I stab a button to slow down the treadmill and bend my body across the machine, panting as the track comes to a stop. Sweat drips down my skin, sticking in my hair. My lungs ache. My whole body feels like it’s on fire.
I’m going out of my damn mind.
It’s been four days since the Angels arrived in my house, and I’m officially losing it. They’re everywhere. Everywhere I turn. They’re currently working on fitting my new security system; installing cameras, lights, blinds, gates, locks, alarms. The whole nine yards. They arrive every morning, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, and spend all day screwing and wiring and hammering. I can’t walk through my own damn house without getting a front-row seat to my own personal Magic Mike show. Yeah, there’s no dancing, but there’s plenty of flexing abs and bulging biceps. The air feels thick with their pheromones. I can barely breathe.
Groaning, I grab my phone and leave the basement gym, climbing the stairs shakily. The Players premiere is coming up in just a couple of weeks, and my PT has put me on a strict exercise regime. Normally, I’m not a fan of working out, but recently, I’ve been embracing the exercise. It’s the only way I can work off all of the sexual frustration that’s constantly buzzing through my veins.
I reach the top of the stairs and turn towards the kitchen, running slap into Glen. His hands shoot out and grab my sweat-slicked waist, keeping me upright. I’m only wearing leggings and a sports bra, and the feeling of his fingers on my bare skin sends heat thrumming through me. I pull away quickly.
“Morning,” he says roughly.
I nod tightly and head to the fridge, yanking it open and grabbing a bottle of juice. Heat fizzes under my skin. I take a swig and fight the urge to fan myself.
Glen sits silently at the counter and pulls out a book. Without meaning to, my eyes trail back to his face, taking in the curl of hair falling into his eyes as he reads.
He’s my favourite. I’m not sure why. He doesn’t talk much. After our one conversation the day we met, I don’t think he’s ever said more than a few words at a time to me. But there’s something about his silence which feels secure and comforting. Whenever I’m in the room with him, I can feel his eyes on me, watching me steadily.
As I watch, he flips a page, biting his full bottom lip. Heat pangs through me.
Shit.
There’s movement from outside the glass patio doors. I look up to see Kenta by the pool. He’s standing on a ladder, a screwdriver clamped between his teeth, fixing a CCTV camera to my garden wall. His hair is pulled back into a bun, and he’s taken off his shirt. I gape at his back. He’s tattooed—a full backpiece that goes from his shoulders to his waist, done in swirling black and red and gold ink. I can’t see much from here, but I think it’s some kind of dragon, or maybe a phoenix. The sweaty, tattooed muscles flex as he pulls a screw out of his pocket and starts twisting it into the wood.
Something in me breaks.
It’s too much. I can’t do this anymore.
“I’m going to lay down,” I say to no-one in particular, and Glen nods, not looking up.
Matt is installing a camera in the hallway outside my room. Which is terrifying. As I watch, he bends down to pick something out of his toolbox. His faded denim jeans stretch against his thick thighs as he rummages, giving me a stellar view of his perfect butt.
Jesus.
I clear my throat, but he ignores me, sorting through tools. “Excuse me,” I say, raising my voice.
With a heavy sigh, he straightens, icy eyes meeting mine. The first time we met, he’d been in a suit, and he looked incredible in it; but now, in a thin, worn t-shirt that practically melts over his broad shoulders and chest, and his black, wavy hair falling over his forehead, he looks damn edible.
“Princess,” he says faux-politely, pushing my door open for me.
“Thank you.”
I step into my room, carefully shutting the door behind me. My skin is hot and crawling. My chest feels tight. There’s a tickling feeling deep in my belly, and a throbbing pulse between my legs.
I’m suddenly feeling a lot less judgemental about Julie shagging Rodriguez.
I sigh, looking around my room. It’s pretty standard: big and white, with fluttery gauze curtains and a big pink bed. I have a black-and-white Dior rug covering the floor, a shelf full of crystals, and expensive scented candles melting on every flat surface. When I first decorated, I wanted the room to feel like a calm, safe space. And it did. I used to spend most of my time here, but ever since the break-in, everything about the room just makes me uncomfortable. Before the Angels came and stationed themselves in my house, I was actually falling asleep on the living room couch most nights. But now one of them is always sitting at my breakfast bar, drinking coffee or doing paperwork. So I have to sleep in here.
Try to sleep, anyway. I’ve been getting about an hour a night. I’m starting awake at every tiny noise and slight disturbance. I’m too scared to get any real rest.
I head to my bed and flop down on top of the quilt. Yanking open my bedside table drawer, I fumble around inside, pulling out a vibrator still in its packaging.
I’m a big fan of toys. They’re much more stimulating than men, and I don’t have to worry about them trying to use me for clout. This one was sent to me a few days ago by a company looking to form a partnership. I pull open the packet, shaking out a small bullet, pink and glossy. I flick it on. It buzzes quietly, not loud enough to attract attention. Perfect.
Settling back on the pillows, I close my eyes, kick off my leggings, and picture Glen kneeling over me. I can still feel his handprints burning into my hips. I trace the vibe lightly down my stomach, imagining those big, strong hands stroking me, smoothing over my body. My skin heats and warms.
I don’t love the idea of wanking over my employee. But I’m losing my mind, here. I need some kind of relief before I go mad.
When I finally touch the bullet between my legs, I imagine it’s Glen’s tongue swiping through my folds. Swirling around my entrance. Dipping inside me. The vibration is gentle and pleasant, just a little thrum that makes my belly flip, and I arch slightly, picturing Glen’s dark head trapped between my thighs.
