Chapter 23: Carmen, Nicola, Andre
The random draw felt like a public execution, each name called a small, precise cut. Briv stood rigid, his stomach a hard knot. He watched Alya’s back, the tense line of her shoulders, and prayed for a miracle. He needed to be with her. He needed to prove himself.
“First team!” Chris’s voice was a cheerful blade. “Carmen, Nicola, and Andre!”
The air left Briv’s lungs in a quiet rush. Not him. Not yet. Carmen, tall and poised, exchanged a look of pure, calculating glee with Joaquin. Nicola, the blonde bombshell, smiled, a slow, confident curve of her lips. Andre, the massively built, moody man, simply nodded once, his dark eyes already assessing his teammates like pieces on a chessboard. It was a powerful team. A dangerous one.
“Your roles!” Chris announced, consulting another slip of paper. A wicked grin spread across his face. “Carmen, you’re Lara Croft, tomb raider extraordinaire. Nicola, you are the Amazonian princess, Wonder Woman. And Andre… you get to be the White Wolf himself, Geralt of Rivia.”
A murmur of appreciation and envy rippled through the crowd. They had been given iconic, inherently physical roles. Sexy roles.
“You have five minutes to confer,” Chris said. “Then, the stage is yours. Impress me.”
The three contestants huddled near the water's edge, the sinking sun painting their skin in hues of gold and orange. Their conversation was low, intense.
“We go all in on the chemistry,” Carmen said, her voice hushed but firm. “No shyness. We sell the fantasy.”
Nicola nodded, her eyes gleaming. “Andre, you’re the center. The monster hunter caught between two powerful women. We both want something from you.”
Andre’s voice was a low rumble. “I hunt a beast. You are both on the trail. There is tension. A standoff.”
“Which turns into… collaboration,” Carmen finished, a sly smile on her face. “Physical collaboration.”
They broke their huddle and moved to the center of the circle formed by the other contestants. The air grew thick, charged with anticipation. The only sounds were the gentle crash of waves and the whir of camera lenses focusing.
Carmen, as Lara, dropped into a low crouch, miming the careful examination of tracks on invisible ground. Her long limbs were taut with purpose. “The trail leads here,” she said, her voice adopting a clipped, British accent that was surprisingly convincing. “But we’re not alone.”
Andre as Geralt stood with a predator’s stillness, his muscular frame a silhouette against the dying light. He turned his head slowly, his gaze sweeping the imaginary forest. “A warrior,” he grunted, his voice a gravelly imitation of the Witcher. “An Amazon. Show yourself.”
Nicola entered the scene with a regal grace, stepping forward as if parting invisible trees. She held her back straight, chest out, embodying Wonder Woman’s divine power. “This creature is under my protection, Witcher. You will not harm it.”
“It has ravaged three villages,” Andre countered, taking a step toward her. The space between them crackled.
“It is scared. It is lost,” Nicola said, her voice softening, becoming persuasive. She moved closer to him, not in challenge, but in appeal. She placed a hand on his heavily muscled arm. “There are other ways. I can show you.”
The scene pivoted. The confrontation melted into a negotiation of bodies and whispered intent. Carmen, as Lara, circled them, a curious, intrigued expression on her face. “He’s stubborn, princess. But he listens to strength.” She came to a stop on Andre’s other side, her tall frame mirroring Nicola’s stance. She didn’t touch him, but her proximity was an undeniable claim.
Andre stood between them, a mountain of a man being subtly conquered. He looked from one woman to the other, his Geralt-esque stoicism giving way to a flicker of raw, male interest.
“Two paths,” he rumbled. “One beast.”
“Perhaps the path is not to hunt,” Nicola purred, her hand sliding from his arm to his chest. “But to tame.” She leaned in, her lips close to his ear, her words meant only for him and the hyper-sensitive microphones.
Carmen mirrored the movement on his other side. “Or to share the prize,” she whispered, her voice a silken promise. Her fingers brushed against the back of his neck.
It was a masterclass in implication. There were no kisses, no groping, just the unbearable tension of three beautiful people wrapped in a bubble of escalating, shared desire. Andre’s hands came up, one resting on the curve of Nicola’s hip, the other finding the small of Carmen’s back. He pulled them both an inch closer, a silent admission of surrender to their combined allure. The three of them stood there, a tangled, breathing sculpture of power and seduction, for a long, charged moment before stepping apart.
The silence that followed was broken by a few scattered, impressed claps that quickly grew into full applause. Joaquin was whistling, his pride in Carmen evident. Briv felt a hot, uncomfortable twist in his gut. It was so calculated. So effective. He glanced at Alya and saw her watching, her expression unreadable, but her arms were wrapped tightly around herself.
Chris stepped back into the center, clapping slowly, dramatically. “Well, well, well. The chemistry is certainly… volatile. A fantastic use of subtext and physical presence. You sold a whole story with just a look and a touch.” He paused, letting the anticipation build. “For sheer, unadulterated sexual tension and understanding the assignment… I’m giving that performance an eight out of ten!”
A wave of reaction swept through the group. Eight was a high score, a massive point injection for the trio. Carmen, Nicola, and Andre exchanged satisfied smiles. It was a business transaction, successfully completed.
