Roots of the Ash Tree, Part 1

Author's Note: Best Girl poll results will be announced in the third part of this chapter for narrative reasons.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked,
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 89 VP - 800 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 69 VP - 7100 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 66 VP - 4200 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 54 VP - 2900 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 48 VP - 3050 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 44 VP - 1750 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 43 VP - 4500 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 31 VP - 4550 BP - 2 Achievs
Emily - 15 VP - 4300 BP
Chloe - 12 VP - 2975 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 12 VP - 4300 BP - 1 Achiev

Emily woke to the soft **** of sunlight on the sheets. For a moment, her brain stayed in that weightless in-between, where the body still floats and all the air is tinged with perfume and muscle ache. Then a feathering pulse ran through her, from the crease of her thigh to the roots of her hair, and she remembered exactly where she was, and who was breathing beside her.

She opened her eyes: Andy, sleeping still, his hand splayed over his chest, fingers brushing the lowest edge of his ribcage. He looked exhausted even in sleep, mouth just parted, stubble dusting his jaw. Emily let herself look, without shame or self-monitoring. She noticed the little details—the dark lashes, the way his brow was still furrowed even now, the spot just above his left eye where a tiny scar curved like a tick mark. In the morning light he seemed softer, less like a lead and more like a person, which made her want to press her forehead to his and breathe him in.

Her own body felt washed-out, used and satisfied and new. Her skin tingled wherever he'd touched her; her hips and arms ached, but in a way that signaled a job well done. The memory of his voice—*Lie down*, *close your eyes*, *breathe for me*—flickered in her ears like music, and she realized the Arrangement, whatever it was, had already burrowed itself into her bones.

She shifted, careful not to wake him, and ran her toes down his calf, savoring the sleepy friction. She wanted, badly, to stay here forever. Or at least, for the next three years.

Andy blinked awake, his body jerking with that micro-startle that always happens when you realize someone is watching you. He didn't say anything at first, just squinted at her and smiled. "Hi," he said, voice hoarse.

"Hi," she replied quietly.

He let his eyes wander, took in her hair splayed across the pillow, the pink-and-gold waves that covered her like a shield, and then the pale spill of her skin beneath. She could see it in his face: the switch from sleepy to present, the instant desire that lit up his gaze like a banked fire relit. "You look happy," he said, a little surprised.

"I am," she said. She was. The ease of it startled her.

They stayed like that for a while, neither in a rush to change position or reassemble the armor of routine. The suite was quiet, save the distant song of the irrigation system outside and the high, wordless warble of birds. It felt like the kind of morning people in movies got, not real people, not people who had ever gone to bed afraid of what they'd wake up to.

Eventually, Emily found her words. "I want to talk to you about something," she said.

Andy rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand, and waited. She could see he was bracing for the other shoe. That made her want to touch his face, so she did, running her thumb along the edge of his eyebrow.

"It's not bad," she said. "Or, not for me. I just want… I want the Arrangement to be real. Not just a game, not just something I ask for when I'm panicking or horny." She watched his eyes, looking for doubt or caution, but he only nodded.

"So, you want it… always?" Andy asked. He didn't sound alarmed—just careful, as if he was holding the words at arm's length to see what they'd do.

She shook her head, then laughed at herself. "Not always. But whenever we're alone, or in our own space, I want you to… I don't know. Use it. Make it yours." Her cheeks went hot, but she pushed through. "If I don't have someone… telling me what to do, sometimes, it's like the noise gets loud. I can't focus. It's too easy to fall into patterns, or let other people push me around. But when you command me, the noise stops. Even when it's something little."

Andy considered this. He reached up, cupped her cheek, and traced her jaw with his thumb. "That's a big responsibility," he said.

She smiled. "I trust you."

He looked at her for a long moment, not blinking. "Then I'll do it," he said. "But only if you promise to tell me when you need to stop, or if it's too much."

She grinned, the happiness flooding her so fast she had to laugh. "It's never too much. Not with you."

He laughed too, a low rumble that vibrated between them, and leaned in to kiss her. It was a soft, morning kiss, all lips and warmth and permission. She pressed back, letting her hair slide over both their faces like a curtain.

"Is this a command, then?" she whispered, when they broke apart.

"Only if you want it," Andy said.

She nodded. "I do."

They kissed again, and this time it was less gentle, more hungry. Emily's hands tangled in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. She was already wet, a fact she registered with a sort of resigned amusement: her body would never let her be subtle again. She wondered if she should be embarrassed by that, but the delight in Andy's face when he realized it made her certain she wasn't.

He moved on top of her, supporting his weight on his elbows, and kissed along her jaw, then down to the hollow of her throat. His hands mapped her body like he was learning it for the first time, even though he'd spent hours with her the night before. Every touch set off a little fire, and the pleasure was so immediate it felt like cheating.

She writhed beneath him, half-moan, half-giggle, the two emotions locked in an endless loop. "You like this," he murmured, his mouth grazing her collarbone.

"Yes," she gasped. She wanted to say more, but her brain was a vapor trail.

"Good," Andy said. He paused, looked her in the eye, then gave his first real command of the morning: "Keep your hands above your head."

The words hit like a perfect note. Her arms shot up, wrists crossing at the pillow. The wave of pleasure was so sharp she had to bite her lip to keep from yelping. Andy noticed, of course, and smiled.

"You really, really like it," he said, almost reverent.

Emily tried to laugh, but it came out as a moan. "It's like—" she struggled for words, "—like being rewired. Every time you say something like that, it gets easier to breathe."

