Chapter 25
DICK IS THE WORST
Margot
“If the dick gets to be too much, text me,” Rhys says as we climb out of his truck at the retreat center Wednesday morning.
“I can handle a little dick,” I reply, then glance at his crotch. “God knows I’ve been getting more than a little.”
“Ready and available anytime you want to pull me into a closet again.”
We had sex in the shower not thirty minutes ago, and my hair’s still wet, but a bulge is already growing behind his fly.
And now I’m also turned on as I shut the door.
Word is, Theo might stop by, but Jonas and Grey are steering clear of the retreat center this week, which has me relaxed enough that I’m good with the distraction of being turned on by Rhys at work.
“Talked to Decker yesterday,” he says to me while we head toward the main building, our arms brushing. “Told him I thought they should tell their parents.”
I glance up at him. “What did he say?”
“Nothing much. Think he’s still on the no drama is good drama train.” He glances down at me as we reach the door. “It’s gonna come out, Margs.”
“I know,” I say on a sigh.
It’s inconceivable to me that the triplets’ mom wouldn’t know who my father is.
Which means if the triplets tell their parents they know, they’ll also likely tell their parents that I’m their half sister, which would mean I’d need to come clean.
Pretending I’m another of Tobias Merriweather-Brown’s illegitimate children won’t last long once the triplets start googling.
My disguise is good, but not that good.
“Not trying to make trouble,” Rhys adds while we make our way into the staff room.
“I know. I respect where you’re coming from.”
“Figured you would.”
Warmth glows in my chest as I pin on my name tag.
He sees me.
He sees me enough to trust me when I tell him I don’t mean any harm by hiding my identity, and he trusts me enough to tell me the hard things too.
“I’ll tell them this weekend,” I say quietly. “After I help here, since they’re down a housekeeper already.”
The Miles2Go shareholder meeting was Monday. They approved Oliver’s choice for a new CEO, which means Oliver’s following through with his plan to give away all of his shares to the franchise owners as soon as I tell him I’m ready for him to proceed.
It’s time.
It’s time to ruin my father’s reputation and drive him into retirement.
And hope this works.
“I like them,” I confess in a whisper.
Rhys squeezes my arm. “I know.”
He puts his things in his locker. I put my things in my locker. Zelda, the other housekeeper, joins us, and we trade pleasant good mornings before I head out to start on my list for the day with Rhys behind me.
We climb the staff stairs, then slip out the door onto the main floor between the dining room and the reception area.
Three men are in the lobby, all of them buck naked, taking videos, phones held over their heads, I assume for maximum video coverage of their visible hard-ons.
“Promised you a treat, my pets,” one of them says, “and you’re getting triple-dicked!”
“If you’re not following my buddies, you’re missing out on triple the fun,” another says.
“Link in bio to my besties’ channels so you can subscribe there too,” the third says.
All three of them thrust their pelvises and stick their tongues out.
Rhys sighs quietly next to me.
I tuck in a smile.
It’s going to be quite the week.
“Wrap the video and cover your junk, gentlemen,” Rhys says to them. “No signs, no nudity.”
That’s the rule this week.
The creators are free to make content here in whatever level of undress they prefer, so long as they mark the area with signs for general awareness so that the staff doesn’t unexpectedly encounter—well, exactly what Rhys and I have just encountered.
Drawing a line between creativity and full nudist colony, I suspect.
Once a place gets a reputation, it’s hard to change it back.
I’ve seen a workshop schedule too, with business topics taking as much space on the agenda as creative topics, plus lots of free time for developing content.
The three naked men look Rhys up and down.
“You real security, or is that your bit?” the tallest of the group asks him.
He taps his name tag and gives them his growliest stare.
“Are you hairy?” the shortest asks. “My followers love hairy.”
“Mine are into muscles,” the third and most built of the three says.
“You look like you have both. We could make you a star.”
“Seriously, you wouldn’t believe how much people will pay for five minutes of video a day. And you can do it without showing your full dick too.”
“Big feet are mad popular.”
All three of them look at Rhys’s feet.
“Get to work, Margie,” Rhys mutters. “I need to handle this.”
I stifle a snort at his wording. “See you at lunch. Good luck.”
My morning is relatively uneventful, if uneventful is only running into three or four more naked people.
But as I’m headed back to the lodge for lunch, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I glance around and spot a dark-haired guy with thick chest hair taking nude selfies in a wildflower garden.
Déjà vu hits me, like I’ve seen this guy in this wildflower garden before.
