past week. What has brought us to this moment? I bang the shelf with my fist in realisation.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  If she wants me to perform well on set to get her damn promotion, then a performance is what she’ll bloody get.

  TORI

  Last night was the final day of filming Rhett’s intimate dates. Grant had arranged for a one-hour edited footage reel of each date to be delivered to me on the day following the shoot. I then oversaw the cut copies of all the important or interesting parts—the juicy bits, as Grant calls them—to provide feedback.

  I’ve watched reels for three hours a day—footage of Rhett dining with three different girls—on three consecutive days. It’s now after five on Friday afternoon. Time for me to head home and enjoy the weekend, not torture myself by watching Rhett.

  God knows what Rhett thinks of me after our quick romp in the storeroom. I haven’t stopped thinking about it all week. I was wrong on so many levels. Wrong to think I could rid him from under my skin by having sex with him. Wrong to think if he had been a gentleman and said ‘No’, then my work was complete. And wrong believing that seeing him for what he is—how he fucks and then forgets—would turn my desire to disdain. It was a stupid, impulsive idea that failed. Because, after experiencing a mind-shattering orgasm, I want him even more … want more of him.

  I’m so messed up. Now I know how it feels to be on his long list of conquests.

  All for research? No. After waking up beside Rhett that morning, it dawned on me later in the day that I might have thrown away the last chance to have something physical with him. I kept imagining what it would be like to have Rhett’s big hands all over me. Then I caved. Acted recklessly on a sudden sexual urge. And now, watching him with all the other contestants breaks my heart, because I wrongly want him to be mine.

  My fingers tremble writing the critique of date number eight. Sally. My heart’s beating out a rhythm, sending butterflies to my stomach. It’s a rhythm equally nervous and afraid. But I can’t allow my thoughts to wander, and to become jealous. Thoughts provoking jealousy only end in heartache.

  There’s no way I could endure the pain of watching the final date with Lucy here in the office. Besides, my frazzled thoughts are no help to anyone, least of all myself. I unlock the second drawer of my desk and reach for my clutch purse, ready to get out of here.

  Thank heavens it’s Friday, because this week has been a nightmare, despite commencing a new project. Usually, I’m motivated and dive right in, working up to twelve hours a day. Since the mind-shattering romp my brain has gone on strike. I’m either staring at a flashing cursor on the screen while my pen’s tapping a monotonous beat, or I’m massaging my temples, trying to ease the throbbing pain.

  It’s my own fault. I knew not to get involved, not to cross any professional lines with a client. Even Ingrid had warned me.

  If I could talk to someone …

  My mother’s voice appears like magic in the back of my mind. Block out the emotion and focus on the job at hand.

  Slamming the drawer to my desk, I admit for once she’s right. I need to be strong. A moment of weakness got me into a situation at eighteen, and I can’t allow it to happen again. I can’t be involved with someone like Rhett, who is really an older version of Tait.

  Tait broke my heart, and, although it took years to heal, the scars remain. Tait made false promises, ones I believed enough to offer him the one special thing I could give. My virtue.

  I’ve lost all control of my thoughts and I’m sliding down the rabbit hole of the past, thinking about the night before I was scheduled to fly home from the Bahamas. Tait and I made love, then he cried with me, not wanting me to leave. Tait promised to come visit. Told me he loved me, and kissed me so tenderly. A kiss which had me believing there could be a way for us to continue this wonderful relationship. On the morning of my flight I decided to surprise him with a special goodbye. I had time to make love with him one more time, and surprise him with tickets to come and visit me in Australia. I went to his apartment in the employee block at 5 am, knowing Tait never locked his door. The surprise was discovering another girl in his bed. I cried the entire flight home, and realised he must have had other girls while with me. But how, when I was with him every night for four weeks? I’ll never forget the searing pain slicing me apart. Tait may as well have held t
he knife himself. It wouldn’t have hurt any less. No less than the disgraced expression on my mother’s face a month later, and the humiliation of falling pregnant to a guy I’d only just met; fooled by his love for me.

  Knowing I’d never see Tait again helped me to move on.

  I don’t have the same luxury with Rhett.

  My grandma warned me a leopard never changes its spots. Maybe she’s right.