Andy nodded, as if he'd expected that answer. He slid down the bed, mouth working lower, and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking gently while his hand traced lazy circles on her stomach. Her body bucked, hips rising off the mattress.

Andy nodded, as if he'd expected that answer. He slid down the bed, mouth working lower, and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking gently while his hand traced lazy circles on her stomach. Her body bucked, hips rising off the mattress.

Andy paused, hovering just above her, letting his breath warm her belly as he nuzzled lower. He traced a slow, spiraling path with his tongue, starting at the delicate rim of her navel, dipping in to circle the soft skin there, then trailing further down to the faint, silken line where her thigh met her torso. He lingered there, nipping gently—not to startle, but to tease, to remind her that he was in control of both her pleasure and the tempo of its arrival. Each bite was followed by a soothing kiss, as if he were apologizing to her flesh for the audacity of his teeth.

He looked up at her, eyes dark with intent and hunger. His hair was tousled from her fingers, his cheek still indented where she had pressed him close, and Emily felt the thrill of the thought that if he asked her to do anything—anything at all—she would do it. She wanted that, in a way she had never wanted anything. She wanted to be undone by him, shredded and rearranged until she was only nerves and response.

Then he said, "Open your legs for me," and her body obeyed so fast it bordered on involuntary. Instantly, the tension that had been coiling in her muscles snapped taut, sending a bar of electric need through her pelvis. She flexed her hands, squeezing the pillow above her head as if it were an anchor. She couldn't quite keep herself from arching, thighs falling open, the exposed wetness unmistakable.

Her mind spun, caught between the agony of want and the high, bracing thrill of surrender. She could see his gaze shift down, drinking her in, and the look on his face—so reverent, so almost scientific—made her laugh inside even as she trembled outside.

Andy leaned in, pressing a slow, unhurried kiss to the mound just above her slit, then licked a patient line along her folds, never rushing to her clit but exploring, mapping the territory as if every pass was an experiment and a promise. He didn't dive straight in; he circled, teased, drew out the wanting until her breath was nothing but short, hiccupy gasps.

She wanted to beg for it, but the anticipation was almost better than the release. Each time he drifted close to her clit and then retreated, she could feel new heat pooling, a delicious pressure that made her thighs quiver and her lungs fill with static. By the fourth or fifth pass, she was shaking, her mind a tangle of half-thoughts and sensation.

Then he stopped, just for a second, and looked up, his face slick and shining in the morning light. He grinned, a wicked little flash of teeth, and said, "Tell me what you want."

It took her a second to find her words. "More," she managed, voice hoarse and urgent. "Please, Andy. Please."

His smile softened—not mocking, never that, but with the affection of somebody who cherished the very act of making her beg. "Good girl," he said, then licked her with more pressure, moving his tongue in slow, measured circles around the stiffened pearl of her clit. He slipped two fingers inside her, curling them up, and the sensation was so perfectly calibrated it felt like being tuned to a new frequency.

Emily tried to close her legs around his head, the pleasure so sharp it was nearly painful, but Andy pressed his hands to the insides of her thighs, spreading her even wider. The **** of the command, the refusal to let her hide, made something explode behind her eyes. She felt herself tip over the first crest of orgasm, but Andy wouldn't let up. Every time she tried to squirm away, he murmured, "Keep them open," and her muscles obeyed him, the words unlocking all the resistance in her body.

She came, hard, sobbing his name, her whole body convulsing around his mouth and hand. He didn't stop, just held her open and kept drawing circles with his tongue, coaxing even more pleasure from her until she was raw and oversensitive and dizzy.

Master ate her out! +3 VP

When the aftershocks faded, he finally released her legs, kissed the insides of her knees, and crawled up beside her. Emily was boneless, her limbs rubbery and light. She could taste salt on her lip from where she'd bitten it.

Andy pulled her close, his skin hot and sticky against hers, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. She felt the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way he sighed like he'd just come back from a long, dangerous journey.

"That was intense," he said after a minute, his voice still shaky with adrenaline.

Emily rolled to face him, her hair falling like a blanket between them. She smiled, then said, "I could get addicted to you."

Andy laughed. "I'm not sure that's medically recommended, but I'm game."

They lay together, catching their breath, her fingers drifting across his chest. After a minute, she said, "There's something else I should probably tell you."

Andy propped himself up on his elbow. "Go on."

She hesitated, then plunged ahead: "I think… the dream thing? My third transformation? It's already working. I keep thinking about Dawn." She bit her lip, embarrassed. "Like, a lot."

Andy absorbed this with surprising calm. "Does it bother you?"

She considered. "Not really? But I feel like I should warn you. If you see me… staring at her, or if I act weird, or she does, it's probably because she had a dream about me."

Andy smiled, warm. "I'll keep an eye out."

Emily grinned. "I mean, I hope you will. Especially since I’m yours."

He chuckled, pulled her closer, and kissed the tip of her nose. "You're ridiculous," he said, fond.

"That's not a command," she shot back, but her eyes shone.

He thought for a second, then said, "If you see Dawn today, I want you to give her a compliment. Something real, something that will make her smile."

The pleasure was more subtle this time, but it still washed through her, a low, steady buzz. She nodded. "Yes, sir."

Andy groaned, rolling his eyes. "If you start calling me that, I'll never get anything done."

She liked that idea very much, but decided to keep it in her pocket for later.

