Page 5

“Don’t you have practice?”

“Not till noon.”

“Then go lift. Run. Eat. I don’t care. Just get out of here.”

He shrugs and pushes off the doorframe. “I’m keeping you accountable. Don’t think you can sneak one past me. I always know when you’re lying.”

“Yeah, yeah. Close the door. I’m standing here dripping wet.”

“Better start practicing your curtsy.”

“Out.” I point.

“Can’t wait to see you on all fours, Dyl, cleaning whatever I tell you to clean.” He pulls the door shut before I can respond. I hear him pad back to the living room, then the TV kicks up a few notches.

For some reason, that image—me on all fours while he gives orders—makes my dick twitch back to life. Even with ice water blasting my back. I look down at myself like I’ve been betrayed. Three days in and Brandon’s trash talk is getting me hard.

I shut off the water and grab my towel. Catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Red-faced, wet blond hair plastered to my forehead, blue eyes looking a little wild.

I really need to get laid.

Then I remember I can’t.

3

Cockblocking yourself has to be one of the dumbest forms of self-inflicted torture.

I’m on a rowing machine in the corner of the gym, trying to burn off some of this restless energy, but all it’s doing is making it worse. Day six. Nearly a week without busting a nut, and my body has officially turned against me. I’m horny nonstop. I wake up so hard it takes ten minutes to piss straight. I pop boners in class for no reason. And the weirdest part? That thing Brandon said about me on all fours, crawling around for him. It keeps showing up in my head at the worst possible times.

I guess that’s what happens when you cut yourself off. Even your best bud starts showing up in your dirty thoughts.

I drag the handle back, feeling the burn in my lats as sweat drips off my chin. I’m nowhere near Brandon’s size. He’s got fifty pounds on me easy, but I hold my own. Usually a hard workout clears my head. Not today. My brain’s cycling through old hookups, half-baked fantasies, and Brandon’s smug face telling me what to do.

My set ends and I slump forward, breathing hard, trying to ignore the semi straining against my shorts. Can’t even row without getting worked up. I’m done. I grab my water bottle and head for the showers, adjusting myself as casually as a guy with a visible boner can.

When I get back from the gym, in jeans and a hoodie, there’s a package on the kitchen counter.

Amazon box, still sealed. Brandon’s on the couch eating a protein bar, feet kicked up, watching me with that look he gets right before he flattens a quarterback. Calculated. Dangerous.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

I slit the tape with my keys and pull back the tissue paper. Inside there’s a tiny black maid dress, a frilly apron, and a feather duster still in its plastic wrap.

“Should be a perfect fit.” Brandon grins. “Maybe a little tight in the shoulders, but you’ll manage.”

“You bought the wrong size, Bran. Don’t you wear a double-XL?”

“Biggest they had was a large.” He crumples the protein bar wrapper and banks it off the wall into the trash. “Lucky for you, that’s your size. Go ahead, try it on.”

“You’re getting way ahead of yourself.” I toss the box onto the empty chair.

“Am I?” He sits up and plants his elbows on his knees. “So. Day six. How you holding up? Be honest.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”