Page 59 of House Rules
I feel wrung out, bone-deep tired in a way that no amount of sleep can fix.
Between the shit with Atticus earlier, coming up empty on finding anything, and then trying to keep up with those four on the ship, I need sleep and maybe a bubble bath.
Not necessarily in that order.
Today all of them hit on me, all of them flirted, all of them touched me, sending signal after signal that they wanted more. But none of them took it any further.
I don’t know what their game is—especially Con’s—but it’s driving me crazy. It’s like they have some agenda that I’m not privy to, something that’s keeping them from going as far as they want to. Or at least as far as they indicate they want to.
“If you all are done for the night, I think I’m going to go to bed,” I say with a soft smile, hoping one of them makes a joke about going with me and then follows through.
None of them do. With low murmurs, they all head to their own rooms. Only Storm stops long enough to kiss the top of my head before walking past me to go to his own room.
Despite the oppressing Georgia humidity and the constant thrum of desire just beneath my skin, I feel lighter than I have for the last couple of days. I don’t know if it’s the time I spent on the boat with the guys—time when they weren’t preoccupied by other women—or something else altogether. Butmaybe this year won’t be quite as awful as I had originally thought.
I might just survive this entire thing and make my escape to a new life unscathed.
Back in my room, all I want is that hot bath and a mind-numbing orgasm. Not necessarily in that order.
Maybe I’ll work off a little of this frustration the men have given me with the shower head attachment. Does it count as ‘touching myself’ if it’s technically the stream of water that is touching me?
The fantasies I have been harboring of each of the Titans play in my head one by one. Each of them is now deeper, more detailed and darker than anything I dreamed of before I came to live in the penthouse.
After watching50 Shades, I fantasized about Con making me wear a vibrator in public so he could toy with me. That’s blossomed with higher stakes. If I’m a good girl, then he’ll make me come over and over. But if I’m bad, then he hands me to Atticus.
From everything I’ve seen, Atticus would take anunholy amount of joy in doling out corporal punishment.
Or…maybe if I’m really good, I’ll get Con and Maverick. Every time I close my eyes, I’m haunted by a picture of what it would be like to be between the two. Sometimes it’s not them— sometimes I fantasize about being chained to a bed with Atticus and Storm giving me a cocktail of pleasure and pain, the two mixed indelibly until I can’t tell them apart.
Each of these men has something dark in them, something that calls to me, and I have a feeling exploring it would be life-altering.
As I turn on the light to my bathroom, all of that warm, glowy desire and anticipation evaporates, curdling in my gut. Someone was in my room, and they left me a message.
“We’re waiting.”
The words are scribbled across the mirror in what looks to be permanent marker. Stretching out a finger that trembles, I touch it, then rub, trying to smear it, trying in vain to wipe it away.
Fuck.My stomach drops to the floor. Fuck. They were in here. In my room. Fucking hell.
My heart races so fast I can’t catch my breath. It feels like the walls are closing in. Did they touch my clothes? My bed? Did they stand here, watching me sleep? How long were they here before they left this warning?
The guys can’t see it. None of them even bother to knock when they walk into my room. I need to get rid of this immediately, especially with Atticus already having his suspicions after catching me snooping in his room.
A quick search under the sink shows nothing that will help me.
Cracking open the door to my bedroom, I cast my gaze around the main room. All the lights are off, and the room is absent of men. I close my eyes and whisper a short prayer, then slip out and close the door behind me.
On soft feet, I sneak into the hallway and find the linen closet that the maids use to store excess linens and cleaning supplies. It keeps things close for them and easy for us if we’re out of something.
A bottle of isopropyl alcohol sits on the shelf with first aid supplies, and I have a vague recollection of the head of housekeeping telling us about how she had to use it once to clean up a mess a kid had left on a table. I don’t remember if it will work on mirrors, but I grab it, tucking it into my waistband just in case. Anything is worth a try.
As quietly as I can, I sneak back into the suite. Maverick stands in the kitchen with his back to me. He’s headfirst in the mammoth refrigerator, no doubt grabbing something to drink or eat. That man is always eating.
He must still be a little buzzed from the evening because he says nothing as I walk across the space toward my room. I don’t even think he sees me. I can’t risk him turning around, so as quickly and quietly as I can, I sneak past the kitchen and slither into my suite.
In the bathroom, I douse a cotton ball with alcohol and scrub. Thankfully, it acts like a charm and removes the marker.
I toss the cotton ball and slide down the wall until my butt hits the tiled floor. The mirror is free of any traces of the mob’s entrance, but that doesn’tchange the simple fact that they made it into our suite…into my room…in the first place. Not just the resort, not just past security, but all the way past a secure elevator and into the executive suites.