They kissed again, then spent a long while just holding each other, her head tucked under his chin. Emily listened to the sound of his heart, steady and sure, and for the first time in years she let herself believe she was exactly where she needed to be.

Achievement Unlocked (Andy Cooper): Safe Harbor
Achievement Unlocked (Emily): The Arrangement (Redux) +5 VP

Sam paused outside Room 80, her hand half-raised in a knock, and let herself breathe. She could hear the faint hum of the ceiling fan through the door, the muffled rush of a shower running two rooms over, and the slow, restless roll of the sea somewhere at the edge of everything. It was early enough that the halls were empty. She was pretty sure Liesa would still be sleeping, or at least cocooned in bed, but she’d promised herself—promised Liesa, really—that she wouldn’t let the new day start with another drift apart.

She knocked once, then, when there was no answer, knocked again, softer. This time, a voice floated through the door: muffled, slurred by sleep, but unmistakably Liesa’s.

“Hallo?” A pause. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Sam said, and realized her throat was dry. “Uh, Sam. Good morning.”

Silence, then the scrape of the latch. Liesa called out, “You can come in, I’m dressed,” which was probably a lie, but Sam smiled anyway and let herself inside.

The room was warm and dark, the blackout shades only half-drawn. The walls were a soft peach that made the morning light buttery and forgiving. Liesa was sitting on her bed, covers bunched at her hips, hair a riot of gold and strawberry tangles across the pillow. She wore a green sundress, and her legs were drawn up, feet bare. One hand shielded her face from the light.

Sam hovered, suddenly awkward, just inside the door. “I can come back later if you—”

“No, please,” Liesa said, voice a little stronger now. She scooted upright, tucking a pillow behind her back. “I have the stupidest bedhead. You mustn’t laugh.” She peeked through her fingers, then dropped her hand, giving Sam a crooked smile. “Sit?”

Sam padded over and sat at the edge of the bed, leaving a safe, polite distance, even though every cell in her body wanted to curl up beside Liesa and tuck herself into her side.

Liesa watched her, eyes still soft with sleep but searching. “Did you sleep at all?”

Sam snorted. “Define sleep. I think I stared at the ceiling for an hour, then dreamed about running through the airport in my pajamas. Maybe that’s a metaphor.”

Liesa’s smile widened, a hint of the girl Sam had first met, the one who’d shown up to the engineering mixer with paint on her knuckles and a laugh that could punch through drywall. “You should have come here,” Liesa said, “it’s the only way I fall asleep anymore.” She hesitated, then reached for Sam’s hand, curling their fingers together. “But I understand. It’s a strange day, yes?”

Sam nodded, squeezing back. “It’s challenge day.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Liesa traced her thumb along the back of Sam’s hand, up and down, and Sam felt the pulse of it in her wrist, her chest, everywhere.

“I wanted to see you before everything starts,” Sam said, her voice a little thick. “I just… I needed to.”

Liesa looked down, then back up, her eyes glassy. “Can I say something stupid?” she asked.

“Always,” Sam said.

Liesa pressed her lips together, considering. “I’m so afraid I’ll mess it up again. That you’ll think I’m not worth it. That Andy will.” The words came out in a rush, the accent rounding all the edges. “I want to be better. I do. But every time, I think—this time, I’ll get it right. And I never do.”

Sam scooted closer, and reached out to stroke her cheek. “You’re better every day,” she said. “And I never expected perfect. I just want you to try.” She meant it.

Liesa let out a laugh, then wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Even now, I am being dramatic,” she said. “I promised myself I would not cry.”

Sam leaned in, resting her forehead against Liesa’s. “You don’t have to be strong every second,” she whispered. “You’re allowed to be scared. I’m scared too.”

Liesa’s breath shivered, and she let her hand rest on Sam’s thigh. “Stay with me for a while?” she asked.

Sam didn’t answer, just lay back on the bed, curling in so she could face Liesa, tucking her knees to her chest. Liesa slid down to join her, and for a minute they just lay there, breathing, letting their bodies learn each other’s morning heat.

After a while, Liesa pulled Sam’s hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles one by one. “You are brave,” she murmured. “I wish I was like you.”

Sam barked a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I’m a disaster. I just hide it under bad jokes and coffee.” She felt the warmth of Liesa’s lips linger on her hand, then traced it up to the inside of her wrist. Liesa kissed her there, too, then looked at Sam with something new in her eyes—an invitation, or maybe a thank you.

Sam bent forward and kissed her, soft and easy, not like last night’s hungry clash but like a promise. Liesa’s lips were warm, the taste of her sleep-sweet and honest. Liesa kissed back, and her hand came up to cradle Sam’s cheek, thumb stroking the line of her jaw.

Sam pulled back, searching Liesa’s face. “Okay?”

Liesa nodded, eyes bright, mouth open just a little. “Yes. More than okay.”

They lay together, arms winding around each other, hands exploring in slow, aimless circuits. Sam loved how Liesa felt—solid but gentle, the heat of her body and the way she sighed when Sam tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Every touch seemed to make Liesa’s skin wake up: her thigh flexed against Sam’s, her stomach quivered under Sam’s palm, her breasts rose and fell with each deeper breath. Liesa had a way of moving that was always a little sensual, even when she didn’t mean to, and Sam felt herself flush just from the closeness.

After a while, Sam rolled onto her back, pulling Liesa with her. “I used to daydream about this,” Sam admitted, voice quiet. “Back when this all started. I wondered if you’d ever think of me this way.”

