Page 52

The next morning, Hank and Gabe make me late for work. The bell over the door chimes as I burst into The Guardian Grind, a flurry of half-apologies, tangled hair, and barely-contained afterglow.

My cheeks are flushed everything that came before it. Morning wood. Blowies . Hands, mouths, bodies—everywhere.

No wonder I’m late.

I flick stray strands of hair out of my face, tugging my apron over my head as the familiar hum of espresso machines and easy conversation wraps around me like a warm blanket.

Outside the tall glass windows, Guardian HQ bustles with its usual array of operatives, researchers, and logistical staff. Inside, the shop moves at its own rhythm—a constant buzz of orders being placed, names called, and mugs being set on marble-topped counters.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I call out, slipping behind the counter with a breathless grin. “I know I’m late, but I swear—I have a really good excuse.”

Probably not one I can share.

Malia is the first to look up from the espresso machine, which is making a concerning grinding noise as she fiddles with the steam wand. One perfectly sculpted brow arches in amusement.

Her hair is tied back in a bright red scarf that pops against the richness of her flawless complexion. With her customary air of calm, she shoots me a look that says, This had better be good.

Beside her, Jenna lets out a snort, nearly spilling the oat milk she’s been frothing.

“Let me guess,” Jenna says, her wide grin contagious as she props a hand on her hip. “You’re late because…?”

“Well…” I draw the word out, feigning innocence.

“Spill it, Collins,” Malia demands, still fighting with the espresso machine. “What’s your excuse this time?”

I sling my bag into the cubby under the counter. “I got… held up.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“Technically, it’s not a lie.”

“I don’t know how you manage to walk with all the sex you’re getting.” Jenna shakes her head and then points to the register. “Fair warning, the register’s been freezing all morning, and I’m pretty sure the espresso machine is possessed.”

“Again?” I groan. “Didn’t that repair guy just come last week?”

“He did,” Malia sighs, gently patting the machine. “But apparently, fixing things isn’t Mike’s strong suit. I’ve already called and he’s supposed to come this afternoon.”

“Want to hear why I was late?” I tuck stray strands of damp hair behind my ear before facing them.

“Does it matter?” Jenna props her hands on her hips. “You’re dying to tell us.”

“ Wellll …” I draw the word out, feigning bashfulness, though the heat in my cheeks is all too real. “Let’s just say, morning wood waits for no woman—and apparently, neither do blowjobs.”

Jenna nearly chokes on her laughter while Malia freezes mid-pour as the espresso machine gives another concerning gurgle. Her mouth twitches in an effort not to smirk. The latte art she’d been perfecting is long forgotten as she shakes her head at me.

“Ally,” she admonishes lightly, though her tone is more affectionate than anything. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Pro tip: Never ask two dominant men what they want for breakfast. The answer’s always you , and it’s always a three-course meal.” I shrug, my lips quirking into an entirely unapologetic grin. “And by ‘course,’ I mean orgasms.”

“Ally!” Malia tosses a towel at me. “You have no filter.”

“What can I say? Sex is healthy. These things happen. I just happen to have a lot of it.” I coax the temperamental register screen to life and glance sidelong at my friend.

Malia groans, exasperated but amused, while Jenna fake-gags from the pastry counter.

“Too much.” Jenna covers her ears dramatically. “Oh my God, my poor innocent ears.”

“Innocent? Please.” I bite back a laugh, flicking my hair back with mock drama. “You’re dating Carter. The man who literally spent years handcuffing people for a living.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t cuff you to his bed until you beg for release, and by release , I mean orgasms.”

“Ally!” Malia drops her rag onto the counter, doubled over, shaking with laughter.

“I never claimed to,” I deadpan. “Honestly, you should try it sometime. Being adventurous does wonders for your mood. Clears the skin, too.”

“Clears the skin?” Malia straightens, blinking. “Like… exfoliating?”

Jenna groans across the counter, pointing at me like I’ve committed a felony. “That does not clear the skin.” Her cheeks flame red hot.

Malia stares between us, completely lost. “What? What doesn’t?”

I lean across the counter, chin propped in my hand, smirking like the cat that got into the cream. “You know… protein treatment. Straight from the source.”

Jenna facepalms. Malia’s eyes go huge .

“OH MY GOD.” Malia covers her mouth, half-laughing, half-horrified. “You’re talking about—that’s not skincare!”

“Tell that to my glow,” I shoot back, winking. “It’s all about technique and dedication. Walt’s slacking if you’re not radiant by now.”

