He laughs. “No, dear. It’s not 1950 and you’re not a housewife. One bed. It’s a queen, natch. But given Officer Hands-on here’s size, it’s still going to be tight. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it? Kori tells me you two are old friends. Usually, I use that room for guests who somehow end up drunk at my house after the bar closes and feel slightly amorous. But don’t worry, it’s totally clean and ready for your enjoyment. I aim to please.” He says this all with a completely innocent look on his face. And even though I’ve only known him for fifteen minutes, I can still tell it’s complete and utter bullshit. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That bright fire in his eyes is all Helena.

Dom shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “That’s fine with me.”

“You snore,” I accuse him weakly, as if this will be any justification for when I end up sleeping on the couch. Or in the car. Or running back to Bear so he can hide me in the bathtub.

“How would you know?” he fires back. “You haven’t been around to find out.”

Yowza. And just what in God’s name is that supposed to mean?

“Well, this is just peachy,” Sandy beams. “Sounds like everything will work out just fine. Oh my, I just adore having houseguests! Kori, shall we retire to powder our noses before the evening’s festivities? We can have some girl time.” He glances at Dom and me. “Boys, your bedroom is at the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom next door with towels all fluffed and ready for your enjoyment. Feel free to get a little wet. I promise, there’re no cameras set up in the shower.”

With that, he grabs Kori by the arm and drags her out of the room.

Motherfucker.

COZY MY goddamn ass.

This room is fucking tiny.

There’s a queen bed, all right, but it takes up most of the space with hardly any room to move around. A small window lets in the burning sunlight that promises to scorch my skin off. The only other furniture in the room is a small nightstand on the far side of the bed. Atop the nightstand is a fishbowl filled with condoms. Littered next to the bowl are at least ten different kinds of lube called such ridiculous names as “Butt Butter” and “Boy-Ease” (one makes me never want to eat popcorn again, the other wants me to make sure this isn’t actually an episode of To Catch A Predator). A tassel of something leathery hangs out from one of the drawers on the nightstand. I’m pretty sure cows didn’t evolve to have their hides used on an ass filled with butt butter.

“Well, this is certainly new,” Dom says, looking up.

I follow his gaze. Above the bed, attached to the ceiling, is a row of mirrors. Because, you know, that’s what normal people have.

“This isn’t a bedroom,” I groan. “It’s a sex dungeon!”