Page 24

That's actually not a bad idea. It's another way I could earn money so I'm not completely dependent on my roommates to pay for everything. It'd also supplement my income in between my full-length novels, since those take longer than I'd like to write.

Heading up the stairs, I nearly run into Lionel coming down, still tying his sweatpants.

"Don't forget about our deal," says Lionel.

"I won't." I swallow hard, my eyes focused on the way his hands are so close to his cock.

It'd be easy for Lionel to hook his thumbs into the waistband and push them down just enough for his hard cock to pop out. I had a big meal at the restaurant, but I could make enough room for a bit of cock.

Quintin nearly runs into us in the middle of the stairs, adjusting his own sweatpants. Clearly they all rushed up to their rooms to change so they didn't have to spend a minute longer than necessary in jeans.

"Did you remind Clarissa about our deal?" asks Quintin. "Because we all wore jeans like she asked."

"Lionel did. And you were all very nice to my parents, which I appreciate." It wasn't an experience I want to repeat, but they weren't as terrible as they could have been. At least they didn't mention that I'm sleeping with all of them.

"We're going to work for a bit, and then you'll fulfill your end of the bargain, Clarissa?" asks Miles, joining us on the stairs.

There isn't much room here on the stairs. We could have moved this conversation anywhere else, yet here we are, all shoved together in this tight space.

"Sure." I nod. A movie might actually be a nice, relaxing way to finish off a stressful day.

They slide past me and make their way downstairs while I continue heading up. I meet Ethan closing the door to his bedroom behind him as he steps into the hall.

"Thank you again for being so nice at lunch." I go up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I appreciate your offer to tell your sisters about my books, but I won't hold you to it."

"Why not?" asks Ethan.

"Because it was just something nice you said in front of my parents to get them to like you, and it might be weird for you to suggest my books to them," I explain. "Especially because my next one will be more, uh, spicy."

His sisters won't want to read spice inspired by their brother. Or, in some cases, lifted almost completely from his actions. Not that they'll know it's inspired by him and his teammates, but still.

"If you're writing a spicy romance, that's all the better because they'll love it even more," says Ethan, setting his hands on my shoulders to keep me facing him. "Look, you're our girlfriend. That means we're here to support you, and not just financially."

"I know, you're supporting me sexually too." It's a bad joke, but I feel like I need to make light of this situation. I don't want Ethan to know how much his words mean to me right now, after my parents' lack of support for my dreams.

"Yeah, that too." Ethan chuckles good-naturally. "I have practice, but we'll see you after, okay?"

I nod, and he leans down to kiss me once more. "Oh yeah, and the guys texted—they don't want you to masturbate while we're downstairs working."

"Okay." I turn my face away so he doesn't see how embarrassed I am. They probably all noticed how I was checking the front of their sweatpants to see if their cocks were hard as they went past me on the stairs. How did I become this thirsty woman?

Ethan jogs downstairs to catch up with his teammates, and I glance around the upstairs hall.

If they're down in their computer room, I have at least an hour or two alone when they won't come looking for me.

There'd be no way for them to find out if I peeked inside their rooms. I wouldn't even need to go inside, just open the doors and take a look.

See what they look like. It's not really snooping if it's just a quick glimpse, right?

I put my hand on Ethan's doorknob because it's the closest. All I have to do is turn the handle.

It'd be so easy. But I can't bring myself to do it.

This isn't like researching my roommates online.

That's all available information they put out there for the public and their fans to know, but this feels personal and invasive in an icky way. I'd never want them to do it to me.

Dropping my hand, I cross the hall to my own bedroom. I have new chapters to write.

Instead of pulling up my document though, my mouse is already clicking on the bookmarked link to their subscription channel.

I might not be willing to invade their privacy by going into their rooms, but if they're online for everyone to watch, I may as well keep an eye on when they're finishing work so I can be prepared for them to come looking for me.

It's not like there's any other reason that I'd sit and listen to them talk about gaming all afternoon.

Except they're not streaming, and my stomach sinks. If they're downstairs, they should be online, and the fact that they aren't is more than disconcerting. That's probably why I feel funny—I'm anxious about what they're up to. Not disappointed that I can't watch them.

Grumbling to myself, I click on my manuscript, but I left off in the middle of a sex scene and I don't want to write this right now.

The blinking cursor taunts me, reminding me that every minute I don't spend writing is a minute farther away from making money off this book.

But I just can't make myself put my fingers on the keyboard.

I'm out of sorts after seeing my parents and distracted with wondering what the guys are up to. That must be it .

I click on my critique group's shared folder to check if Sasha has uploaded her new chapter yet. If I can edit her work, I'll successfully avoid my own work and take my mind off of my roommates not streaming, but still be doing something productive.

But there's nothing new yet. Why is the world not letting me procrastinate the way I want to?

My body feels fuzzy, like I can't quite settle, like I have this crackling energy waiting to come out and be used, and normally I would put that energy to use writing. But right now, I want to do anything else.

This is the job you dream about , I tell myself. If I force myself to sit down and write a couple of sentences, maybe I'll get into the flow.

So I do. I open a new document and write about my boyfriends' sweatpants and their jeans and all of the other depraved thoughts that have crossed my mind since I dragged them upstairs to change their clothes.