Chapter 33
O ne week later, I'm pulling myself together after a sweaty, brilliant, orgasmic night in Deandre's bed.
As he pulls on his jeans, covering up those thick, muscular thighs that supported me as I rode him through a low, rolling set of orgasms in the early morning light, I run my fingers through my sex-tousled hair.
My pussy throbs. He cleaned me up diligently, but I'm still slick with his come and my wetness. At least the soreness of my first few weeks has faded. I guess my lady parts are just like any other muscles—with enough exercise, they get toughened up and strong.
And they've been getting the workout of their life.
My doubts about this arrangement and how long it can last persist, but the sex remains consistent and incredible.
No one seems to be getting tired of it—or me—yet.
For my part, I feel like I've barely begun to scrape the surface of how deep this well of desire could run.
Of how many different ways a woman and five men can arrange their bodies.
But time is running out.
Satisfied that my hair isn't too bad of a rat's nest, I turn away from the mirror on Deandre's dresser.
He pulls a shirt over his head, and I mournfully say a silent goodbye to all those beautiful muscles.
He raises a brow, catching me in the act of checking him out, but I see no reason to hide that I'm kind of a perv when it comes to these guys.
"So," I say, hiding the hope in my voice. "You need any help in the workshop today?"
He shakes his head, and I have to fight to keep my disappointment concealed. "Nah, I got it, baby girl."
"Oh. You sure?"
Ever since we finished up that order, he's had no use for me.
I've had nothing to do here. I've just been frittering away my time in front of an easel at my grandmother's place.
I've made good progress with cleaning out her house, too, but the time has felt awfully selfish.
My guilt at being so unproductive has been gnawing at me.
Over and over, I've offered to help the guys out, to learn more of Deandre's trade, or Adam's even. I'm not a tech wizard or chef, but I'm no slouch with a computer or a kitchen-aide. I could contribute. Hell, I've even tried to help out with the bills.
My offers keep getting gently pushed aside, though. I hardly eat a thing, compared with the five of them. I haven't so much as budged the needle on their grocery bill. And they claim that I'm warming their beds so well that they can't accept my contributions to the heating.
It's good for my bank account. But in the pit of my stomach, it feels wrong.
Like I'm a whore, fucking them all for my room and board.
Oblivious to my conflict, Deandre crosses the room to me. He puts his hands on my hips and ducks to look me in the eye.
"You questioning your daddy?"
Despite myself, I shiver, some of my anxiety instantly soothed over just by the warmth of his voice. I shake my head.
"I told you. I got it. You take care of what you need to do at your nanna's place. And in the meantime, you let us take care of you. You hear?"
"Yes, Daddy."
He smiles and cups my face. "There's my good girl."
He captures my lips then, and God, how is it always so good? I sink into his arms, relying on him to keep me up when his kiss is so deep and so sweet it threatens to make me buckle at the knees.
We part ways then, joining the guys for breakfast. Everything is routine at this point. Comfortable, despite my growing discomfort with the entire arrangement.
And it strikes me, sitting there at the dining room table, surrounded by these gorgeous, strong, kind men…
By Deandre and his gentle but firm care-taking, his daddy persona that makes me throb…
By Adam and his quiet kindness, his open ears and gentle sweetness and incredible, delicious mouth…
By Sergio and his silent insight and easy presence through the lonely parts of the night…
By Jax and his heat, his fire that makes my own blood boil, his hips that pin me to the wall as he takes me hard…
By Cayden and his comfort, his assurances, his steady love-making that makes me feel cherished and adored…
I love them.
I'm in love with them. With all of them.
Adam passes the butter, and my heart shivers. Deandre cracks a joke, and Sergio smirks, and Jax calls him an asshole, and Cayden strokes my knee beneath the table, and it's like a wall shattering.
This is a normal breakfast. Nothing out of the ordinary is happening at all.
But everything is changed.