Liesa propped herself up on one elbow, her hair falling over her eyes. “I thought about you nearly every night,” she said. “But I was… ashamed.” Her hand slid up Sam’s ribs, under the edge of her T-shirt. “I want you to be proud of me.”

Sam reached up, cupped Liesa’s cheek, and drew her down for another kiss. This time, she let her tongue flicker, testing, and Liesa groaned into her mouth, hips shifting against Sam’s. The sensation hit Sam like a sunbeam, bright and sudden, and she felt her pulse hammering in her chest.

Liesa’s hand slipped under Sam’s shirt, splaying across her belly. Sam was so aware of every inch of her skin, every place they touched, that she couldn’t have looked away if she tried. Liesa’s hand trembled a little, but she kept going, brushing up along Sam’s ribs, then down again, feather-light.

“Can I?” Liesa asked, fingers catching at the hem of Sam’s shirt.

“Please,” Sam said, and lifted her arms.

Liesa peeled the shirt off, careful, then kissed the hollow at the base of Sam’s throat. Her own body was flushed, her breath faster now, and Sam reached up to run her hands along Liesa’s sides, memorizing the rise and fall, the gentle dip at her waist, the small constellation of freckles over her shoulder.

Liesa bent to kiss Sam’s collarbone, then down between her breasts. “You are beautiful,” she whispered, as if it hurt to say it. Sam let herself believe it, for once.

IVA: Showed boobs to the Lovey Contestant! +1 VP
First! x2
IVA: Lovey Contestant touched her boobs! +2 VP
First! x2

They undressed each other in slow increments, as if testing the morning air, as if neither wanted to rush. When Liesa slid her tank top over her head, her breasts tumbled free, pale and perfect, the nipples tight in the cool. Sam couldn’t help herself; she cupped one, weighing it, then drew her thumb across the tip. Liesa shivered, mouth dropping open, and when Sam leaned up to kiss her there, Liesa made a low sound that Sam wanted to record, to play back every day for the rest of her life.

Liesa climbed over Sam, straddling her hips, and the pressure, the weight, was grounding. She leaned down, kissed Sam’s lips, her neck, the soft skin behind her ear. Sam arched up, matching her rhythm, hands sliding up Liesa’s thighs, then down to grip her ass, pulling her closer.

For a while, there was nothing but touch and breath, mouths and hands, the electric hum of skin on skin. Sam forgot about the challenge, about Andy, about anything but the slow, steady burn building between her legs.

Liesa bent down, her hair brushing Sam’s chest, and nuzzled between Sam’s breasts, kissing a path down her stomach. She hooked her thumbs in Sam’s waistband and tugged her shorts off, then let her hands slide down, pausing at the crest of Sam’s hipbones. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” she whispered.

“Don’t you dare,” Sam said, and Liesa laughed, the sound thick with relief.

IVA: Showed naked body to the Lovey Contestant! +2 VP
First! x2

Liesa’s fingers were light as wind-chimes, tracing slow, concentric loops on the bare skin of Sam’s thighs. She moved with a patience that bordered on reverence, always hinting, always drawing the focus closer but never quite arriving. The teasing itself was a kind of foreplay, and Sam found herself straining toward each touch, every muscle in her leg ready to close the distance. Liesa made a sound—a soft, almost hungry hum—and Sam felt the gentle exhale against the heat between her legs. Then, at last, Liesa’s lips pressed in, soft and warm and shockingly gentle, as if kissing the lid on a secret box. The sensation was both new and achingly familiar, and Sam let out a gasp that surprised her with its honesty.

Liesa’s tongue brushed against her, slow and tentative, as if she were still learning the landscape. Sam shivered. It was not **** or frantic; instead, every motion felt as though it had been considered in advance, like Liesa had mapped out Sam’s pleasure points days ago and was now simply enjoying the journey. There wasn’t any rush, only an expanding sense of presence, a growing conviction that nothing else in the world mattered. Liesa’s hands cupped Sam’s thighs, holding her open, but with a feather’s touch—never restraining, always caressing, always asking. She alternated between kissing and licking, sometimes just breathing against Sam’s skin until the anticipation became unbearable.

Sam squirmed, her hips rolling upward in time with Liesa’s movements, drawn along by the relentless, spiraling pleasure. Her head lolled against the pillow, and the ceiling above her blurred in and out of focus. She was aware of every tiny shift in the air, every flicker of Liesa’s gold-strawberry hair against her bare stomach, every time Liesa stopped to look up and watch Sam’s reaction with a half-shy, half-smug smile. There was something deeply calming about the way Liesa looked at her—an unspoken promise that Sam was safe here, that she could let herself go and the world would not end.

It was the first time in years that Sam felt seen like this. Not just wanted, not just desired, but noticed and studied and treasured. Liesa’s mouth was soft, the wet heat of her tongue making Sam’s legs tremble, but it was the persistence—the absolutely unwavering focus—that undid her most. She tried to keep quiet, but the noises kept slipping out: a gasp, a choked syllable, even a laugh that turned into a moan when Liesa did something particularly good.

Liesa’s hands kept up their slow rub, sometimes massaging Sam’s inner thigh, sometimes drifting up to her hipbones, always gentle, always grounding. When Liesa flattened her tongue and drew a long, deliberate stroke upward, Sam felt something deep inside her unspool. She clutched at the sheets, **** for something to hold onto. Her body felt like it was made of electricity, every inch of her skin alive to the world.

