Six
Briar
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I stab a button to slow down the treadmill and bend my body across the machine, panting as the track comes to a stop. Sweat drips down my skin, sticking in my hair. My lungs ache. My whole body feels like it’s on fire.
I’m going out of my damn mind.
It’s been four days since the Angels arrived in my house, and I’m officially losing it. They’re everywhere. Everywhere I turn. They’re currently working on fitting my new security system; installing cameras, lights, blinds, gates, locks, alarms. The whole nine yards. They arrive every morning, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, and spend all day screwing and wiring and hammering. I can’t walk through my own damn house without getting a front-row seat to my own personal Magic Mike show. Yeah, there’s no dancing, but there’s plenty of flexing abs and bulging biceps. The air feels thick with their pheromones. I can barely breathe.
Groaning, I grab my phone and leave the basement gym, climbing the stairs shakily. ThePlayerspremiere is coming up in just a couple of weeks, and my PT has put me on a strict exercise regime. Normally, I’m not a fan of working out, but recently, I’ve been embracing the exercise. It’s the only way I can work off all of the sexual frustration that’s constantly buzzing through my veins.
I reach the top of the stairs and turn towards the kitchen, running slap into Glen. His hands shoot out and grab my sweat-slicked waist, keeping me upright. I’m only wearing leggings and a sports bra, and the feeling of his fingers on my bare skin sends heat thrumming through me. I pull away quickly.
“Morning,” he says roughly.
I nod tightly and head to the fridge, yanking it open and grabbing a bottle of juice. Heat fizzes under my skin. I take a swig and fight the urge to fan myself.
Glen sits silently at the counter and pulls out a book. Without meaning to, my eyes trail back to his face, taking in the curl of hair falling into his eyes as he reads.
He’s my favourite. I’m not sure why. He doesn’t talk much. After our one conversation the day we met, I don’t think he’s ever said more than a few words at a time to me. But there’s something about his silence which feels secure and comforting. Whenever I’m in the room with him, I can feel his eyes on me, watching me steadily.
As I watch, he flips a page, biting his full bottom lip. Heat pangs through me.
Shit.
There’s movement from outside the glass patio doors. I look up to see Kenta by the pool. He’s standing on a ladder, a screwdriver clamped between his teeth, fixing a CCTV camera to my garden wall. His hair is pulled back into a bun, and he’s taken off his shirt. I gape at his back. He’s tattooed—a full backpiece that goes from his shoulders to his waist, done in swirling black and red and gold ink. I can’t see much from here, but I think it’s some kind of dragon, or maybe a phoenix.The sweaty, tattooed muscles flex as he pulls a screw out of his pocket and starts twisting it into the wood.
Something in me breaks.
It’s too much. I can’t do this anymore.
“I’m going to lay down,” I say to no-one in particular, and Glen nods, not looking up.
Matt is installing a camera in the hallway outside my room. Which is terrifying. As I watch, he bends down to pick something out of his toolbox. His faded denim jeans stretch against his thick thighs as he rummages, giving me a stellar view of his perfect butt.
Jesus.
I clear my throat, but he ignores me, sorting through tools. “Excuse me,” I say, raising my voice.
With a heavy sigh, he straightens, icy eyes meeting mine. The first time we met, he’d been in a suit, and he looked incredible in it; but now, in a thin, worn t-shirt that practically melts over his broad shoulders and chest, and his black, wavy hair falling over his forehead, he looks damnedible.
“Princess,” he says faux-politely, pushing my door open for me.
“Thank you.”
I step into my room, carefully shutting the door behind me. My skin is hot and crawling. My chest feels tight. There’s a tickling feeling deep in my belly, and a throbbing pulse between my legs.
I’m suddenly feeling a lot less judgemental about Julie shagging Rodriguez.
I sigh, looking around my room. It’s pretty standard: big and white, with fluttery gauze curtains and a big pink bed. I have a black-and-white Dior rug covering the floor, a shelf full of crystals, and expensive scented candles melting on every flat surface. When I first decorated, I wanted the room to feel like a calm, safe space. And it did. I used to spend most of my time here, but ever since the break-in, everything about the room just makes me uncomfortable. Before the Angels came and stationed themselves in my house, I was actually falling asleep on the living room couch most nights. But now one of them is always sitting at my breakfast bar, drinking coffee or doing paperwork. So I have to sleep in here.
Try to sleep, anyway. I’ve been getting about an hour a night. I’m starting awake at every tiny noise and slight disturbance. I’m too scared to get any real rest.
I head to my bed and flop down on top of the quilt. Yanking open my bedside table drawer, I fumble around inside, pulling out a vibrator still in its packaging.
I’m a big fan of toys. They’re much more stimulating than men, and I don’t have to worry about them trying to use me for clout. This one was sent to me a few days ago by a company looking to form a partnership. I pull open the packet, shaking out a small bullet, pink and glossy. I flick it on. It buzzes quietly, not loud enough to attract attention. Perfect.