Because I know that they like me. They sure as hell like fucking me. But I'm officially in too deep. My weak heart has latched on to all of these men. It's not strong enough to survive another break.
I finish my breakfast with my throat rebelling against each bite, my mouth dry and lungs tight. As soon the rest of the guys seem done, I take my plates to the sink. I don't offer to help clean up, not ready to be rebuffed again.
Instead, I go. I fly up the road and into the shadowed solace of my grandmother's awful, creaky, dusty old house.
At the threshold to my impromptu painting studio, I come to a trembling halt.
My realization this morning struck me like an anvil dropped onto my head from fifty feet up. But how? How could I have been so blind?
How could I not have seen what was staring me in the face?
The canvases I've been pouring my heart out on for the last few weeks stare back at me, and God. My lovesick, stupid heart is written on them in pigment and ink, there for absolutely anyone to read.
Anyone but me, apparently.
The paintings span the colors of the rainbow, but they're dominated by colors of passion—rich crimson and purple, black and blue and gold.
Glimpses and pieces of my five lovers appear in all sorts of different combinations, and love is etched into all of them.
I stand back, observing the odes to them I've written with my paint brush, and I want to shred them all to bare wood and cloth.
I want to take them back to my men and show them how I feel. To ask them if they could ever love me in the same way. If they'll keep me.
But I can't ask that. I can't.
I can't survive another rejection.
What the hell am I going to do?
The first thing I can think of is to reach for my phone.
It's been virtually silent these past few months.
I have friends back home, but none of them are terribly close—especially not after what happened with Richard.
I was so new to the area when we started dating, fresh out of student teaching in another city.
He swept me up and carried me along. Our friends were really his friends, and after he turned me away, I ended up with no one.
I squeeze my phone so hard I fear the screen will crack.
Jesus. I'm letting the exact same thing happen all over again.
I'm incredibly isolated out here. Sure, I have five men to keep me company, but when they eventually turn their backs on me, I'll have even fewer places to turn.
I basically live with them, for all intents and purposes.
What will I do when it ends? Come back here?
Will that even be an option at that point?
The plan is to finish cleaning this place out and sell it off.
I'll be stranded, without a job or anyone to turn to.
Just like that, I feel like a fish at the end of a line, gasping and turning, flipping and stuck, unable to breathe in the too-thin air.
I have to break free.
With trembling hands, I unlock my phone and scroll through the contacts. I seize upon the first remotely promising entry I find. I press the button to make the call, then close my eyes and drop my head into my hand.
"Pick up, pick up, pick up," I mumble.
"Hey. Haley?"
Oh, thank God.
"Connie. Hey, hi." Crap. The connection to another person sings relief into my soul, but at the same time, I'm suddenly confronted with the fact that I have absolutely no idea what to say.
Connie teaches down the hall from me. She was a life saver after Richard and I broke up.
Everyone at school knew about our affair; the rookie art teacher sleeping with the hot, older vice principal was big news.
Insinuation had been thick on the air. Jobs like mine were hard to come by.
Did I land the position in a… different position?
Forget that Richard and I never even met until after I started working there and didn't start seeing each other until a month or so after that.
Once things ended, I met judgmental stares at nearly every door.
But not from Connie. She brought me into her classroom and closed the door and let me have a good old-fashioned cry on her shoulder, and damn if that hadn't been exactly what I'd needed in that moment. I've been in her debt ever since.
And yet here I am, reaching out again for a lifeline.
"Um," I start.
But she takes over. "How did you hear so fast?"
I lift my head from my hand, scrunching up my brow. "Hear what?"
"Oh, I just assumed. After last night's faculty meeting…"
"Connie, what's going on?"
"It's Richard."
Shit. Shit shit shit. I brace myself, rising to my feet. I picture car accidents or early strokes or hell, some weird karmic round of layoffs.
But I'm wrong. I'm so fucking wrong.
"Haley," Connie says, "Richard is trying to steal your job."