At some point, Liesa’s finger joined in, feather-light at first, then gaining confidence as Sam’s hips arched up to meet her. The contrast between the patient, coaxing tongue and the tentative, searching finger was almost too much; Sam felt herself climbing, climbing, certain that she was about to come undone and not caring who might hear. Liesa’s mouth never left her, never lessened its care, even when Sam’s thighs clamped around her head. If anything, the pressure only urged Liesa on—she hummed again, and the vibration sent a new ripple of sensation through Sam, finishing what was already a runaway train.

Sam’s orgasm took her by surprise. One second she was floating in the haze of it, the next she was curling up, every muscle tensing, her hands fisting the sheets so hard she felt the fabric rip like paper. Liesa did not stop; she kept her tongue gentle but constant, licking and kissing through the aftershocks in a way that made Sam’s whole body twitch with oversensitive pleasure. It was like Liesa was determined to wring every last drop of sensation from her, and Sam, utterly incapable of words, just lay there riding the wave.

When the world finally edged back in, Sam found herself gasping, blinking away tears that had started somewhere in the middle and spilled out without her noticing. Liesa didn’t say anything. She just crawled up beside Sam—her face flushed, her eyes liquid with pride and maybe a little awe—and pressed a line of kisses up Sam’s torso, her collarbone, her jaw. By the time Liesa reached Sam’s lips, Sam was already grinning, goofy and unguarded.

She tasted herself on Liesa’s mouth and found she liked it. She liked it a lot.

IVA: Lovey Contestant touched her boobs! +2 VP
First! x2
IVA: Lovey Contestant ate her out! +3 VP
First! x2

They lay together for a minute, hearts pounding, limbs tangled. Sam felt the afterglow like a warm tide, but she also felt the ache to give something back. She rolled, pushing Liesa onto her back, and kissed her hard. “Your turn,” she said, voice raw.

Liesa’s laugh was a bright, shivery thing, and it broke over Sam in a way that made her want to wrap herself around Liesa forever. That laugh—its breathless quality, the lilt just shy of hysterical—laid bare just how much Liesa needed this. And Sam, even before she’d started, wanted to give her everything.

She paused at the arch of Liesa’s hip, her own pulse a steady crescendo in her ears. There was an absurd beauty in the way Liesa’s body offered itself: legs parting without calculation, nipples peaked and goosebumped in the morning chill, her arms already reaching for Sam. It made Sam’s throat close up for a moment, all the words gone soft and thick.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, because that seemed like the responsible thing, even now.

Liesa nodded, her eyes wide and unblinking. “Please.”

So Sam bent to her work, kissing from the base of Liesa’s neck, down the delicate ladder of her sternum. She nipped at a freckle just below Liesa’s collarbone, then lingered at her breasts, cupping and weighing each in turn, letting her tongue circle the areola before flicking at the pointed tip. Liesa sucked in a breath that sounded like the start of a sob, but her hands were insistent, fingers threading through Sam’s hair, guiding her lower.

Sam let herself move at half-speed, dragging her mouth across skin that tasted faintly of vanilla and the salt of remembered fear. She could feel Liesa’s thighs tightening and relaxing in slow waves, the nervous anticipation rolling off her in tangible shivers. Liesa’s panties were already damp, and Sam paused to press her nose against them, breathing in the dark, heady scent. She kissed Liesa over the fabric, once, twice, savoring the way Liesa’s body responded to each one: the sharp inhale, the clench of her fingers, the way her knees turned slightly inward before relaxing again.

“God, Sam,” Liesa whispered, and that was all the encouragement Sam needed.

She hooked her fingers in the waistband and drew Liesa’s panties down, careful not to snag them on the flexed curve of her calf. Liesa lifted her hips compliantly, a silent plea, and Sam took in the sight of her—a shifting palette of blush pinks and flushed red, glistening and ****, utterly unguarded. Sam’s hands found Liesa’s knees and eased them apart, and for a heartbeat she just looked, letting the moment collect itself like a bead of water on glass.

She started with kisses, soft at first, then firmer, letting the heat of her breath do as much work as her lips. Liesa’s hips bucked at the first contact, the motion surprised and involuntary. Sam grinned, pleased, then mapped a series of slow, deliberate circles around Liesa’s clit, not quite touching, watching Liesa squirm with anticipation. Every shiver, every soft noise, was a kind of feedback—Sam catalogued each response, learning the language of Liesa’s want in real time.

Her tongue was gentle, almost teasing, at first—she flicked and pressed, drawing out the tension, waiting for Liesa to give over entirely. The taste of her was tart and alive. The little sounds Liesa made were like music, and Sam kept her eyes open, wanting to see each change in Liesa’s face as the pleasure built. She slipped a hand up to knead at Liesa’s breast, thumb circling the nipple, as her mouth went lower, flattening her tongue and giving a long, unhurried lick up the center.

Liesa moaned, the sound hitching at the end, and Sam felt her heart surge. “More?” she asked, voice low.

“Yes. Please. Just—don’t stop,” Liesa said, her voice raw and completely unlike her usual steady self.

So Sam didn’t. She kept the rhythm slow and steady, building with each pass, each patient exploration. When she finally brought her fingers to bear, she started with one, pressing in with slow, measured care. Liesa’s body accepted her, wet and ready, and when Sam curled her finger just right, Liesa made a noise between a gasp and a laugh, sharp and unguarded. Sam added another finger, giving time for the stretch, watching how Liesa’s hands fisted in the sheets, how her back arched up in a graceful, pleading arc.

