Chapter 11: Next Pairings
The roar in Briv's ears hadn't subsided. He stood rooted, fists clenched, knuckles white, staring at the spot where Revan had pressed his mouth to Alya’s. She was still in Revan’s grip, looking dazed and violated, her small frame trembling slightly as he finally lowered her onto the hot sand. The victory point flashed onto the scoreboard beside their names – Revan: 1, Alya: 1 – a digital brand marking the humiliation. Alya wouldn’t meet Briv’s gaze. She hugged her arms tightly around herself, her brown eyes fixed on the ground, the imprint of the kiss and the slap radiating a palpable shame.
Chris McLean, radiating obscene satisfaction, clapped his hands again, the sound sharp and jarring. "Well! That’s one way to break the ice! Points on the board, sparks flying! Love it!" He scanned the tense, shell-shocked group. "Alright, adrenaline pumping? Good! Let’s keep this momentum rolling. Next duel: Cabin Four versus Cabin Two! Step forward!"
The designated contestants shuffled nervously onto the marked stretch of sand. Carmen, still pale, instinctively shrunk back. The memory of cold tiles, Joaquin’s rough hands, and the glaring ’10’ on her wristband felt like a beacon. Her eyes darted towards Joaquin, who stood with Cabin Two, already smirking, clearly expecting her to be his burden. The thought of his hands grabbing her ass, pulling her close, after what had happened… it made her stomach churn. She braced herself for the inevitable bark of her name from him.
Before Joaquin could draw breath, a voice, surprisingly soft and lilting, cut through the anticipatory silence.
"I choose Carmen!"
Every head swiveled. Thomas stood there, one hand raised with a fluttery grace, his dark eyes wide and earnest behind his long lashes. He offered Carmen a gentle, almost sympathetic smile. A murmur rippled through the contestants. Thomas? Choosing the newly minted ‘ten-point Carmen’? Joaquin’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of irritated confusion.
Carmen blinked, startled. Relief warred with suspicion. Thomas stepped closer to her, his voice dropping just enough to be intimate, yet loud enough for nearby ears. "Poor darling," he murmured, his tone dripping with faux concern. "I just thought… after that whole unfortunate business with Joaquin…" He gestured vaguely towards the Spaniard, who scowled. "...being forced to endure his hands all over you again so soon? People might get the wrong idea entirely. Might think you wanted it." He tilted his head, his gaze soft and understanding. "I wouldn’t want anyone judging you unfairly, you sweet thing."
The words were velvet-covered daggers. They offered shelter while simultaneously reinforcing Carmen’s public shame. She flushed, the heat returning to her pale cheeks. His implication was clear: she was damaged goods, and he was doing her a chivalrous favor by shielding her from further perceived judgment… and from Joaquin. It was manipulative perfection. Carmen, desperate for any escape from Joaquin’s leering gaze and the weight of everyone’s assumptions, grasped at it. "Oh," she breathed, her voice thick. "Thank you, Thomas. Really. That’s… thoughtful."
Thomas beamed, radiating harmless benevolence. "Of course, darling. Anything to help." He extended a slender hand towards her.
Across the divide, Naseer, bald head gleaming in the harsh sun, didn't bother with niceties. His deep voice boomed, cutting off any further discussion. "Valentina!" It wasn't a request; it was a command. Valentina jumped, her tanned skin paling slightly beneath its tone. The memory of her own five points, earned kneeling before him, washed over her. She managed a tight, brittle smile, stepping forward on unsteady legs.
Chris grinned. "Positions! Heroes and burdens, let's see you connect! Thomas and Carmen versus Naseer and Valentina!"
Thomas approached Carmen with exaggerated care, unlike Revan’s possessive grab or Kim’s pragmatic lift. He placed his hands gently on her waist, his touch light, almost reverent. "Ready?" he murmured. Carmen nodded stiffly, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck as he slid his hands down, cupping the curves of her ass. It wasn't the rough kneading Revan had employed on Alya; it felt more like an artist positioning a model. He lifted her easily against his skinny frame, holding her firmly but without overt aggression. She faced him, her long brown hair brushing his cheek, her dark eyes wide and uncertain. The proximity felt less overtly sexual than it had with Joaquin, but more unnerving in its calculated gentleness.