I haven’t—I’m positive I haven’t—but there’s something familiar about him.
Still, I duck my head and continue down the path to the lodge, trying to place him.
Any subscriptions I ever had to GrippaPeen channels were mild curiosity that petered out—yes, yes, pun intended—after a few months, and he definitely wasn’t one of the creators I followed.
When I scroll socials on my phone, I generally get cute dogs and home improvement videos with the occasional cooking content added in, so he wouldn’t be familiar from there.
Maybe he also does a cooking channel?
The most successful creators, as I understand it after overhearing things this morning, do something other than simply dance around naked.
Apparently Theo knitted while expressing words of encouragement.
There’s a creator here this week who mows grass naked.
I know this because Rhys texted that information to me with a facepalm emoji, along with the tidbit that the dude brought his lawnmower, and I didn’t need him to say anything else to hear him grumbling that we’ll probably need emergency services more than once whenever that guy starts recording.
Especially since there’s more rocky dirt than grass here.
It’s been dry for too long.
I’m honestly in awe that the wildflower gardens are still as healthy as they are. Desert flowers are amazing.
Rhys isn’t in the staff room for lunch—apparently all of the security guys and grounds crew got roped into moving tables in the dining room to set up for some special event this afternoon, and all of the creators are taking their lunches outside or to their rooms.
He arrives to eat his lunch as Cynthia walks into the staff room, pins me with a look, and says, “You’re on bubble patrol again, and if they ever let these people back, I’m quitting.”
I look at Rhys.
He gives me the subtle headshake of I didn’t do it this time.
We all head down the hallway to the laundry room.
Five naked men are flinging bubbles at each other as they pour out of three separate washing machines, while five other people take video from all angles around the room.
Rhys sucks the deepest breath in through his nose that a person can possibly suck in through their nose.
I slip out of sight, pursing my lips together.
“That would be hilarious if it didn’t have to be cleaned up,” Zelda whispers to me.
Rhys shoots us both a look, then steps into the laundry room.
“Oh, it’s the thick bear,” someone says.
“Dude, seriously, take your shirt off and we’ll make you twenty grand by dinnertime.”
“If cleaning this up isn’t part of your videos, you’re being ejected,” Rhys says.
Ejected.
Umpire.
Baseball.
Naked guy in the flower garden.
Summer fling.
Oh, fuuuuuuuuck.
No.
No way.
I slip back to the staff room.
What was his name?
I can’t remember, so I open a browser and search for baseball umpire grippapeen, and oh, shiiiiiiiiit.
“What?” Rhys says to me from the doorway.
I open my mouth.
Shut it again.
He steps in the door as a dark-haired guy pauses behind him and squints at me. “Margot?”
I make eye contact with Rhys, who instantly turns around. “No visitors in the staff areas,” he growls.
As if a dozen or more other people at this point haven’t broken that rule.
“Margot?” the guy repeats. “Is that you?”
“Leave my housekeeper alone. No signs, no nudity.”
I busy myself with cleaning up everyone else’s lunch trash.
“No, I know her,” the guy insists.
“Johnson, you know this guy?” Rhys says.
I shake my head.
“Must be mistaken,” Rhys says. Orders, really.
I like when he uses that tone when we’re in bed.
It’s such a fucking turn-on to be ordered around by a massive guy who couldn’t honestly hurt anyone without solid cause.
“Sorry,” my old fling mutters. “I really thought that was her.”
“Even if it was, you don’t get to talk to her,” Rhys growls. “Understand?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“You might like walking around with your junk out, but our staff gets all of the privacy they deserve.”
“Got it. Fuck, I got it already. I’m mistaken.” He snorts. “Like she’d be here cleaning up after other people. I’m such a dumbass.”
Rhys glares at him until he retreats up the staff stairs, white ass cheeks gleaming beneath his tan.
When he’s gone, Rhys glances back at me.
I wince. “A rebound has never been a bigger mistake.”
Thunderclouds move through his expression.
My vagina tingles.
More creators flow past him, checking out the laundry room.
I bite my lip.
Half the conference is here.
And big, broody, protective, possessive Rhys?
He blinks, and his eyes go dark.
“I need to get back to work,” I say, my voice barely working.
He steps sideways.
I slip past him.
He follows me down the hall to the back door.
Around the corner to the garden shed.
Inside, where he locks the door.
I climb him and press my mouth to his as he presses my back against the wall, working his hands between us until his fingers are slipping under my pants and teasing my clit.
“The only dick you get to think about is mine,” he growls.