The room was filled with the smell of sex and coconut shampoo, the only light the gold spill from the window, painting Liesa’s skin in honeyed stripes. Sam tried to memorize everything: the way Liesa’s thighs trembled, the way she bit her own knuckle when it got too intense, the way her eyes glazed and fluttered every time Sam pressed her tongue down at just the right angle.

It was a kind of worship, one Sam had never known she needed to give.

Liesa started to lose track of her words, switching to Dutch, then back to English, then to something language-less. She rocked her hips against Sam’s mouth, breath staccato, and Sam slowed down for a moment, letting her catch up, then sped back up, matching the frantic, greedy beat of Liesa’s heart. Every time Liesa gasped, Sam felt it in her own chest, echoing back with twice the ****.

She could feel Liesa getting close—a new tension in her thighs, the way her hands stopped moving and just clung, white-knuckled, to Sam’s shoulders. Sam pushed her fingers deeper and brought her mouth up, sealing her lips around Liesa’s clit, sucking gently. The effect was instantaneous: Liesa cried out, a ragged, high note that sounded like nothing Sam had ever heard before, and her whole body seized up, muscles clamping down around Sam’s hand.

Sam eased off, but didn’t stop, letting Liesa ride the wave all the way out. She kissed her softly, tasting the aftermath, feeling the subtle twitching of Liesa’s body as the aftershocks rolled through her.

Liesa’s thighs finally loosened, her body going limp, and she let out a shaky laugh mixed with a sob.

Sam crawled back up, grinning. Liesa’s eyes were closed, tears leaking from the corners, but her face was pure joy.

“You’re so good at that,” Liesa whispered, voice hoarse.

Sam smiled, kissed her softly. “You make it easy,” she said.

They curled up together, foreheads touching, arms wound tight. The world outside was still waiting, with all its fears and challenges, but for now, Sam let herself rest in the circle of Liesa’s embrace.

“You okay?” Sam asked, after a while.

Liesa nodded, her cheek pressed to Sam’s chest. “Better than okay. I feel… new.”

Sam stroked her hair, slow and gentle. “Me too.”

They lay there until the light had shifted, until the real morning crept in. Maybe it was all borrowed time, but for a little while, they belonged only to each other.

IVA: Ate out the Lovey Contestant! +3 VP
First! x2
IVA: Fell in love with another Contestant! +4 VP
First! x2

Andy and Emily showered together, soap slipping between their fingers as she guided his hands over her body. She directed him with confident touches, her eyes never leaving his, before suddenly yielding, pressing her back against the tile. "Please," she whispered against his ear, her voice commanding even as she surrendered. The paradox thrilled her—how she could feel so powerful while asking to be overwhelmed.

"Turn around," Andy said, his voice low but firm. Emily's breath caught, her pupils dilating as she obeyed. He pressed his palm between her shoulder blades, gentle but insistent. "Hands on the wall." She complied instantly, a small shiver running through her that had nothing to do with the water temperature.

"Good," he murmured, and she felt herself grow wetter at the simple praise. His fingers traced her spine, stopping at each vertebra as if memorizing her architecture. "You're magnificent like this," he said, not as flattery but as observation. When he lifted her, pinning her between his body and the wall, she wrapped her legs around him and met his eyes with equal parts challenge and submission.

"Tell me what you need," he commanded, holding perfectly still despite the tension in his muscles.

"You," she breathed. "All of you. Now."

"Be specific," he countered, his thumb brushing her lower lip.

"I need you inside me," she gasped, delighting in how he responded to her cues, how he understood exactly what she wanted without diminishing her. "I need you to take me."

He held her gaze in the swirl of steam and water, his tone leaving no room for ambiguity. “Look at me while I do,” he ordered, and the command sent a visible shudder through Emily—the cool clarity of being seen, not as a challenge to her, but as an affirmation of everything she craved. The tiles glistened at her back. Andy filled her vision, his muscles taut from the effort of holding her against the slick wall, his face an open map of hunger and focus. The water beat down on both of them, splashing and running in random, dazzling cataracts, but neither noticed. All that existed was the motion, the mounting intensity, the electric feedback loop of his voice and her reaction.

She arched into the thrust of his hips, her nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades—at first without thinking, then with purpose, marking him as thoroughly as he marked her with every measured word. Andy’s arms caged her in, balancing **** with care, and for the first time, Emily found she could give in without clinging to the self-protective scripts she’d rehearsed for years. There was nothing scripted in this: just the wet rhythm of bodies, the crescendo as he built her up and the suspense as he slowed her down, always keeping her gaze riveted to his.

She tried, for a few moments, to close her eyes and let it wash over her. He noticed. “Don’t,” he said, his mouth pressed near her temple, his breath mixing with the spray. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you here.” And so she did, even as pleasure threatened to dissolve her into a thousand fragments. She watched him watch her, saw the way the smallest twitch of her lips or the shift of her pupils drove him wild. The pressure built in her with each pass, every small act of obedience feeding something deeper, until she was trembling from the effort of staying present at all.

There was an elegance in the balance: the push and pull of dominance and surrender, the way the command was a caress, the way her submission was not a diminishment but a magnification. When he finally let her go—when he gave her leave to collapse against his chest, arms tight around his neck, legs shaking—he held her up, bracing her even as both their knees wanted to give out.

