One Bride for Five Mountain Men: A Reverse Harem Romance

by Jess Bentley

  “Jordan...” he says, running a finger under the lace. “You’ve grown up so fast, but you’ll always be a little girl to me.” His hand snakes between the fabric and my soft skin, flirting with the cleft between my buttocks. “Have you been behaving yourself since I saw you last?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, and my voice comes out squeaky. It always does when I’m nervous. Then I fall onto the bed, and with a few strokes of my clit, I explode into a violent orgasm, bucking on the bed.

  When I wake up, I feel a tightness on my cheeks that means I’ve been crying in my sleep again. Realizing I’m exposed on the bed, just wearing the little panties and bralette I had on, I clutch the duvet around my body. What am I doing?

  I’m filled with shame and embarrassment. Fantasies are one thing, but anyone could have come up here, including Mr. King, and seen me at any time. My cheeks burn and I cringe into the pillow.

  Jordan, you’re out of control.

  My funeral clothes are strewn around the floor. In the dim twilight, they’re just losing their definition. In a few moments, you might not be able to tell what they are, but if anyone came by the door while I was asleep they would have seen the remains of my impromptu strip show.

  I have to get out of here. Being at my parents’ house in my old room isn’t doing me any good. Everything is just too close.

  Maybe I should take the money that Kelsey apparently left me and go somewhere else. Just get out of town for a while, where nobody knows me and I don’t have to answer to anyone. That would be perfect.

  She and I used to talk about that kind of thing all the time. In her dorm at college she used to have a map over her bed, and she’d put red push pins in every place she wanted to visit, and blue ones in places she had already been to. The yellow ones meant first priority and Paris had a few yellow stuck in it, for good measure.

  If she did leave me money that is. I can’t imagine spending it on anything else. Besides, it would be a nice tribute to her to go to one of the places we’d always talked about. Why not start with her favorite?

  This thought makes me feel a little bit better, and so I grab an old pair of shorts and a Victoria’s Secret sweatshirt and toss them on to wander back downstairs. I’m not up to eating anything yet, but I could use some water. The food from the wake is still sitting like a stone in my stomach.

  The stairs creak as I walk down them, running my hand along the oak bannister. I stop for a second. Is Mr. King still here?

  I hear my dad’s voice. “Thanks for coming back, King,” he says.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he says with that low rumble. “Good to see you again, and I’m glad that we had a chance to talk about this opportunity.”

  “Me too,” my dad says thoughtfully. I hear them coming to the front hall, and while part of me wants to run back up to my room and hide, the other wants to lay eyes on Mr. King again. I wish I could hide and watch them.

  “Jordan,” my dad says. “You’re up.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I was just coming down to get a glass of water.”

  “Funerals are exhausting,” my mother says. “Were you able to nap?”

  “For a little while.” I look away. I want to memorize the way Mr. King’s body looks with his clothes stretched over his muscles. Most guys I know don’t work on their bodies, but you can see his six-pack and pecs through his shirt. The forearms are tanned, with golden hairs, and the definition of his muscles makes me want him to take off his shirt and see more. “I decided to go to Paris,” I say.

  “Paris is beautiful,” Mr. King says.

  “Sure, it’s beautiful,” my dad blusters, “but you don’t want to go there now, do you?” His eyebrows knit together. “Not after everything? You don’t know what could happen.”

  “Anything could,” my mother says sagely, nodding her head. “Now’s not the time to do such a thing. Isn’t that right?” The last statement she directs to Mr. King.

  “Paris is an incredible city,” he answers her. “I might be heading there myself for business. If she were to get in any trouble, I’d be happy to help her out.”

  “That would be great,” I squeak.

  My mother looks to me, then to Mr. King. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, as it’s a moot point. Where would you get the money, anyway?”

  “I’m getting something from my best friend in her will,” I say. I’m feeling increasingly self-conscious in my shorts and shirt. “I don’t know how much it’s going to be, but I’d like to go as a tribute to her.”

  “I don’t know about that,” my dad says.

  “It’s a lovely idea,” Mr. King says at the same time. “I should be going, in any case.” He hands me a business card, and I clutch it in my palm, its crisp edges against my skin. “In case you decide to go to France, you know where to reach me.”

  “Thank you,” I say. This time my words aren’t squeaky, just soft and breathless.

  “Anyhow, great to see you,” my dad says to him. “Nice remembering old times and looking forward to new ones.”

  “Most definitely,” he answers, his smile widening again. “And you too, Margaret,” he says to my mother. Then he looks at me. “Jordan.” The way he says my name thrills me to my core again, sending tingles through my body.

  Did he just wink at me?

  Chapter 2

  Raleigh

  As I drive away from the house of my college buddy, the rumbling of my Lamborghini fills the air around me. The sweet purr of the machine is almost enough to drown out the thought of Jordan, but not quite. Seeing her today took me completely and utterly by surprise. I had no idea she would turn into such a... woman. When Dustin first put her in my arms when she was a helpless little thing, my feelings were entirely appropriate. I held her, said she was smiling when they said she had gas, and gave her back with effusive praise for her sweetness.

