Chapter Two

Rose

I'm always too hot after seeing Stuart.

The crisp December weather should cool my skin but it doesn't. It never does. I'm feverish, and what's worse, the crotch of my tights is all wet. My pussy throbs, and I feel the urge to stuff my hands down there and rub it hard. My pussy—ugh, I always struggle to say that word—torments me the entire way back to my dorm.

How can he stand to be gorgeous like that? He’s in his early forties now but he doesn’t look a day over twenty-eight to me. Okay, maybe thirty, but still.

His steely black hair has just a few threads of gray near the temples, enough to hint at his maturity. It’s always impeccably styled but that doesn’t detract from his masculinity. I like it most when it’s just loose, though. It looks so thick and soft. His only wrinkles are laugh lines. His bright gray eyes never seem tired, and his skin is perpetually sun-kissed.

Don’t even get me started on the way his body fills a room… Those shoulders. He might be a billionaire CEO now but he looks like a body builder. His sleek suits do little to dampen the biceps straining at the material of his sleeves, while the buttons on his shirt teeter and almost pop every time that broad chest takes a breath. I’m flushed and dizzy just thinking about it all. He’s so sexy.

And his body is so big, it makes me wonder about the parts of him I can’t see at all.

One in particular.

"Maybe I'm getting sick," I tell myself as I enter my dorm room. I strip off the large coat and the tights. Air circulates between my thighs, alleviating some of this desperate itch down there but it's still not enough, and I give in to temptation.

Like I do every time.

I throw myself onto my bed and spread my legs.

I normally don't do this. It only happens after seeing Stuart, and yes, I feel bad about it. I know that it's wrong but I can't stop. He brings it out in me.

My fingers tickle my clit and unleash a current of relief. The muscles in my thighs flutter and flex and my hips grind. I seethe and ride myself closer to orgasm, letting my imagination wander in ways that it never does.

Stuart and I are at his office door again but this time, the secretary doesn't knock. This time, his finger isn't under my chin. It's inside my panties.

"Oh, yes," I moan, writhing. "Fuck, yes."

My eyes roll back in my head and orgasm crashes between my legs.

I guess never masturbating has made my clit extra sensitive, and I sit up with sweat on the back of my neck, with my hair everywhere, my cheeks hot. That seriously took about thirty seconds.

I've never had a man inside me. Men are mostly pigs, I’ve been told repeatedly. And—when you have hair like mine and breasts like mine—you tend to find that out first-hand, if you aren’t careful. So I think more about my studies and my future than about sex or love. The ideas seem laughable, like something out of a fairy tale. Just not meant to be.

Not the men that I know, anyway.

But Stuart brings a new woman out of me every time I see him... and she’s different. She’s fully capable of saying words like “cock.” And “pussy.”

Sometimes I'm relieved to get out of there so I don't do anything stupid, like forget to talk while I’m staring at him.

It's Stuart who taught me how to masturbate, even though he doesn't know that, of course. I only felt the urge to experiment with my own fingers after I first met him three years ago, when I was nineteen. That was my first orgasm. I imagined my hands were his hands.

I'll probably never see him again after I graduate, and the thought brings a sigh from my lips. I roll over onto my side and my eyelashes drift shut. I exhale, long and low. And I drift off to sleep thinking about those warm, attentive gray eyes fixed to me, sleep thinking about his strong fingers scooped beneath my chin.

And that bulge in his pants...

*

I'm startled awake by the sound of knocking at my dorm room door, and I glower in confusion at the window facing east. Pure, soft light courses through the window. It must be morning. I came so hard I passed out and slept all night.

I feel a little victorious and smug at that, and swing my legs over the mattress. My dress from yesterday is wrinkled and the tights are gone. My thighs still have a light, sweet stickiness on them.

I open the front door and lean on the frame, peering with curiosity at the beautiful young woman standing in my doorway. She's got gobs of auburn hair, dangerous curves, and she wears what appears to be a uniform. She looks like a professional delivery girl but her outfit is short, tight, and sexy, more like the college Halloween version of a delivery girl.

"I'm looking for a woman named Rose Parsons," she informs me, her eyes sparkling conspiratorially. "I've got some priority mail here."

She flashes me a thick, waxy golden envelope, and what appear to be legitimate diamonds catch the light. I gape and almost snatch the thing from her, I'm so intrigued by it.

"I'm Rose," I tell her, stretching out my hand. She passes me the envelope and I rip it open, even though it’s a shame to do so. I’ve never seen stationary so fucking beautiful, pardon my French.

You are cordially invited to join us for the Christmas Ball on Mystique Island. Masks will be required at all times during the course of your stay over the weekend. All clothing, food, and accommodations will be provided for you. Welcome to the sexiest event of your life.

Hm. My brow furrows as I trace the beautiful calligraphy on this invitation. It's a Christmas ball on an island called Mystique Island? I've never heard of it. All expenses paid. But it also says “sexiest event” and “masks.” Huh.