Naseer simply grabbed Valentina. One large hand clamped on her waist, the other scooped under her small ass, hoisting her with brute efficiency. She gasped, her hands flying to his thick neck for balance. He pulled her tight against his muscular chest, her small breasts flattening against him. Her face was inches from his impassive, bearded one. She looked terrified.
"On your marks... get set... GO!" Chris bellowed.
Naseer exploded forward like a bull, churning through the sand, Valentina bouncing awkwardly in his grasp. "Hold on!" he grunted, the command gruff. She clung tighter, eyes squeezed shut.
Thomas, however, ran with surprising agility. His lean frame, deceptive in its strength, powered forward. He held Carmen securely, his grip on her ass firm but not invasive, his movements smooth. "Lean into me, darling!" he urged, his voice a breathy encouragement. Carmen did, pressing her head against his shoulder, trying to minimize the jostling. They were surprisingly fast, Thomas’s light frame an advantage on the shifting sand. He wasn't trying to grope or dominate; he was running to win.
Naseer, for all his power, struggled slightly with the soft terrain, his heavier build sinking deeper. Valentina, clinging for dear life, wasn't helping his balance. Thomas and Carmen hit the finish line a full stride ahead. Thomas skidded to a stop, breathing hard but maintaining his hold on Carmen, his face flushed with exertion and triumph.
"And Thomas and Carmen take it!" Chris announced. "Looks like chivalry pays off! One point each!"
Before Carmen could fully register the win or attempt to disengage, Thomas acted. Still holding her aloft, her legs wrapped around his waist, he didn't hesitate. His mouth found hers. It wasn't the violent, tongue-thrusting assault Revan had inflicted on Alya. It was softer, lingering, almost tender. But it was still a kiss. Deep. Possessive in its own, gentler way.
Carmen stiffened, her eyes flying open in surprise. It was unexpected, violating the unspoken contract of his ‘rescue’. She hadn't consented to this. His hand slid subtly lower on her ass, fingers pressing into the cleft, pulling her pelvis tighter against his. His tongue touched hers. It lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, a silent claiming disguised as celebration. He broke the kiss, his dark eyes meeting hers, holding a glint she couldn’t quite decipher. Smugness? Satisfaction? He gently lowered her, his hands lingering a fraction too long on her waist.
"Worth the effort," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, just for her ears. The point flashed on the scoreboard: Thomas: 1, Carmen: 11. Her shame had just earned her another point, delivered by a different, equally dangerous predator. Her relief curdled into a new, cold dread.
===
The sand felt like hot coals under Carmen’s bare feet as Thomas finally released her waist. His lingering touch, the phantom pressure of his tongue – it coated her skin like oil. She stumbled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the taste of his calculated ‘chivalry’ sour and metallic. Eleven points. A brand of shame fueled by two different men. She couldn’t look at Briv, couldn’t face Alya’s haunted eyes. The cheerful brutality of the island pressed in, suffocating.
Briv vibrated beside Alya, a live wire of fury and humiliation. He’d watched Revan maul her, heard the slap echo. Now Thomas’s slick performance with Carmen twisted the knife. Alya’s small hand tentatively brushed his arm, her touch feather-light and trembling. "Briv…" Her voice was raw, barely a whisper choked by unshed tears. He flinched, pulling his arm away sharply, the movement reflexive, fueled by the burning image of Revan’s hand on her ass. Her flinch mirrored his, a fresh wound opening in her brown eyes. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, shrinking inward.
"Alright, lovebirds, dry those tears, stash the drama!" Chris McLean’s voice, amplified and relentlessly cheerful, sliced through the thick atmosphere. He stood bathed in sunlight, a conductor relishing his orchestra of discomfort. "Points are piling up, temperatures are rising! Can’t stop now! Cabin Six!" He pointed dramatically towards the group containing Kofi, Andre, Logan, and Patricia. "Versus Cabin One!" His gesture swung to include Raze, Nicoleta, Dariana, and Elena. "Step into the sandbox! Time to pick your partners!"