“It’s a good dick.”
“You’re wet.”
“For you.”
“Better fucking be for me and no one else.”
He presses my clit hard while thrusting his fingers into me, and I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming as the fastest orgasm of my life overtakes me.
I’m still coming when he pulls his fingers out, sets me on the ground, and bends me over the seat of a riding lawnmower. “I’m taking your pants off,” he tells me.
“Yes,” I gasp through the tingles still spreading through my body.
“And I’m going to fuck you until you can’t see straight.”
“Please,” I say on a puff of air.
He strips my pants to my knees, then strokes a rough hand over one of my butt cheeks.
I hear foil tearing, then Rhys grunting, and then his cock pokes between my thighs. “Why is it never enough?” he says as he thrusts into me.
I stifle a moan and tilt my hips to take him deeper. “Good—this.”
“You like this?” He pumps harder, the angle hitting me in all the right spots.
“Feels—magic.”
He grips my hips in his large hands, slamming into me while I grasp the seat beneath me.
“Cannot—get—enough,” he says again.
He’s on the verge too.
I can hear it in the way his voice is straining.
Knowing that he wants me, that he wants me this badly—god, it’s addictive.
Heady.
Being wanted—being wanted beyond rational control—no one wants me that badly.
Except Rhys.
When he knows who I am. The lies I’ve been telling. The potential I have to hurt his friend.
But he still wants me.
He grips my hips tighter, his fingers digging into my skin, his cock hitting that sweet spot exactly right to—
“Oh god, Rhys, I’m coming.” I gasp as the shock ripples through my body hard and fast, even harder and faster than my first orgasm.
He groans and stills behind me, buried deep, the spasms in his cock as he comes beating in time with my own release.
“You—so—everything,” he grunts.
I love you.
Oh, god.
Oh, god.
Surely not.
No, no, no.
I can’t.
I don’t know how.
This is—it’s infatuation.
Sexual satisfaction.
And I’m the asshole who’s mistaking it for love.
He sags behind me. “Fuck, Margot,” he whispers.
I gasp for breath, my eyes stinging, realizing how uncomfortable this stupid riding lawnmower seat is on my boobs.
And then I start laughing because I don’t know what else to do.
He sucks in a breath. “Jesus, not while I’m still inside you, please, for the love of my balls.”
“Why does this place even have a riding lawnmower?” I ask.
His cock slides out of me, leaving me feeling empty and exposed.
But only for a moment before he’s using a tissue to wipe me between my thighs, then pulling my pants up.
Touching me.
Caring for me.
Goddammit, I’m already on the verge of crying. He needs to stop being—well, everything.
Everything good in the world.
Everything I don’t deserve yet.
“For convenience when I want a good place to bend you over in private,” Rhys murmurs.
He pulls me upright, twists me around, and wraps me in a hug.
It’s one of those tight, full-body hugs that makes me feel like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Like I’m safe.
Protected.
Shielded from the outside world and all of the bad it can bring.
“I want to ask the triplets to be the scandal that will take my father down and destroy him,” I whisper, the words tumbling out without filter because I need to do something to be real, to pull myself back to who I am, to what I can and can’t offer a man.
“I know.”
“He tried to destroy my sister. He deserves—he deserves to pay.”
He squeezes me tighter. “Money can’t buy a soul. Even if you never destroy him—he’s not happy. He’s never been happy. But you can be.”
I shudder as my breath leaves me. “Why are you so wise?”
“Grief, life, trauma, and good genes. Plus my brain works better after lots of sex.”
I know he’s joking, but I don’t laugh.
Instead, I squeeze him tighter.
“O’Malley, where are you?” his radio squawks. “Got a situation in the spa.”
He sighs and releases me, unclipping his radio. “On my way,” he says.
He looks down at me in the dim light, and I swear he wants to say it too.
I love you.
Jesus.
I need to put a stop to this.
Otherwise—otherwise, I’m going to hurt him, because I can’t—I can’t be everything he deserves.
He hooks a hand behind my neck, kisses me hard on the forehead, and sighs. “Be careful. Consider quitting.”
“You too,” I say.
He double-checks his pants, which is good, because his fly’s down, and then he slips out the door.
I wait a minute, then I follow.
No one notices me.
Which is so strange.
Because I feel like I’m a giant neon sign flashing Hot Mess in Distress.
I suck in a big breath, blink back all of my emotions, and get to work.
I’m mistaken. Rhys isn’t falling for me. He knows what this is.
And I need to remember it too.