They stood there for a moment, letting the water rinse away the evidence, hearts racing. Andy kissed her forehead, gentle and brief. “You’re even more beautiful when you let go,” he said, and it was probably cheesy, but Emily didn’t care. She laughed, one hand smearing water across his cheek, and said, “I’ll try to do it more often. For science.” He grinned, his dimples deepening, and she realized she’d never once seen him so lit up, so unreserved. There would never be a camera lens, a producer, or a Host in this bathroom; the only audience for their performance was the parts of themselves that had always wondered if they’d ever be enough.

Had sex with the Master! +5 VP
Master came inside her! +2 VP

After the shower, they moved to the broad expanse of the Suite’s bathroom counter, grabbing towels. Andy went for the big white one, ruffling it through his hair like a dog, while Emily chose a smaller, plusher towel and wrapped it tightly around her ribcage. Her hair, even wet, covered most of her chest, but she caught Andy watching her in the mirror and realized she felt no urge to hide. Not here, not with him, not now.

They brushed their teeth side by side, elbows bumping, and Emily made a point of leaning into him every time he spat. She caught him glancing at her reflection, smiling at the toothpaste foam on her lips, and she raised an eyebrow. “Don’t,” she warned. “If you kiss me with toothpaste in my mouth, I’ll never forgive you.”

He put on a look of mock horror. “I wouldn’t dare.”

She did it anyway—kissed him quick and minty, grinning into the taste. He sputtered, then caught her around the waist, and for a second they were both doubled up, laughing so hard it hurt.

Andy dressed in jeans and a red button-down shirt, while Emily simply toweled herself off. When they left the bathroom, Emily made a detour for the bed, flopping onto it with a childlike squeal and hugging the pillow to her chest. Andy followed, towel-drying his hair, and sat at the edge, looking down with the kind of dazed contentment she’d only ever seen in people right after skydiving or sex. Maybe both. “That was… different,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Good different?” she asked, teasing him with a slow wiggle of her eyebrows.

He nodded, breathless. “Excellent different.”

They lay there a minute, side by side, staring at the ceiling. Emily’s hair fanned out in a wet halo on the sheets. Andy’s hand curled over her ankle, holding her in place, as if she might float away if he let go.

When the hunger in their bellies threatened to outpace the afterglow, Andy rolled out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen. Emily padded after him, her bare feet silent on the marble. She perched on a stool at the island, watching as he made eggs with the focus and precision of a man performing field surgery. He handed her a glass of juice, which she promptly drained in two long pulls, then stuck out her tongue. “Vitamin C,” she announced.

“Breakfast is the most important meal,” he replied, deadpan, and slid a plate in front of her. It was eggs, toast, and a half-hearted attempt to slice fruit into neat wedges. He’d given the kiwi a smiley face with blueberries for eyes. Emily dissolved into giggles and pointed at it. “Is this your audition for Top Chef?”

Andy shrugged, unembarrassed. “My specialty is morale-boosting.”

They ate together, quietly at first, then gradually ramping up into a contest of who could quote the most movies in the worst possible accent. Andy opened with a passable Sean Connery, then immediately tanked his credibility with a horrifying attempt at Gollum. Emily countered with an uncanny Dobby impression, then took it up a notch by quoting Andy’s own words from five minutes ago, pitching her voice a full octave deeper. “Look at me while I do,” she said, in a flawless parody of his earlier command.

He nearly choked on his coffee.

She reached over and stole a bite of his toast. “You know, it’s not fair,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re the only one in this hotel who can boss me around for real.”

Andy stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You really want that?” She nodded, then shrugged, as if unsure whether it was a joke or not. But her eyes were steady, searching his.

He set his fork down. “Emily. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

She grinned, lips curling around the edge of her mug. “That’s exactly the point. I want this. Sometimes I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

He considered this, then nodded, accepting. “Then I’ll do my best to be worthy of your trust,” he said, and meant it.

She smiled, wide and genuine. “I know.”

The rest of breakfast was more lightness, more laughter, but every so often, Andy would look at her and see the memory of the shower in her eyes. He wondered if she saw it in him, too.

It was almost, for a moment, like a normal life. And she wanted it, desperately.

As the sun climbed higher, reality crept back in. The day would bring more challenges, more transformations, more unknowns. But for now, in this small pocket of time, Emily let herself be soft, and happy, and wholly his.

She decided that was worth everything.

Midday crept across the resort like a wave smoothing sand, washing out shadows and pressing heat into every empty corner. Andy couldn't settle. The Suite felt too small; each room seemed to have its own climate, its own pressure system, and the only thing tying them together was the restless pulse of his own mind.

He stood by the window, watching the gardens below. From up here, he could see the green mazes, the little fountains gurgling to themselves, the stone terraces. It all looked peaceful, but he knew the air was charged. Somewhere out there, the other women waited—Claire, Erin, Dawn, the whole team—each marinating in her own flavor of anxiety about the next challenge.

Andy could feel the weight of it, as if every stray worry in the resort had been funneled into his body. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, trying to breathe out some of the pressure. It didn't work.

Behind him, Emily moved with quiet purpose. She'd been watching him, not with pity or impatience, but with the calm of someone who'd already decided what needed to happen. Her hair was still damp from their shower. She looked like she'd always belonged here.

"You don't have to fix everything before lunch," she said, her voice gentle. She padded over, placed her hand on his lower back, thumb drawing lazy circles.

He exhaled, a laugh that was mostly air. "Tell that to my brain. Or my stomach."

She pressed closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. "What if you just… did nothing, for a while? Let the world take care of itself."

He wanted to agree, but his body refused to unclench. "I'm worried about the others," he admitted. "It's like this, every challenge. Until we’re past the elimination stage."

