12. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Emery
“Go sit down and finish your breakfast. Then you need to get ready to go out.”
I pull back from the hug and look up at Hudson. “Go out?”
Excitement bubbles in my stomach, and clearly Hudson can see that my thoughts have gone straight to the gutter, because his eyes light up when he sees my interest.
Well, what did they expect after talking about having sex in public-but-not-public? I’m intrigued, sue me.
“We want to take you shopping and then out for lunch,” he replies as he leads me back to my seat on Darcy’s lap. “So, be good and eat your breakfast. No breakfast, no shopping.”
Darcy hasn’t moved from his spot in front of my plate, so I resume my earlier position. My new bag has been moved to the side, and I glance at it as I start to eat. It takes all my self-control not to snatch it back into my lap.
They bought me a backpack.
I completely forgot about the rewards and gifts. To be completely honest, I thought it was just something they said during sex, with zero intention of following through. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had made me promises to get what they wanted and then left me hanging.
While the other guys turn on the TV and clean, Darcy and I stay at the table while I work my way through my breakfast. He captures my hair and unwinds both braids, then twirls and tugs on it as I eat. It’s not until I’m full to bursting and I put my fork down that he places the small Dutch braid over my shoulder.
My mouth pops open and I gently touch the ends with my fingers, not wanting to accidentally ruin it. I’ve never been able to manage a Dutch one before.
Darcy presses his lips into the exposed skin of my shoulder blade. “Go get ready, princess. We have five more rewards to buy for you.”
“Yes, Daddy.” My hands tremble slightly as I stand and reach for my bag, cradling it to my chest. I make it all the way to the bedroom before I turn back and look at the four of them.
None of them are looking at me and, fuck, I’m thankful for that. I can feel myself unwinding at the edges, and I just need a fucking moment to get it together. I shut the door and lean back against it as hysterical laughter threatens. When my gaze lands on the ridiculously large bed, I can’t hold it in.
Throwing myself at the bed, I pick up Darcy’s pillow and laugh into it until my stomach aches and my lungs burn.
Too much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. I’ve gone from a broke college student—and I don’t mean the kind of broke where I can still afford bread and milk—to spending the weekend in an apartment that I’m sure costs more than my entire life to date.
The bed has a fucking duvet and what are easily the softest sheets I’ve ever felt, for fuck’s sake. My bed in my student housing with Oakley is the nicest one I’ve ever had, and it only has the set of sheets I took with me from my last group home and a blanket I got from Goodwill for two dollars. I’m lucky the place came with a pillow, or I would have been sleeping head to mattress.
Lowering Darcy’s pillow, I place it back on the bed and smooth it out. The faint woodsy scent of him lingers, and I inhale deeply to keep it with me. My throat is burning and my chest aches, tears threatening.
The whiplash of my circumstances finally catches up with me.
Not wanting them to hear me cry—especially if this turns into an ugly sobbing situation—I take my brand-new backpack, swipe my phone and Oakley’s bag from the end table, lament the fact that my teddy is out in the kitchen, quickly skirt around the bed, and head straight to my borrowed suitcase. I don’t bother to sort through it to find what I need, instead grabbing the handle and taking the entire thing into the bathroom.
I flick the polished bronze lock closed and feel the first tear roll down my cheek. This might be a little too much, even for me. I’m used to having to adapt to new situations at the drop of a hat, since foster care didn’t make for the stablest of environments.
But this . . . The massive upswing . . .
A tear rolls down my other cheek, and I use the backs of my hands to wipe the tears away. I stare at the floor because I can’t handle looking at all the extra-ness that surrounds me. This entire thing is just . . .
I press the back of my hand to my open mouth, trying to stifle the sob that desperately wants to escape. How am I supposed to map this to any version of my reality? It’s too surreal.
Too much.
Poor, broken girl meets four hot, older men, who whisk her away for a weekend of spoiling and orgasms, then deposit her back in her normal life with tens of thousands of dollars in her bank account.
Yeah, right.
Sounds like a fairy tale.
. . .but what if I do think of it like that? Surreal. Fiction. My own personal fairy tale. An amazing fantasy that I can cross off and keep as a dirty secret to warm my heart when I’m secure and living my dream life?
Can I spend the weekend living in the moment and not giving a shit about anything outside of that exact second? Can I pretend that this is my normal, just for the next thirty-something hours?
Can I live my own fairy tale?
I scan the bathroom with its bronze fixtures, pink towels, and cream marble. The massive shower calls my name. I think about the bed and imagine myself sleeping on the pillow right in the center. Of sitting on a different lap for each meal.
And the black curtain.
I’ve done enough research that I can guess what’s behind that thing, even without the visual of the picture they sent last night.
Can I handle this place for the weekend? This reality?
Yeah. I think I can.
One more tear trickles down my cheek, but before it can roll past the curve of my jaw, I dash it away. No more tears—at least, not sad ones. I have a feeling they plan to make me cry in desperation at some point this weekend.
After last night, I’m totally here for it.
I scoop up all my things from where I dumped them on the floor and carry them to the vanity table. Taking a few minutes, I carefully arrange the limited toiletries that I brought with me. Then I go through the suitcase and find my outfit for the day—a sky-blue sundress, the fabric some sort of frilly ruffle thing.
When Oakley showed it to me, I instantly loved the tiny straps and love-heart bustline thingy. She’d laughed at my expense and explained that it’s called a sweetheart neckline. Whatever, it’s cute as fuck. And bonus, it has pockets.
I dig out the little black belt and the ballet flats from last night. The whole outfit screams cute and young, perfect for the four daddies wanting their own baby girl.
Once I have what I need laid out, I turn to the shower and twist the closest tap. Thankfully, it turns on the closest showerhead, and I don’t have to call one of them in to explain how to use the fancy-ass shower. Water falls from a circular shower head that hangs from the ceiling.
As I wait for it to warm up, I start to strip out of my lingerie and am slightly embarrassed when I see how wet I am. How was I so turned on? Besides a minute or two of Darcy playing with my clit, nothing actually happened.
Was it the tease? How they all watched as Darcy clearly played with me beneath the table? Did I like that?
My clit throbs at the memory. Apparently, yes. Hopefully I’ll get to find out just how much this weekend.
When the glass of the shower starts to fog, I step into the water and realize a second too late that my hair is going to get very wet. But then I notice that there is one of those removable showerheads at eye level. Trying to keep my head out of the downpour, I look for a lever or something to change the flow of water. Finding it just above the tap, I rotate it until the water pressure comes to a stop.
Smiling as the water redirects and starts to come out of the lower showerhead, only to let out a high-pitched squeak when ice cold water blasts me for a few seconds before it heats up. Glowering at the showerhead for its betrayal, I turn my back and let the water pelt my spine.
Okay. I’m just going to go for it. All weekend.
Balls to the wall sugar baby duties.
Then, Monday morning, I can start living my life and making my dreams come true.