Luke snorts while Mateo quietly chokes again, and I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but this is amusing. Thrilling. Dangerous. Fun.
Like I used to be.
Ford’s grin doesn’t reach the heat in his eyes. “My men know exactly what I like in my mouth.” Yanking a strip of painter’s tape off the roll like he will bind me with it, his cocky mouth steams up my inner thigh. “What about you, Mrs. Evans?” It finds that lonely, screaming nub on my body as he looms over me. “Do you enjoy serving my men?” The blue in his eyes flicks it with delight. “Do you like serving your warm goodies to me? On a tray for all of us to eat?”
Oh my god, his innuendo.
Holy fuck, he smells like clit bait.
And did he just suck the air from my lungs?
My pussy pulses at the kind of sex he’s implying, but with who? Me? And his men? Or the hundreds of women I’m sure he’s fucked like a boss?
Fine. Maybe I will be his naughty secretary because I don’t care if Ford’s a dick. He’s a big one, raging hard with sex appeal.
And one asshole in this house controlling me is enough. I’m not letting another one do it, too.
“Yes,” I brave, “I like anything creamy in my mouth.”
What image in his mind makes his eyes blaze like that? I don’t know, but the picture in mine is obscene. It involves a lot of glazing of my flesh by these three men.
Funny, with Gentry, one drop is vile. But these men? Or just Ford, losing his control while my sex dominates him until he comes—yes, I want him to paint me with it.
So does he.
My reply captivates him, making his nostrils flare before he flicks his eyes toward the camera and shakes his head, remembering where he is and who I am.
And so do I.
What the hell was that?
I’m married. To an evil man. And the way he would punish me, using my dad? I swallow the sudden rocks in my throat.
But Ford’s dark tease thrilled me. Taunting him turned me on.
Sweet shivers still raise my flesh as he clears his throat. Ice falls over his eyes again as he turns around, ignores me, and resumes securing the drop cloth over the floors while I stand on weak knees. My heart is racing; my mind is dizzy, and my mouth is empty with nothing to say.
“Thank you for the muffins, Mrs. Evans.” Luke breaks the silence. Like Ford’s sexy menace doesn’t faze him. Picking up the empty tray, Luke walks toward the kitchen.
I follow his steps. “I got that.”
“If you’re sweet enough to serve us,” he says over his hulking shoulders, “we’re gentlemen enough to serve you too.”
We leave Ford and Mateo in the pile of sexual tension served in the dining room.
“Thank you,” I tell Luke as he sets the tray on the kitchen island. “That’s sweet of you.”
“Not a problem.” His hands brush across his white painter’s overalls. They’re all wearing them, and yes, they make them look like man-lingerie. “And don’t let my boss ruffle your feathers. Something’s bothering him today. He’s usually a good guy.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“We’re all more than we seem.” Luke’s so much taller than me, smelling like cedar and vanilla wrapping around me with his smile. “Like… you seem to be much more than a beauty queen.”
His dare is gentle, and for one moment, I feel safe. “How do you know?”
“About you being a beauty queen? I saw your Miss South Carolina photo and trophy in the parlor.”
My eyes roll. That’s Gentry’s doing, not mine.
The picture I don’t mind; I was happy when it was taken. My dad was with me, and we’d treated ourselves to Big Macs that day.
It’s the trophy I can’t stand. It’s Gentry’s wicked joke. He literally calls me that sometimes in front of his friends.
“No.” I ask Luke, “How can you tell that’s not all I am? Just someone’s trophy?”
“Because,” he pauses, suddenly looking older than his young-buck youth, “there’s no victory in your eyes, ma’am.”
The rocks return to my throat. Luke cants his head like he’s spotted me in a crowd. Like he sees me, not my mask. Gently, he holds my stare before he drops his chin and returns to work.
But I won’t cry.
I won’t disappear into my pantry where Gentry has no cameras. I’ve shed so many tears in there; I swear—Chef Boyardee and me—we’ve had long talks.
But today? What is it with me and tears? I’d blame it on hormones, but I know what it is.
I’m not used to breaking my routine with my dad. And I’m not used to having three men witnessing the embarrassing shitshow that’s my life.
I try distracting myself. Tapping on my iPad, I select the catering order for our New Year’s Eve party. It stresses me out. No matter what I pick, Gentry will criticize it. An hour later, I almost don’t hear the “ahem” echoing across my lonely kitchen.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Mateo stands in the doorway. “I need your opinion on something, please.”
My opinion? That’s been about as useful as a screen door on a submarine lately.
“Uh, sure.”
I follow Mateo’s path into the grand foyer. It’s two stories with a staircase winding up to a landing leading to rarely-used guest bedrooms and the owner’s suite I resent.
But I like this view of Mateo.
He’s not wearing his baseball hat today, and his long, dark waves captivate me. The bib of his white overalls is dropped from his beefy shoulders, hanging in front like he’s taking a break, letting me marvel at the sight of his tight white T-shirt underneath.
Men can have muscles on their backs? Ones so strong you can see them through cotton?
And that ink again? It peeks out from under his collar, looking tribal in design. It starts at his neck, and I study the two full sleeves he has over his ripped arms. It’s a cohesive design. It writes a story across his skin, and I want to read every word.
“Ma’am, we can’t decide what to do right here.” Mateo points to the threshold between the foyer and the dining room, where Luke paints the crown molding. “Should we stop here or go into the foyer? But if we do, that goes upstairs, and then it’ll only look right to paint the whole second-floor landing, but your husband said to do the first floor only.”
Mateo gazes up at his conundrum, but I can’t stop looking at him. Like, I know him, and it’s so odd and sweet at the same time because I don’t.
“Please call me Stacey.”
He grins my way. “Can’t do that, ma’am. We’re under strict orders.”
“Whose orders? It’s my name I’m asking you to use.”
“Well, we all get several names sometimes, ma’am.” He’s enjoying saying it now. “And we’ve been ordered to address you as you introduced yourself.”
“What? As ‘Mrs. Gentry Evans?’ By whom? My husband?”
“No, ma’am.” The tease in Mateo’s eyes grows. “By our boss.”
“Your boss?” I glance around. “Where did he go?”
“He’s got other jobs, ma’am. I’m in charge of this one and a few others. We’re a close team, taking what we can for him.”