Briv watched them, his mind racing. That was how you played the game. That was how you won. He felt a hand brush against his. He looked down, expecting Alya. But it was Nicoleta, slipping past him in the crowd, her dark eyes holding his for a fraction of a second, a silent, challenging question in their depths. The next name Chris called from the basket would be his.
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The next name Chris called from the basket was his.
“Briv!” Chris’s voice sliced through the humid air, and Briv’s heart hammered against his ribs. “You’re up next. And your teammates are… Dariana and Elena!”
Alya, who had finally turned to look at him, offered a thin, strained smile. It felt more like a goodbye than encouragement. Dariana, the athlete with the powerful build and confident stance, gave a brisk, game-ready nod. Elena, her dark eyes thoughtful, simply watched him, her expression unreadable. He was flanked by two women who embodied a strength he currently felt he lacked.
“Your roles are a fantasy fan’s dream!” Chris announced, his grin widening. “Dariana, you are the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen. Elena, you get to be the chaotic Harley Quinn. And Briv… you are the brooding Lord Commander, Jon Snow.”
A nervous energy buzzed under Briv’s skin. Jon Snow. Honorable, steadfast, doomed. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He joined the two women in a small huddle away from the main group, the sand shifting under their feet.
“We saw what they did,” Dariana said, her voice low and practical. She jerked her head toward Carmen’s team. “We need to top that. No holding back.”
Elena’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Harley and Daenerys meeting Jon Snow? That’s not a history lesson, it’s a fantasy.” Her gaze flicked over Briv, assessing him like a puzzle. “We overwhelm the honorable lord. Two forces of chaos he can’t control.”
Briv swallowed, his mouth dry. “Overwhelm how?”
“Let us lead,” Dariana said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Just follow our cues. And for god’s sake, try to look like you’re enjoying it.”
Their five minutes were up in a breath. They took their positions in the center of the circle. The audience was a ring of hungry eyes, and Briv felt Alya’s stare like a physical weight.
Dariana began, drawing herself up with an imperious grace. “A king has no need for frozen walls,” she declared, her voice channeling Daenerys’s regal command. She circled Briv, who stood trying to emulate Jon Snow’s stoic posture. “Your honor is a cage, Lord Snow.”
Elena, as Harley, skipped into the scene with unnerving glee. “Ooh, a stuffy one! I like ‘em when they’re stuffy. Makes the mess more fun!” She giggled, a high, manic sound, and trailed a finger down Briv’s arm. He flinched, the contact a jolt.
“This world doesn’t need more rules,” Dariana purred, moving closer on his other side. “It needs fire.” Her eyes locked with Elena’s over his shoulder. A silent signal passed between them.
“It needs a little anarchy,” Elena agreed, her giggle vanishing into a predatory smile.
Then, in a move that sucked the air from the beach, Dariana turned to Elena. She cupped Elena’s face, and Elena met her halfway. Their kiss was not gentle or tentative. It was a raw, open-mouthed clash of lips and tongue, a performance of pure, unadulterated lust meant for the cameras and the gasping crowd. It lasted for several heartbeats, a graphic tableau of desire that left Briv standing frozen between them, a statue of shock.
They broke apart, lips glistening, and turned their unified focus back to him. He was their shared project now. Dariana pressed against his right side, her firm body warm against his. “Your watch has ended, Jon Snow,” she whispered into his ear, her breath hot.
Simultaneously, Elena pressed against his left, her laughter a soft vibration against his skin. “Time to play.”
Then their mouths were on his neck. Dariana’s kisses were demanding, possessive, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin near his collarbone. Elena’s were wet and playful, her tongue tracing a path up to his jaw. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a dizzying assault that short-circuited his brain. The scent of their perfume, the heat of their bodies, the soft pressure of their lips—it was a sensory bombardment designed to shatter his character and reveal the desperate man beneath.
He groaned, a low, involuntary sound. His head fell back, his eyes squeezing shut. For a moment, the game, the points, Alya’s judgment, all of it vanished. There was only the visceral, shocking pleasure of it, the sheer taboo of being devoured by two beautiful women in front of everyone. His hands, which had hung uselessly at his sides, clenched into tight fists.
They pulled away as suddenly as they had begun, leaving him swaying slightly, his neck marked with their lipstick and saliva. The three of them stood there, breathing heavily in the sudden, ringing silence. The only sound was the relentless crash of the waves.
Chris McLean stepped forward, his expression one of pure, unadulterated delight. He let the silence hang, drawing out the moment for maximum impact. He looked from the flushed, stunned Briv to the two brilliantly smiling women.
“Now that,” Chris said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble, “was a fucking statement. You took a premise and weaponized it. That was audacious, graphic, and completely effective.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “For sheer, balls-to-the-wall erotic audacity and reducing a man to a puddle… I’m giving that a nine out of ten!”
The score hit Briv like a physical blow. Nine. They had beaten Carmen’s team. A wild, triumphant thrill surged through him, immediately followed by a cold wave of guilt. He turned, searching for Alya in the crowd.
She was already walking away, her slender form a rigid line of betrayal disappearing into the shadowy path that led back to the cabins.