  My gaze lifts to wall opposite, bearing several framed photographs of the actors I’ve worked with over the past two years. My trophies. Some of them were players before they came to me. A player is an actor, only in real life. A pretence, and I can’t allow myself to believe otherwise. Maybe it’s why I decided on a career training amateur actors, having some control over the way they behave.

  True to form, Rhett will always be that guy, even though he tried to convince me otherwise. Me, the one person helping him not to be that person. I failed him. So I had no choice but to do what was right for both of us.

  Maybe Rhett knows it too, since I haven’t heard from him.

  I rewind the show to the final scene to watch Rhett and Sally kiss. My throat burns as I swallow a lump growing as big as an orange.

  I need to feel this pain.

  Rhett takes Sally’s face in his large hands and kisses her in a sweet, tender way. Sally’s arms snake around his back, pulling their chests together. Thank heavens we don’t get a view of her breasts pushed up against his solid pecs. But I know he can feel her. All of her. His hand slides along her jaw, tangles a little in her blonde locks, and then he deepens the kiss.

  It’s full of promise.

  And lies.

  At this point I doubt Sally cares if it’s a lie. She has made it clear from the start she wants to get into Rhett’s pants.

  I don’t need a mirror to know my cheeks are flushed. I want to yell at the screen, or throw something.

  Does anyone think the same way about kissing as me?

  Contest is about turning Rhett into a gentleman, not using his lip and tongue skills on every contestant. Kissing is personal, something you do to show you care—really care—for someone. A kiss can tell so much about a person, and every time your lips meet you learn a little more about each other. Soon it opens the doorway to your soul. I’m not referring to the friendly kiss, or the passionate kiss when you want to hook up and fuck for one night only. No, it’s the kiss that reveals your fear of losing the person you’ve grown to love.

  I inhale sharply. As much as it hurts seeing Rhett hold each contestant and lock lips, it reinforces the pain of seeing him with someone else in the real world. The footage is my ammo for moving on.

  I hit “send” on my critique, with a suggestion to wardrobe about looser fitting tops with a higher neckline.

  Seriously.

  I understand how Grant believes Sally’s sexy image will catapult her to the final three, but Sally is the one contestant who could damage Rhett’s reputation more, if the tiny shorts and almost-nipple-baring tank top she wore to auditions is anything to go by.

  Already it’s after six, so I pack up my desk. I have one last reel to examine, the final date, and, for the life of me, I can’t shake the feeling Rhett and Lucy’s date has the hype of a finale.

  “Whatever, Grant,” I say when I read the attached note.

  Titillating!

  If I choke up, at least no one will witness it in the privacy of my home. Tomorrow I’ll email Grant and suggest more scenes to cut to make it a forty-five-minute reel. It’s the time allowed per date, so it can be used as one episode. Add brief interviews revealing Rhett’s and the contestant’s expectations, plus flash scenes of them preparing for the date, and voila—episode complete.

  At home I shower, prepare dinner, tidy up my apartment and do anything rather than watch Rhett on tape. Making a promise to watch the reel first thing in the morning with a fresh mind, I curl up on my bed with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and watch back-to-back episodes of Sex in the City. It’s my go-to show. The perfect remedy on a lonely Friday night.

  The following morning I’m motivated to work out at the gym before breakfast. When I arrive home I check my emails, while downing some fruit and yoghurt, like any other Saturday morning. I reject the urge to clean my house—again—rather than start the reel on date number nine. With a deep breath I fire up my laptop. Halfway through the footage my breathing turns shallow and jagged, like I’m watching a horror movie, not reality television. I convince myself the pain would be less severe if I stabbed myself in the eye with the pen I’m gripping in my right hand. At this moment, nothing seems worse than watching Lucy and Rhett on a luxury yacht.

  Lucy’s image for Contest is sporty and casual.

  It’s not her image on the date and, Lord, I underestimated her.

  Earlier, the waiter had served up an entrée of prawns, octopus, oysters, and wine. The main course included more oysters and lobster, with exotic salads. By this stage I’m well over watching Rhett eat. After nine elaborate meals in three days, he’ll need to run a marathon to maintain his athletic rig.

  A close camera shot reveals empty bottles of wine from the Barossa. I note the sponsorship and commend the camera work. Then the camera flashes back to Rhett in his white shirt and navy tie, as he comments on the number of oysters Lucy has consumed; followed by his wink. My fingers tighten around the pen. I close my eyes momentarily. I was a fool to believe his sexy wink was only for me.

