59. Milo
FIFTY-NINE
MILO
“Should we be watching this?”
The question leaves my mouth approximately three seconds too late, because I’ve already seen enough to know that Eli Ward—our stoic, buttoned-up, kindergarten-teaching team leader—is spanking Sage while she’s bent over a chaise lounge with her hands bound above her head.
So that’s new.
We’re standing in the viewing gallery next to the private room, the four of us lined up like kids at an aquarium exhibit, frozen in various stages of shock and arousal that none of us are going to acknowledge.
“Holy shit,” Holden says, his voice flat and stunned in a way I’ve never heard before.
Holden doesn’t do stunned. Holden does controlled reactions and measured assessments.
Right now he looks like someone just told him the earth is flat and showed him the receipts. “Did anyone know Eli was into this?”
“I did,” Micah says quietly.
We all look at him.
He shrugs, ears going slightly pink. “You all know we’ve done stuff. Don’t pretend like you didn’t.”
It’s not every day you get to watch your most tightly wound teammate go absolutely feral, but here we are.
Through the thick glass, Sage is writhing under Eli’s hand, her ass already switching from pink to wildfire red. There’s a little bloom of wet on the velvet under her hips. She’s so loud I can hear her through two inches of soundproof, and it might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Knox is next to me, arms folded, jaw ticking. Then he crosses to the wall panel and hits a button. The glass frosts over, turning opaque, cutting off the view mid-scene.
“She was literally about to squirt everywhere!” Holden complains.
“We shouldn’t be watching,” he says. His voice is the same flat rumble it always is, but there’s something underneath it. Something that says this is a line even Knox won’t cross.
“In our defense,” I say, gesturing at the now-opaque glass. “It’s literally labeled the voyeur room. There’s a giant two-way mirror. Eli knows exactly what room he took her into. Plus, kitten really gets off on being watched.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Knox turns his back to the glass. “She didn’t communicate she wanted to be watched. Not by us. Not right now.”
That lands. It lands hard, because he’s right. Whatever’s happening in there—and based on what we witnessed, what’s happening in there is spectacular—Sage walked into that room to have a conversation with one man. Not to perform for four more.
Unfortunately.
“Fair point,” Holden says, pushing off the wall.
“Yeah.” I take one last, longing look at the frosted glass. “Fair but devastating.”
We file out of the gallery like students leaving a class they weren’t supposed to be in. Knox leads, and Holden follows, jaw working, hands in his pockets. Micah walks beside me, quiet. I want to ask him a hundred questions and also none.
The main bar is empty. Knox goes behind it and sets out four glasses without asking what anyone wants. Whiskey. Neat. At seven-forty-five in the morning. We’ve earned it.
I take my glass and park myself on a stool.
Holden sits two seats down. Micah takes the one between us, because Micah is always between things—between people, between moods, between the version of us that kills and the version that sits at a bar pretending we didn’t just see our boss getting pegged by his own repression.
Not literally pegged. No one wants to see that.
Actually, that’s a lie. I think I wouldn’t mind watching Eli getting pegged by Sage . . .
Something to wish for the next time I blow out birthday candles.
Knox knocks back his whiskey then stays behind the bar, arms folded, breathing slow.
For about thirty seconds, nobody talks.
Then Sage’s voice spills through the ceiling speakers.
Knox’s head snaps up.
“They hit the internal override,” he says, already frowning at the control panel behind the bar. “Can’t kill it from here without setting off the whole room’s safety system.”
“And that’d really mess with the mood in there, right?” I say, looking at the ceiling and loving that it sounds like a sexy angel is moaning for us.
Knox just grunts and averts his eyes—like that’s going to help. Holden clears his throat and looks into his glass. Micah looks at his hands.
“Which one of them do you think did it?” Micah asks.
Sage makes another sound, louder. Longer.
“Well, one of them is tied up while the other takes control,” I say. “So fifty bucks says Eli is marking his territory in a way we can all hear.” I sit up straighter. “Oh! Do you think this means we can go back into the viewing room?”
“No.” Knox’s voice booms out and my ass glues itself back to my stool.
“Unfun.”
“So we’re just going to . . . sit here and be forced to listen to them fucking?” Holden asks, glancing around.
“Yep.” I raise my glass in toast. “Welcome to sexy ASMR.” I take a sip of whiskey and try to think about literally anything but Eli telling Sage she’s a naughty fucking girl.
Hardware inventory! Let’s see, there are drywall anchors and toggle bolts. Nails and screws—no, not screws. Definitely NOT screws. Um, let’s see. Paint! Paint is good. Paint is a safe thing. You can’t get sexy with—
Sage screams Eli’s name.