Emily rested her cheek against his shoulder blade. "Maybe they need you, too. Maybe you're not the only one who can't sit still."

He turned, caught her face in his hands. "You sound like my therapist."

She grinned. "Do you pay her as much as you pay me?"

"Actually, about the same," Andy said, and that got a real laugh.

They stood like that for a moment, cheek to cheek, sharing warmth. Then Emily straightened, nudged his chest. "Come on. Let's find them. If the world's going to end, I'd rather have witnesses."

He smiled, the knot in his chest loosening a little. "Command?"

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. "Not a command. A suggestion. But if you really want…"

He kissed her forehead. "I like you in charge. But I'll take the lead."

He dressed in his usual jeans and button-down, and they and slipped out into the main hallway. The building was quiet; even Mildred seemed to be taking a breather, fewer of her moving in their usual clockwork patterns. Andy wondered if Arabella had sent them all on a maintenance rotation, or if this, too, was part of the pre-challenge tension.

They crossed the flagstone atrium, cut through the shaded arcade, and stepped outside into a wedge of sun. The air was thick with the scent of lemon verbena and chlorinated water. Andy spotted movement on the library terrace: two figures hunched together on a wicker couch, one a delicate pale-pink outline, the other a tawny, lean silhouette that even from this distance radiated coiled energy.

"Found them," Emily said, and reached for his hand.

They walked down the path, shoes crunching on pea gravel, and as they drew closer, Andy saw that Claire and Erin were in the middle of a silent negotiation over a bowl of cherries. Claire's ears were angled forward, tail coiled tight around her thigh, her eyes locked on the fruit as if it contained the meaning of life. Erin, naked except for her battered sneakers, sat next to her with arms folded, staring at the lagoon and pretending not to watch Claire's every move.

When the two of them heard the footsteps, they looked up in tandem. Andy felt a microsecond of nerves—would this be awkward, was he about to walk into an emotional landmine?—but both women smiled. Claire's mouth did it first, a hesitant upturn that grew as soon as she caught Andy's eye; Erin's followed, quick and sharp, like someone who'd been holding it back out of principle.

"Hey," Andy said, raising a hand. "Didn't mean to interrupt breakfast."

Claire shook her head, flicked her wrist in a gesture that said please join us. She patted the spot on the couch next to her, then offered a shy wave to Emily.

Erin smirked. "We were just taking bets on whether you'd show up before or after the announcement. I owe Claire five cherries."

Andy grinned, letting the banter settle him. He sat between them, feeling the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Emily perched on the armrest, her legs tucked under her, hair falling forward as she scanned the table for snacks.

Claire reached for her notebook, scribbled a quick line, and held it out to Andy.

Are you all right? the page read, block letters underlined twice.

Andy smiled, touched by the simplicity of it. "Yeah," he said. "Just a little… pre-game nerves, I guess."

Claire nodded, but didn't look convinced. She scribbled again, showed him:

It’s the same with all of us, after last time.

He felt something unspool in his chest—a strand of tension he hadn't realized he'd been clinging to. He looked at Erin, who met his gaze with the same stubborn loyalty she'd always had.

Erin rolled her eyes, but her voice was softer than usual. “You think you're the only one who's nervous? We've all been waiting for the other shoe since yesterday.” She reached for a cherry, popped it in her mouth, and chewed with unnecessary emphasis. “You're not Atlas. You don't have to hold the resort on your back.”

Emily chimed in, her voice bright. “If you don't let us carry you sometimes, you're going to get a hernia.”

Andy laughed, real and sudden. “What is this, Intervention?”

"Yes," Erin said, deadpan. "And if you keep brooding, we'll have to stage a second one. With karaoke."

That got a laugh from Emily, and even Claire's ears perked at the idea.

Andy looked at the women around him: Claire, pen poised; Erin, arms crossed but eyes warm; Emily, hair hiding her smile but not the affection in her eyes. He realized he'd been bracing for disaster, and instead he'd found something like a team, a family, even.

He put his arm around Claire's shoulders, squeezed. "Okay," he said. "I'll stop trying to fix everything."

Claire’s tail swatted him playfully, and she wrote, I'll believe it when I see it.

Erin nudged him with her elbow. "We've been watching you, you know. Since the first round. And Marissa’s right: you're not the same guy who showed up here all broken and ghosty."

Claire nodded. You've leveled up. Maybe not to Arabella's level, but close.

He felt his face flush, embarrassment and pride mixing in equal measure. "Thanks, guys," he said. "I needed that."

They sat in companionable silence, the sun warming their faces, the lagoon sparkling below. For a while, nobody spoke. It was enough to be here, together, sharing the air and the worry and the possibility of what came next.

Eventually, Claire uncapped her pen and wrote again.

Are you ready?

Andy looked at her, then at the others. He thought about the night before, about Emily's trust and surrender, about Erin's fierce steadiness, about the way Claire always saw through him even when he tried to hide.

He smiled, the answer clear. "Yeah," he said. "I am."

They rose together, four figures outlined by the noon sun, and walked back up the path toward the Main Hall, not as contestants or competitors, but as something like a family, maybe even stronger.

As they went, Erin reached for Andy's hand, squeezing it tight. Emily looped her arm through Claire's, who nodded, her tail flicking contentedly behind her. The path ahead was still uncertain, still bristling with unknowns, but for now, for this moment, Andy let himself feel the hope. It was real. It was enough.

They walked together, ready to meet whatever waited for them.

“Let’s get the others.”