That takes my attention away from the Female Foreplay Show. “I’m fine right here, thanks.”

She smiles persuasively. “I’m afraid it’s not optional. Your friends insisted.”

I frown at the guys. “What did you douche bags do?”

Matthew laughs sinisterly. “Nothing you weren’t expecting.”

“It’s your last night of freedom, man. Enjoy it,” Jack adds.

Two more girls come up behind me. They and Carla pull me off my stool and guide me onstage as Steven yells out, “It’ll only hurt for a minute!”

I decide to go with the flow. It was too much to hope that the guys didn’t have some sick, twisted event planned. Best to just get it over with now. A lone chair sits empty in the middle of the stage. As three pairs of feminine hands push me down in it, the lights dim even lower. Spotlights dance around the room, and when “One More Night” by Maroon 5 comes on, the crowd cheers.

Two woman bounce out from backstage. They’re wearing black G-strings and sheer, black button-down tops. After a few ass shakes and high kicks for the crowd, they turn toward me. One drops to her knees and crawls around my legs like a submissive—and appealing—kitten.

Her hands slide up my calves to my knees and she pushes—roughly jerking them apart. Then she ties each ankle to the leg of the chair with a surprisingly sturdy ribbon. The girl in back scratches red fingernails down my chest, stopping just above the danger zone. Then she yanks both my arms back and ties my wrists behind me. It’s not exactly enjoyable. Some guys like to be dominated, but as history has shown, I’m much more of the dominator type.

But my interest is piqued. The crowd goes wild as another woman appears front and center—swinging gracefully around the pole, obviously the star of the show. She’s petite, but thigh-high, leather, black boots with insanely spiked heels make her seem taller. Her hair is tucked under a black leather cap, shocking red gloss covers her lips, and dark sunglasses disguise much of her face. The rest of her body, however, is bared for all to see. A black thong with a scarcely there triangle hangs on her hips. Her tits are adorned with stick-on nipple tassels—and nothing else.

With her back to me, she rips off the cap and throws it to the crowd, revealing a cascade of shiny, brown hair. She takes a few more spins on the pole, then turns toward me and stalks forward.

For a moment, I’d swear on my kid that it was Kate. The face and body dimensions are that similar.

Upon closer inspection, I notice the differences, however. Besides the fact that Kate Brooks would never be up on a stage shaking her tits and ass in the faces of strangers—unless she actually wanted me to stick ice picks through the eyeballs of every ass**le in the place.

And, yes, that would include the ass**les I came with.

But also, this girl’s skin is paler than my fiancée’s, her nose thinner, her hair lighter—not quite the same mahogany shade. Other than that, the resemblance is pretty f**king frightening.

She spins and leans against me, her back pressed up against my chest. Her hair falls across my face and tickles my nose. She smells . . . great. Like honeysuckle and jasmine. It’s a musky incense, like the aroma of a closed room after hours of fantastic f**king. She doesn’t smell nearly as incredible as Kate—but her bouquet is what I would’ve probably defined as incredible if I’d never had the pleasure of Kate’s sublime scent.

Her arms snake around my neck and her ass nestles perfectly against my dick. Then she slides down between my open legs and arches forward elegantly, raising her ass tantalizingly toward my face. She plants her feet on the floor and straightens her legs, while still bent over at the waist. Then she slides the thong down her legs and smacks her right butt cheek hard—in the way I’m sure every guy in the place is chomping at the bit to do.

She stands up and turns to face me again. She kicks one leg slowly up around my head—giving me an unobstructed, detailed display of her bare slit.

I swear I try not to look. Really.

But I do.

Give me a motherfucking break—I’m engaged, not dead.

She climbs onto my lap, facing me. Then she shoves the thong she’d been wearing in my mouth. The crowd roars to a deafening crescendo.

I think the crazy train just jumped the track. I’d like to get off now—and not in the happy way. It’s all fun and games until you have another woman’s bodily fluids on your tongue. Kate would never be okay with this. Remind me to guzzle some Listerine when we get back to the room.

Her red lips smile as she snatches the tie off my neck, and I manage to spit out the thong. Unperturbed, she drapes the open tie around my shoulders and holds each side like a horse’s reins. She wraps the ends around her hands and uses them for leverage. Her h*ps sway and swivel expertly, the way only an experienced dancer—or expensive hooker—knows how.

To my utter horror—my c**k gets hard. He moves quickly into position—rigid and ready.

Since the day Kate let me f**k her, I, and my dick, haven’t given any other women a second glance. No matter how attractive or available, we haven’t been interested. Or aroused.

Not one frigging time.

It feels completely wrong. To use Kate’s words—it’s like a compass pointing south. If that were to happen, it would mean the universe was off-kilter. The end of the world as we know it. That’s almost what this seems like.

Like a betrayal.

Maybe the priests were right, after all. Maybe penises are evil.