Nope. Not working.
“So,” I say brightly. “How about that meeting, huh? Still can’t believe even Fenrir hasn’t dug anything up on the most annoying texter in the world, Stephen.”
“He’s still going?” Micah asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Ever since Holden pretended to be Brock and told the guy to go suck someone else’s dick, he’s been nuts. I mostly ignore him. But I’m getting major bunny boiler vibes.”
Sage moans, the sound of wet slapping getting louder.
“Moving on,” I say, tugging lightly on my collar. “Everyone clear on tomorrow? Holden, you’ve got the gym layout locked down? Entry points, camera blind spots, the whole thing?”
Holden nods, his eyes closed, his expression pained as he listens.
“Micah? You’re good with the transport route?”
“I’ve driven it four times.” He takes a measured sip of whiskey. “I could do it blindfolded.”
Blindfolded Sage under us as we—! Eek!
“Please don’t do it blindfolded. I’ve already written the note and planted a history of suicidal ideation in a secret journal no one knew he kept. I also have the rope and backup supplies. Eli is the one tying and preparing the noose.”
“Eli! Fuck me! Harder!”
“He said he’s good to go.” Micah turns his glass in his hands. “Plus we’ve got Dean and the crematorium in case we need it. All avenues are covered.”
“That’s it, Sage. Take it. Fucking ride me.”
“Beautiful. See? Productive. We’re being productive!” I raise my glass. “To professionalism.”
“Fuck!” Eli roars over the speaker. “Yeah, squirt on me, you dirty girl.”
So much for professionalism.
Holden puts his glass down. “I’m going to ask something, and I want honest answers.”
“Shoot.”
“Is anyone else hard right now?”
Silence.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Holden says, and finishes his whiskey.
Micah’s laugh is quiet and slightly strangled. Knox refills Holden’s glass without comment.
The sounds from Sage and Eli change. Everything crescendos—a sharp cry, a deeper groan, then silence. Heavy, ringing silence that settles over the club like the aftermath of an explosion.
I stare at my whiskey. Holden stares at his. Micah closes his eyes.
Knox uncrosses his arms.
We wait.
“That was hot, guys,” I whisper.
To which Holden hisses—I have a feeling he’s trying not to come in his pants.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. I’m starting to wonder if they’ve fallen asleep in there—or killed each other, which with Eli honestly could go either way—when the private room door opens.
Sage comes out first. Her hair is wrecked, her shirt is inside out, and she’s walking a little gingerly. It’s the gait of a woman who has been thoroughly and comprehensively ruined. There’s a mark on her neck the size of a small country and her cheeks are flushed.
She sees us at the bar and stops. Her face cycles through about eight emotions before landing on something between mortified and deeply, unreasonably pleased with herself.
Yes, Queen!
Eli follows. He looks . . . different. Not relaxed—Eli will never look relaxed, the man was born tense—but the coiled-spring energy that’s been radiating off him for weeks has loosened.
His shirt is buttoned wrong. His hair is standing up on one side.
He has scratches on his forearms that he’s making no effort to hide.
Guess he decided to untie kitten so she could release her claws. Nice!
His jaw tightens as his gaze travels over the four of us, all sitting at the bar with our whiskey glasses and shit-eating grins. And maybe a hard-on or two.
“Not a fucking word,” he barks.
I stand up and start a slow clap.
Holden joins. Then Micah. Knox doesn’t clap, but he nods once.
“The family is complete!” I announce, arms spread wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, Eli Ward has left the building—and by building, I mean his own emotional prison. Welcome to the polycule, boss. We’ve been saving your seat.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I will kill every person in this room.”
“You love us.”
“I absolutely do not.”
Sage crosses to the bar and stands next to Knox, who scoops her up in his arms bridal style—obviously trying to keep the pressure off her spanked ass. She leans into his chest, and when he presses a kiss on the top of her head, the smile on her face is the kind that could end wars or start them.
I look at Eli. He’s standing in the middle of the club, hands on his hips and looking at the five of us like he’s trying to figure out how his life arrived at this exact moment.
He looks at Sage, and for half a second, the only thing in the world is the two of them.
Whatever just happened between those four walls was nothing compared to the gravity in this look.
It’s a promise, a threat, and an apology rolled into one—and I know, I know, if anyone ever tried to take her from us, there’d be a body count that started small and went up real fucking fast.
I refill my whiskey and raise it in a salute. “To us,” I say. “To team cohesion, sexual liberation, and the ongoing eradication of predatory douchebags the world over.”
“May we never get caught,” Micah adds.
We drink to that.