  In the next scene, Lucy and Rhett are sitting on cushions under the stars. Gentle waves rock the boat. The waiter serves a bowl of chocolate, strawberries, and ice-cream before disappearing below deck. It’s then I notice Lucy’s white, knee-length dress, an A-line cut, and not at all tight around her hips.

  Only the cameraman remains, to give them as much privacy as possible. On occasions they whisper, and I don’t always make out what they’re saying, but a note from Grant reinforces there’ll be subtitles for the audience. Still, it doesn’t help my frustration.

  Rhett takes Lucy in his arms, her back to his chest, while they share her bowl of ice-cream, spoon for spoon. She giggles, and twists to try to reach his mouth. She misses. Before he has a chance to wipe the cream from his cheek she plops the bowl down and kisses the spot near the corner of his lips. Lucy proceeds to clean the cream from his face in slow, tantalising licks. The camera zooms in on Rhett’s expression, eyes hooded and lips slightly apart. Lucy leans back a little, sees his reaction and they kiss. I’m not sure how long I stopped breathing while watching her hands slide along his face and trail down to his neck, while their mouths open and close over each other’s. Since I have the sound on maximum, I hear the language of seduction, every breath. It’s only when Rhett pulls back and breaks the kiss that I realise I’m holding my breath.

  “I need to tell you something,” Lucy whispers. Rhett takes her hand in his and rubs his thumb over the back of her hand. “Since there’ll be an eviction this week, I want you to know how much I’ve enjoyed being with you. I like you.” She smiles and their eyes meet. “Really like you, and hope we can have more times like this. I want to get to know you better.” Her eyes flutter downward coyly, then up to meet his once more. “I believe in time we could build a relationship together.”

  Rhett’s hand goes behind her neck. “I’ve enjoyed tonight, too. I think we have a connection and I’d also like to get to know you better, Luce.” His gaze flicks across her face, seeking something, but I can’t quite work it out without seeing her face. “I appreciate you telling me. I like hearing how you really feel.” He rubs her nose with his. “Be honest with me and we’ll be good together.” Then his mouth takes hers. Lucy pushes up and is on his lap, straddling him. The skirt of her dress parachutes out over their hips so you can’t see anything. “Smart girl,” I jeer. The kiss turns passionate, implying, I want to sleep with you. It’s the way I usually like to be kissed. Full of lust, with no strings attached. And definitely no promise of tomorrow.

  The next thing I see is Lucy
and Rhett walking hand in hand. The camera zooms back to capture the dark ocean surrounding the yacht, with no one else and no other boat in sight. The camera angle switches, and the lights of Glenelg’s foreshore come into view, with a distant image of Rhett and Lucy disappearing below deck, and we’re left to assume they’re alone.

  I throw my pen at the screen. Honesty. My lip trembles; razors shred my insides. I was a fool to think I could have a piece of him and then push him away believing it was best for both of us.

  Tears spill onto my cheek, and the scar over my heart rips open because I’ve stupidly messed everything up.

  “I don’t think you should have the final scene with Rhett and Lucy heading below deck. This is a meal-only date, and the image leads you to believe the two will share an intimate night alone, and it’s not fair on the other contestants. Whether they did or not isn’t my concern. Lucy had a three-hour lunch date, and Kaetrin a two-hour breakfast date. On the previous days all other contestants had a two-hour date, so why should Lucy have an entire night? I consider it to be an unfair advantage over the other contestants.”

  “Yes it is,” Grant says in a calm voice. I’m feeling anything but calm. “Lucy won the game last week to have the final night with Rhett, and she arranged the yacht herself through a friend. All other contestants picked a restaurant. I like the way Lucy thinks. None of the other contestants know details. Lucy asked to remain overnight on the boat, and we did hire the yacht until morning. We gave Rhett the option, and he agreed to stay. Going by their bloodshot eyes they didn’t get much sleep.”

  “I’m not asking for details,” I cut in. “Kissing on screen I’m in favour of, but if you have the audience believing Rhett is sleeping with the contestants … well, it’s not the image I want for my client so early in the game.”

  I pour myself another champagne, concentrating so my hand holding the bottle doesn’t shake. It’s taken two glasses to work up the nerve to call Grant, hoping my voice didn’t crack.