  When Jordan was eleven or twelve, she was merely a cute but annoying little kid that wanted my attention, and would do anything to get it: show me all of her dolls, or her drawings, or whatever she could haphazardly throw together, as long as it might keep my eyes on her. It was just a long weekend, but I remember how insistent she was to make certain she took my hand and led me to her bedroom every chance she got. One pleading look to her parents and I was saved.

  “Jordan, don’t bother Mr. King. He has other things he needs to be doing.”

  But now, I would give almost anything to have her take me by the hand and lead me to her bedroom. I still feel guilty that I saw her lying on her bed today, fast asleep, her lips relaxed and soft, her limbs strewn over the pink comforter. She looked like the perfect blend of innocent and sexy, with her breasts nearly falling out of the lacy scrap that barely covered them at the best of times, and the word Friday written on the crotch of her panties.

  Friday. I wish.

  Seeing her like that made my insides clutch and my cock swell immediately. She was undefended, and somehow still ready. It was only when she started to make a sound that was an awful lot like whimpering that I was struck by the fact that I was watching her, and I crept away. She was crying in her sleep.

  It was too hard to listen to her and not go in, take her soft body in my arms, and kiss her tears away. And stroke her skin… her innocent-looking skin. Distract her from whatever pain she had by pushing her hair out of her face, kissing those lips, and stroking down her body. Stretching my fingers over Friday and brushing the letter “i” almost accidentally before keeping my hand going.

  I ended up pulling away from her doorway, berating myself for my arousal the whole time until I reached the bathroom. My cock was huge, erect, heavy, and stiff with desire for her, and I felt like I was going to come as soon as I took my pants down—ostensibly to use the facilities.

  My cock in my hand, I stroked myself to a ridiculous climax trying to simultaneously gratify and rid myself of this inappropriate lust that had me in its grip.

  “Jordan,” I whispered, in her parents’ upstairs bathroom. Now I wis
h I’d never gone up there, but Margaret insisted since Dustin was in the downstairs one. I wish I’d never thought of him, I wish he wasn’t the best man for the work I needed done.

  Goddammit.

  Now I’m not going to be able to forget her, and that sweet, innocent pussy, laid open and ready.

  Am I just a dirty old man? Possibly. More than possibly; probably. But I didn’t ask for any of this. She wasn’t even supposed to be there, and who would have expected she would be defenseless and practically naked. Who knew she’d turn into such a beautiful woman from a little baby, and an annoying child? Fuck, Dustin, why do you have to have a gorgeous daughter?

  I’ve been with all kinds of women. It’s not difficult when you’ve got money. I’ve been with women of all races, of all temperaments: gold diggers, career women, philanthropists. But sometimes I just wish I were in college again, at that point in my life where we only think we have things figured out—where there’s nothing but possibility and the air thrums with the sexual tension of the still-almost-innocent.

  My cock is hardening again. The vibration of the sports car isn’t helping, but instead of slowing down, I rev the engine.

  I want you, Jordan. You and that tiny little mole on your hip that entices me to adventure. Invites me, even.

  But that’s bullshit. To her, I’m just her dad’s best friend from college. Some dirty old guy. She’d never see me that way as long as I’m her father’s friend.

  What if she were to travel to Paris? If she came to France, maybe she would see me as something different, not as her dad’s friend. She’d be far away from Daddy and Mommy as she’d ever been, and she’d feel free. Ready for adventure, but still wanting some measure of safety—which I would be happy to provide.

  My cock throbs.

  I realize that something is niggling at the back of my mind, an uncanny feeling like I’ve seen her before—not the times that she was shoving her dollies in my face, or being thrust in my arms by her mother. A feeling that maybe she’s not as innocent as she appears to be. It’s hitting me on a deep, sensual level, the way she was sprawled out on that bed. It was one of the sexiest things I’ve come across, but like I’ve seen it before... no, that’s crazy.

  I turn up the radio to rid myself of these mad thoughts. Jordan is my friend’s daughter, nothing more, nothing less.

  Then why am I more rigid than I’ve been since I was eighteen?

  As I pull into the driveway that leads to my estate, I hit the phone button and command my car to call my private investigator, the one I use to suss out all the businesspeople I plan to do work with. As much as I want this woman, my friend’s daughter, ugh... I have to know more about her—and if there’s a reason I feel like I’ve seen her before. I need to know if she’s going to Paris without asking her, or asking her parents, for that matter. I don’t want to come across as inordinately concerned about her and set them off, but right or wrong, these feelings that have sprung up inside me are just too strong to leave alone.

  Hiring my PI will tell me exactly how much trouble I’m asking for, and what I can get away with—two things that have served me well in my forays in the business world, and that have made me my fortune.

  So what if Dustin and I were close in college, says a small part of me. It’s not like we’ve talked much in the last decade. Last time I saw him was when Jordan was pulling me away from him, after all. Why should I be more loyal to him than the next person? I’ve given the man the business opportunity of a lifetime. I don’t owe him anything after that. I figured I could use his skills and wanted to see how he was doing. It’s not like I would suffer if I turned him against me.