"I’m pretty sure this is a mistake," I say, my gaze tilting back to the delivery girl. "Maybe there’s another Rose Parsons at this dorm.”

The redhead presses her lips together and shakes her head, slow and satisfied, as if she relishes with certainty the fact that this invitation was meant for me.

“No way,” she says. “It’s you, doll. Just look at you. I’ve been delivering these all day. You’re the one.”

I bite at my lower lip and glance back down at the paper. “Why was I… chosen? What is this?"

"Your attendance has been requested by one of our most elite Mystique Island members," she answers me, eyes still sparkling. "It's owned by a festive billionaire, I’m not at liberty to disclose his identity but he is a great man, and he loves to throw these elaborate holiday parties for the other men in his billionaire club. Elaborate… and sexual parties."

Sexual? I gulp.

The girl from last night—the one masturbating on the bed, thinking “cock” and “pussy”—she’s asleep again. She’ll probably hibernate until Stuart Goldman comes back around.

And that’s the moment that it dawns on me. Mystique Island is a sexy billionaire club. And I only know one billionaire: Stuart Goldman.

My eyes go to the invitation and then back to the delivery girl. It says that masks must be worn at all times. It seems suspicious, even dangerous. I can’t.

"I think I'm going to have to refuse," I say, trying to pass her the invitation back. "Thank you, though."

The delivery girl ignores the envelope hanging in the air between us. She scoffs and shakes her head a little, as if surprised. "No one says that," she says, mostly to herself. "Let me explain about the common experience for a guest on the island. Maybe that will relax you. Do you already have holiday plans?"

"No," I admit.

"Perfect." She grins. "When I first ventured to Mystique Island, over ten years ago now, I was nervous. A friend of mine invited me, and we went to a Halloween party. Everyone there was masked... and everywhere you looked, as far as the eye could see, were beautiful people in immense pleasure. It was the most amazing experience of my life. Almost spiritual."

There’s no way she’s going to sell me on masked group sex. "I'm already spiritual without all the sex," I explain to her. She looks young to have been at a sex party ten years ago but maybe sex parties keep you young. Either way, it’s not for me.

I try to pass the envelope back again but she still won't take it.

"Look... I can see how this concept would be intimidating." She pauses and extends her hand to me. "I'm Cheryl, by the way."

I grasp her hand and give it a shake. "Rose," I say again. "Nice to meet you."

Cheryl nods and goes on, "This Christmas is going to be a new kind of party. Some of these invitations are to Wish List members."

I raise my eyebrow. “I was put on someone’s wish list?” I reiterate, to make sure I’m hearing her correctly. Because this is insane.

"Yes, Stuart Goldman," she answers naturally, as if this moment doesn’t shatter my entire reality. Stuart Goldman, you know, that ripped billionaire with the slate gray eyes and the warm baritone voice. He requested that I join him on a sexy island. Cheryl beams and adds, "You’re the only item on his list, Rose."

"Still no," I say, mouth souring at the thought of being an item on a list, even if it’s a special list with only one item on it. Still no! "I don't want to show up and be one of five or six chicks he ends up banging over the weekend. No way.”

Cheryl shakes her head and purses her lips gleefully. "Wish Lists are mutually binding," she informs me. "You won't be sharing him with anyone unless you want to. He only requested you, and he swore that he would abide by it."

Blush springs into my cheeks and now I have to reconsider everything I know. Stuart is a member of some sexy island club... and he had the option to pick any women he could bring. And he requested me. Only me.

We only see each other once a year!

That unwelcome tingling starts between my legs again, and I wish he was here to rub my nub with his thick, rough fingers. I'm tired of getting myself off, and I'm pretty sure he'd be better at it than I am.

My fingers wrap around my crucifix. Maybe it's time. I am almost twenty-two... and I want to lose it. And I want Stuart. I’m starting to think I’m never going to want another man more than I want Stuart.

Maybe this is perfect. And I don't know if I'll ever get another opportunity, if I refuse this one.

"You said you attended a party on the island,” I say to Cheryl. Maybe she can calm my nerves. “Tell me about your experience.”

"No regrets," she purrs. "I was a lot like you when I first went. I was timid. I was uncertain. Very young. But I met my husband there." She flashes me her ring and winks. "We go every year on our anniversary now, and I've made good friends with the owner. He's a wonderful man. But... Rose... I think you should ask yourself about Stuart Goldman, not about me and my experience. A Wish List guest isn't going to be thrust into an anonymous, group scenario like everyone else. A Wish List guest is delivered to the man who requested her. She belongs to him, as a gift from the island, all weekend. He's the only one who will be waiting for you... and dreaming of you."

I think of Stuart. I think of his hands ripping open my wrapping, undoing my ribbon, and then running over my bare flesh. Taking me.

I don’t think I can walk away from the opportunity to let him take my virginity.

God, forgive me. Shit. I want to do this.

I purse my lips together and bring the invitation to my chest, holding it there like a schoolbook. I don't want Cheryl to take it away anymore.

"All right," I say. What am I getting myself into? "I'll come."