Page 155 of Charlie

"I fucking knew you needed a break," Jack growls, scooping me into his arms and striding toward the bathroom.

"Jack—"

"No. I'm taking care of you. Pee." He sets me on my feet by the toilet and turns away to start the shower. I lean forward to keep my urine off the tender bits, gingerly wiping afterward. Yes, I'm hurting, but it's the best kind of hurt that reminds me exactly what we've been doing for the last twenty-four hours. Jack pulls me into the shower, gently washing and conditioning my hair before soaping me up. He rinses down quickly, refusing my help. Then he's holding a towel out for me, sitting me on the toilet seat, and blow-drying my hair. Cam comes in halfway through, sitting at my feet and feeding me tiny bites of fruit and croissant.

Once my hair is dry, Cam carefully picks me up and walks me to the bed, telling me to stay put while he showers. Jack is pulling on his boxers when Lach barrels through the door, his arms laden with bags, balancing a tray with four cups of coffee.

"Where were you?" I ask, looking at him with surprise.

"On a mission to make today as comfortable as possible," he says, grinning as he hands me a coffee. He sets the others down and dumps the contents of the first bag out on the bed. A heap of light gray cloud-like material falls onto the bed. "One ultra-comfy lounge set," he says, wiggling his eyebrows as he holds up the pieces. "Plus underwear that won't ride up. He holds up a pair of boyshorts. "And lastly, a blanket." He pulls a gray-blue plaid blanket from the bag and tosses it to me. My hands sink into its softness, and I immediately cuddle into it.

"I was right," he says, sinking onto the bed beside me and caressing my cheek.

"Right about what?"

"That it would match your eyes," he says softly, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead.

"Thank you, Lach," I whisper, emotion rising in my throat.

"I'll help you get dressed, and then we're heading out to find the art store."

I drop the blanket and towel and then hop off the bed, feeling significantly better after the shower. Lach holds the panties while I step into them, sliding them up my legs and over my ass without so much as a pat or pinch. Next is a comfortable bralette made of the same material as the lounge set. Then baggy sweatpants and an oversized button-up that I decide to leave open.

"Bloody hell, Lach," Jack mutters, tearing his gaze away from me to glare at Lach.

"What?" He raises his hands in mock surrender.

"All that outfit makes me want to do is peel it off her in layers to see what's underneath." Jack's jaw ticks as the heat of his gaze caresses me from my head to my toes.

"You already know what's underneath," I counter

"And that right there is the fucking problem."

I bite my cheek to keep from smiling, pulling on my socks and shoes before stepping into the steamy bathroom to check my hair. I pretend to be fussing with it, but really I'm watching Cam dry off in the shower, jealous of the droplets of water droplet sliding down his torso.

"What's this?" I ask, stepping up to him and wrapping my hand around his cock. He groans, thrusting into my grip.

"I can't stop thinking about this morning."

"I can't either," I admit, stroking him.

"Absolutely not," Jack grumbles, pushing into the bathroom, his eyes flashing. "Nothing sexual for twenty-four hours. You have to heal, Charlotte."

"Twelve hours," I counter, my fingers crossed behind my back.

"I'll make you a deal. If the pain is completely gone in twelve hours, we'll have the raunchiest sex you've ever had. If you show signs of even the slightest twinge, we're waiting the full twenty-four hours."

"Deal." I hold out my hand for him to shake. He eyes Cam's cock, then my hand. I take it as a sign that it doesn't gross him out when his hand swallows mine in a firm shake.

I return to the room to find all three guys wearing color coordinated sweatsuits. Cam's is midnight blue – relaxed fit joggers and a zip-up hoodie. Jack's is a deep caramel, his pants almost indecent with how much they show off, a relaxed-fit pull-over hoodie rounding out the look. Lach is in gray-green – baggy joggers and an oversized hoodie. They look like models from a high-end brand.

"You guys can't wear that," I moan, peeking at them from between my fingers.

"Why not?" Lach asks, looking between them to find what's wrong. "I figured we could all use some comfy clothes after the last twenty-four hours. These seemed perfect."

"Perfect if you weren't planning on ever leaving the room, maybe."

"She thinks we're sexy. She wants to fuck us," Lach croons, doing a little dance.

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