Before the air could even settle, Kofi’s voice, deep and arrogant, boomed out. "I choose Elena!" He didn’t shout; he declared it, a king claiming tribute. He swaggered forward, dreads swaying, his dark eyes fixed on the influencer with the passion for Korean culture. Before Elena could fully react, his large hand settled possessively low on her waist, fingers splaying towards the curve of her hip. "We’re gonna make a great team," he stated, his smile confident, bordering on a leer. Elena managed a practiced, camera-ready smile, her dark eyes assessing him coolly, betraying nothing beyond polite engagement. He’s strong, she thought, but predictable. Use it.
Simultaneously, Raze moved. Pale skin gleaming, a ghost with predatory grace, he stepped forward, his sharp eyes locking onto the Spanish TV star. "I choose Diletta!" His voice, smooth and magnetic, carried effortlessly. Diletta, radiating composed allure in her bikini, met his gaze, a knowing smirk playing on her perfect lips. She arched an eyebrow, the picture of confident amusement. "You couldn't miss this opportunity, could you?" Her tone was light, teasing, but held an edge – the dance of professionals recognizing a worthy opponent.
Raze mirrored her smirk, a spark of genuine challenge in his pale eyes. "For nothing in the world!" His laugh was low, intimate. He didn't touch her yet, the space between them crackling with unspoken understanding. This wasn't Revan's brute force or Thomas's fake chivalry; this was a game of equals, a high-stakes waltz beginning. Briv watched, the sickening familiarity of another man laying claim twisting his gut, even if it wasn’t Alya this time. Nicoleta, standing nearby, observed Raze with narrowed dark eyes, a flicker of something possessive tightening her tattooed features.
"Positions!" Chris commanded, loving the palpable tension. "Carry and conquer!" Kofi immediately hoisted Elena, his hands gripping her ass firmly, pulling her athletic frame tight against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her expression shifting to focused determination. Raze approached Diletta with deliberate slowness. His hands settled on her narrow waist, sliding down with confident possession to cup the spectacular curve of her ass. He lifted her effortlessly, holding her high, their faces close. Diletta’s arms encircled his neck, her gaze steady on his, that confident smirk still in place. "Don't drop me, cariño," she murmured.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Raze breathed back, his eyes gleaming.
"Go!"
Kofi charged, a powerhouse driving through the sand, Elena bouncing in his grip but urging him on. "Left! Hard left!" she directed, her voice sharp. Raze, however, moved with deceptive speed and agility. Lean muscle coiled, he navigated the uneven surface with almost feline grace, Diletta held securely, her body pressed flush against his. She wasn't just cargo; she was an extension of his movement, leaning with the turns, her gaze fixed ahead. "Faster, Raze! They're gaining!" Her command was crisp, strategic. Briv saw Alya wince beside him at the intimate press of Diletta’s body against Raze’s, the memory of Revan’s grip clearly visceral.
Raze surged, finding a firmer patch of sand. He pushed harder, his breathing controlled, closing the gap, then overtaking Kofi in the final stretch. They crossed the line a fraction ahead, Raze skidding to a stop, Diletta still held aloft against him, both breathing hard. Kofi slammed to a halt just behind, frustration tightening his jaw, Elena patting his shoulder with a tight smile. "Well done," she said, the words automatic.
"And Raze and Diletta snatch the win!" Chris crowed. "Precision over power, folks! One point each!"
Before the announcement fully faded, Raze acted. Still holding Diletta, her legs wrapped around his waist, he didn't ask. He captured her mouth in a deep, deliberate kiss. It wasn't Revan's violent assault; it was controlled, intense, and undeniably possessive. His hand flexed on her ass, pulling her tighter. Diletta, after a micro-second of surprise, kissed him back with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair – a performance, or participation? Her inscrutable TV-hostess mask slipped for just a moment, revealing a flash of raw heat. Briv felt sick. Alya turned her face away.
Raze broke the kiss, his pale eyes locked on Diletta's, both breathing heavily. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips. "We need those points," he murmured, his voice rough, thumb tracing her hipbone. "Don't you agree?" Diletta’s smile returned, brilliant and composed, though her cheeks were flushed. "Absolutely." The scoreboard flickered: Raze: 1, Diletta: 2. Another point. Another public claim.
Chris clapped, beaming. "That's how it's done! Chemistry and commitment! Alright, next up—"