  Which I would probably have to do either way—if I decide to pursue Jordan or not. If I do the right thing and cut her out of my life, I’ll have to get rid of Dustin and Margie as well. Because if I see Jordan again I will not be able to hold myself back.

  To be completely honest, if I do see her again, I’m going to fuck her brains out.

  “Henderson,” I hear through the speakers. It’s so crystal clear, it makes me jump every time.

  “Don,” I bark in a voice I hope doesn’t sound as lust-ridden as I feel. “I need some information on a Jordan Burke. Can you look into her for me, maybe by... Friday.” Her panties flash through my mind again. Friday.

  “Of course, King.” He coughs. “What do you need to know?”

  “I need to know everything you can find out about her. And I want to know what her near future plans are. But you can’t tip her off. That part is very important.”

  “Of course not, King, you know I’m a professional,” he says. He sounds taken aback. “I never tip off a client’s mark. You know that.”

  “I know you’re the best,” I say. “It’s just that this one is a delicate matter.”

  “They all are,” he answers.

  “True.” I shouldn’t have put him down. But the last thing I want to have happen is for Dustin and Marg to get the idea that I’m following their daughter. My mind immediately starts to come up with some story that would excuse it if they were to find out. Don clears his throat.

  “Okay, you know the drill. I’ll send you an invoice and then a full report,” he says gruffly. “By Friday.”

  “I’m counting on you,” I answer, and he clicks off the line.

  I ease the Lambo into its garage and wonder if I’ve lost my mind.

  As Friday flashes through my mind, I know I have.

  True to his word, it’s not much longer after I pay the invoice that I have the full report on my desk at the office.

  Jordan Marie Burke. 22 years.

  On birth control, doctor says it’s for cramps. Never pregnant. No STDs on record.

  Good.

  I keep reading, and then I find out the answer that I’ve been looking for—she is planning on going to Paris, and has already booked a flight. I note the dates down for my executive assistant to flank for my private plane.

  No. I will fly the same flight. First-class. I cross out the private plane reservation and note the airline. She’ll be surprised. I can see her eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly. But she’s a pro. She’ll keep her mouth shut.

  I start skimming when the answer I’ve been looking for as to why she seems so familiar hits me like a punch to the gut.

  Of course. That’s where I’ve seen her.

  I click on my computer, and wonder how the hell I didn’t realize it before. Jordan. Of course.

  This complicates things. It makes her a completely different person than I had thought.

  “Jordan,” I say out loud. “I want you to be mine. Mine only. I want you for my own.” My cock strains at the zipper. “For me.” I’m almost lightheaded, the blood rushing to my cock so quickly like this. I press a button under the desk and the door to my office locks with a hearty but discreet click. I’ll never get anything done now that I know this.

  But it only makes me hungrier.

  Jordan, you are mine, says that voice in my head. The malevolent voice that I try to silence.

  Mine.

  Chapter 3

  Jordan

  “Excusez-moi, Madame?” says the barista in her perfect, slippery, elegant French.

  “Um,” I struggle to remember the words I was just practicing in my head over and over. “Café?” is all that comes out. I see a small curl form in her lip.

  “What can I get you, miss? You would like a coffee? What size?”

  She’s impatient.

  “Medium,” I say, cheeks flaming. Goddammit. I thought that coming to France was going to help me be more brave, but instead I’m feeling stupid and helpless.

  “We don’t ‘ave medium,” she says flatly.

  “Large.” I have no idea what they have.

  She turns and draws a couple shots of espresso out of a large silver maker, as I regard the case with all manner of pastries.

  “Here you are, deux Euro, s’il-vous-plait,” she says.

  I hand over a bill and she look
s at it with scorn.

  “Nothing smaller?” she asks, and shares a look with her fellow barista who is waiting to ring in his customer. I shake my head quickly. If Kelsey were here, I’d have someone to share a look with, myself. If Kelsey were here, she’d be the one ordering for both of us. It’s probably why I’m so fucking useless, because she used to do everything for me.

  Kelsey was the one who, when we were just kids, pulled me out onto the playground and made sure I was friends with the others. Sure, she didn’t like it much when I got too close to this one or that one. Then I’d pay for it. But for the most part, being with Kelsey was like having a ticket to the popular kids, to birthday parties and later, to boys. She was always a bridge to other people, but sometimes she blocked that bridge when she got angry or felt like I might be getting too independent. I realize that now. I thought she was opening me up to new experiences, but I realize she was just providing herself with some kind of safety net.

  “Merci,” I choke out.

  Don’t see this a failure, Jordan, I tell myself sternly, but inside I’m cringing. Hard.

  “De rien,” she says but she’s already turned away. I resist the habit to count my change. I don’t know anything about this currency and the people behind me are grumbling.

  I stuff the money in my pocket, grab my coffee, and go.

  Once I’m out in the bright sunlight, I lean against a wall and take a sip of what is the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.

  It’s only then that I realize in my embarrassment I forgot to get any breakfast. My stomach growls and turns a little, the acidity of the coffee harsh on my empty belly.