Matt clears his throat outside the door, and I bite my lip. Something about lying here, getting myself off while he’s just feet away, feels ridiculously naughty. It’s turning me on even more. I grit my teeth, my face flushing.
Somehow, my mind drifts to Kenta. I remember his sweat-slick golden muscles out in the garden, and imagine running my tongue down his curling tattoo. I swallow down a soft moan and flick the vibe up a notch.
Right at that second, Matt mutters something under his breath, and I gasp as the image of him pops into my head. I picture him standing over me, pulling my legs apart and sliding into me. The rush of arousal is so hot I swear I almost come right there. My eyes fly open.
I don’t think I’ve ever fantasised about sleeping with multiple men before, but now I can’t stop. I’m not even picturing a real scene anymore; just sensations. The feeling of hands and mouths and muscle all over me, tugging at my breasts, massaging my ass, filling me deep inside. It’s overwhelming. My body burns and aches, and I fumble my grip on the bullet, accidentally brushing the button with my thumb. I cry out as it speeds up, buzzing furiously against my core.
My bedroom door slams open. I shriek, grabbing the quilt and tugging it up to cover me. Matt stands in the doorway, square jaw clenched, his eyes alert as he takes in the scene. His gaze runs over me, the windows, the wardrobe—then flicks back to me.
“Oh,” he says.
I clumsily try to turn off the bullet, but it’s slick and wet and falls right through my hands, clattering onto the floor. We both stare at it as it lies, glistening and buzzing, on my pale pink carpet.
“Oh,” Matt says again. “You screamed. I thought… shit.” His throat bobs. He looks down. “Shit.”
“Get out!” I gasp.
“Right. I…” He takes a step back, then his eyes fall on the little toy again. “Shit,” he says, then finally turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I sink back onto my pillow, silently dying of embarrassment. I can hear footsteps down the corridor. “Is everything okay?” Kenta asks, his voice muffled.
There’s a thunk sound. I imagine Matt banging his head against the wall. “Shit.” He says.
“What?”
“Shit,” Matt repeats. “Motherfucking-god-shitting-damn-it.”
“Alright, then.”
I slide off the bed and pick up the shiny pink bullet, switching it off with a shudder. This is it. It’s time. I’m going to shred all my credit cards, fake my death, and go live in a hut in the woods. I slink off to the shower, and I’m too humiliated to even finish myself off with the shower-head.
When I step back into my bedroom, drying my hair, I hear chairs scraping in the kitchen and low voices. It sounds like all the men are discussing something. Probably me. God, is Matt telling them what just happened? All I want to do is curl up in bed and never leave, but I know the longer I hide, the more embarrassed I’ll become. I change into a pair of clean pyjamas, then straighten my spine and force myself to step out of my room.
I mean, it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, I tell myself, as I walk down the hall. He was just doing his job. And there’s no shame in masturbating.
My little pep talk doesn’t work. As I step into the kitchen and see the three men bent over a pile of papers, I can feel my cheeks set on fire. Matt stands as soon as I come in, staring at me with wide eyes.
“What did you do to him?” Kenta asks, sounding amused. “He’s broken.”
Matt flips him off, then takes my elbow and tugs me into the corner of the kitchen. “Look,” he says, his voice low, “I’m so sorry about—”
“It’s not your fault,” I say stiffly. He nods, looking a bit dazed. “I’m still getting used to having you guys here.”
“That’s so incredibly understandable,” he says hoarsely. “I’m still sorry.”
“Well. Unnecessary apology accepted. Can we please never talk about it again?”
“I would love that.” He clears his throat. “You’re still planning on going to that homeless charity event tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yep.” I’ve been organising the Help for Homeless Gala for the past five months. I can’t exactly back out now.
He nods. “We’re just discussing the logistics of the event.”
“Right.”
“Feel free to take a seat.” He waves at the table.
“Thanks. I actually own them all, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen him anything less than composed, and it sends a flutter through my stomach. I kind of like watching him squirm.
I grab a knife and a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer, then head to the kitchen table, picking a fat grapefruit out of the fruit bowl. Matt sits down awkwardly opposite me as I slice the grapefruit in half. “What’s the plan, then?”
Kenta stacks up a handful of papers. “That depends. How would you feel about an undercover angle?”
I frown. “I think most people know who I am. That’s the bit that makes me famous.”
“Not for you. For us. You’ve been single for a long time, right?”
“About five years, probably.”
Kenta nods. “It’s possible that finally seeing you with another man will discourage your stalker from pursuing you.”
I take a bite of grapefruit. “You want me to take one of you as my date?”
“It’s a good idea. That way you’d have a visible protection detail, but someone close to you, as well.”
I run my eyes over the men. Even though they’re all incredibly attractive, they’d stick out like sore thumbs on a red carpet. “You’d need to dress up. Tux, designer gear, all of it. You’ll need to blend in with the other stars.”
Glen snorts. “Guess I’m out of the running, then,” he says, waving at his face. I wince, because he’s right. God knows what the magazines would say about him. I imagine the words Beauty and the Beast would be tossed around a little. I study the other two men. Kenta’s an option, and he’s definitely less annoying, but his striking features and long hair would still grab attention.
No. If I want someone to melt into a red carpet, I’m going to have to go with the chiselled white guy.
Great.
I turn to Matt and smile at him as sweetly as I can. “Makeover time.”
Hopefully, the look of horror in his eyes will make up for the rest of my shitty day.
