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Tempting as it is, I just can't trust that this offer is real.

33

One week later, I'm pulling myself together after a sweaty, brilliant, orgasmic night in Deandre's bed. As he pulls on his jeans, covering up those thick, muscular thighs that supported me as I rode him through a low, rolling set of orgasms in the early morning light, I run my fingers through my sex-tousled hair.

My pussy throbs. He cleaned me up diligently, but I'm still slick with his come and my wetness. At least the soreness of my first few weeks has faded. I guess my lady parts are just like any other muscles—with enough exercise, they get toughened up and strong.

And they've been getting the workout of their life. My doubts about this arrangement and how long it can last persist, but the sex remains consistent and incredible. No one seems to be getting tired of it—or me—yet. For my part, I feel like I've barely begun to scrape the surface of how deep this well of desire could run. Of how many different ways a woman and five men can arrange their bodies.

But time is running out.

Satisfied that my hair isn't too bad of a rat's nest, I turn away from the mirror on Deandre's dresser. He pulls a shirt over his head, and I mournfully say a silent goodbye to all those beautiful muscles. He raises a brow, catching me in the act of checking him out, but I see no reason to hide that I'm kind of a perv when it comes to these guys.

"So," I say, hiding the hope in my voice. "You need any help in the workshop today?"

He shakes his head, and I have to fight to keep my disappointment concealed. "Nah, I got it, baby girl."

"Oh. You sure?"

Ever since we finished up that order, he's had no use for me. I've had nothing to do here. I've just been frittering away my time in front of an easel at my grandmother's place. I've made good progress with cleaning out her house, too, but the time has felt awfully selfish. My guilt at being so unproductive has been gnawing at me.

Over and over, I've offered to help the guys out, to learn more of Deandre's trade, or Adam's even. I'm not a tech wizard or chef, but I'm no slouch with a computer or a kitchen-aide. I could contribute. Hell, I've even tried to help out with the bills.

My offers keep getting gently pushed aside, though. I hardly eat a thing, compared with the five of them. I haven't so much as budged the needle on their grocery bill. And they claim that I'm warming their beds so well that they can't accept my contributions to the heating.

It's good for my bank account. But in the pit of my stomach, it feels wrong.

Like I'm a whore, fucking them all for my room and board.

Oblivious to my conflict, Deandre crosses the room to me. He puts his hands on my hips and ducks to look me in the eye.

"You questioning your daddy?"

Despite myself, I shiver, some of my anxiety instantly soothed over just by the warmth of his voice. I shake my head.

"I told you. I got it. You take care of what you need to do at your nanna's place. And in the meantime, you let us take care of you. You hear?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He smiles and cups my face. "There's my good girl."

He captures my lips then, and God, how is it always so good? I sink into his arms, relying on him to keep me up when his kiss is so deep and so sweet it threatens to make me buckle at the knees.

We part ways then, joining the guys for breakfast. Everything is routine at this point. Comfortable, despite my growing discomfort with the entire arrangement.

And it strikes me, sitting there at the dining room table, surrounded by these gorgeous, strong, kind men…

By Deandre and his gentle but firm care-taking, his daddy persona that makes me throb…

By Adam and his quiet kindness, his open ears and gentle sweetness and incredible, delicious mouth…

By Sergio and his silent insight and easy presence through the lonely parts of the night…

By Jax and his heat, his fire that makes my own blood boil, his hips that pin me to the wall as he takes me hard…

By Cayden and his comfort, his assurances, his steady love-making that makes me feel cherished and adored…

I love them.