Malia makes a strangled noise, fumbling with the espresso machine again as it sputters ominously. “You’re impossible. And this damn machine is impossible too.”

The register screen freezes just as I’m trying to log in, and I sigh dramatically, tapping at it with mounting frustration. “Seriously, we need to get some actual tech people in here. The repair guy clearly has no idea what he’s doing.”

“The budget’s too tight for a real technician,” Jenna sighs, arranging pastries in the display case. As co-manager with Malia, she’s been fighting this battle for weeks. “So we’re stuck with Mike and his mysterious toolbox of incompetence.”

“I’m starting to think he’s making things worse on purpose so he can keep coming back,” Malia mutters, wiping foam from her forearm. “We made a huge mistake giving him free coffee. Now he’s probably purposely breaking the machine just to have an excuse to return for free lattes.”

I switch gears, grinning wickedly at Malia again. “Speaking of coming… how’s Walt’s doing?”

“What do you mean?” Malia asks innocently.

“I mean is he giving you tons of orgasms?”

Malia rolls her eyes, but a telltale blush spreads across her cheeks. “Some of us prefer to keep our private lives private.”

“ Boring ,” I sing-song, finally getting the register to respond with a few strategic taps. “What’s the point of having amazing sex if you can’t brag about it to your friends?”

“There’s bragging, and then there’s whatever you do,” Malia says, laughing despite herself. “Which is basically narrating a play-by-play.”

“You’re just jealous because I have two men who are exceptionally skilled with their hands, mouths, and cocks,” I tease. “Although I’m sure Walt has his own… talents.”

“I’m not discussing this.” Malia insists, but her smile gives her away.

Jenna shakes her head with mock sympathy, patting Malia’s shoulder. “There’s no winning with Ally. Just accept it.”

The door chimes again, and Sophia walks in, long braid swishing behind her as she flashes us a bright grin. Her cheeks are flushed in a way that suggests she’s been doing more than just running to make it on time.

Behind her, Rebel follows, her dark eyes sweeping across the café with their usual intensity, though her normally pristine appearance is slightly disheveled—her shirt collar askew in a way she’d never normally allow. Mia slips in last, her dark hair falling from a messy bun, looking thoroughly flustered with pink blooming across her neck and cheeks.

“Speak of the devils,” I say under my breath, earning a knowing laugh from Malia.

“Sorry!” Sophia calls, ducking behind the counter and tossing her bag onto the shelf by the break room door. “We’re late, but it wasn’t our fault.”

Jenna folds her arms, smirking as Rebel follows more slowly, pulling her hair into a low bun and tying her apron around her waist.

“You’re running thirty minutes late, and it’s not your fault?” Jenna asks, her voice dripping with amused skepticism. “This I have to hear.”

“It’s true.” Sophia insists, tying her apron with a little more flair than strictly necessary. “Blame Ethan, Rigel, and Blake. They decided today’s ‘self-defense training’ wasn’t over until we’d all properly demonstrated our… techniques.” Her pause is deliberate, loaded with meaning that makes Jenna snort.

“And by techniques,” Rebel adds, her usually stoic expression betrayed by the slight upward curve of her lips, “she means Ethan insisted we practice escaping from various compromising positions. Multiple times.”

“Very compromising,” Mia adds softly, her blush deepening as she adjusts her apron. “Rigel thinks I need extra help with my… form .”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” I grin, leaning against the counter. “Form?”

Rebel gives the slightest eye roll. “The men decided to turn it into a competition. Ethan started it—he kept correcting my stance, which meant his hands were everywhere.” The slight catch in her voice when she says “everywhere” tells me exactly what kind of stance adjustment we’re talking about.

“Blake wasn’t any better,” Sophia jumps in, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the already spotless counter. “He insisted I didn’t have the proper leverage when pinned. Spent twenty minutes demonstrating exactly how I should ‘rotate my hips’ to break free.” She makes air quotes around “rotate my hips” with such exaggerated innocence that we all burst out laughing.

“So that’s why you couldn’t walk straight coming in here,” Jenna remarks, eyebrows raised.

“I was walking perfectly fine,” Sophia protests, but her smirk says otherwise.

“And Rigel?” I ask, glancing at Mia, who suddenly becomes very interested in arranging sugar packets.

“He, um,” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper, “he thought we should practice restraint techniques.”

“Restraint techniques?” Malia echoes, eyes widening.

“Wrist holds,” Mia clarifies, though her flushed face suggests there was nothing innocent about it. “And then Blake suggested they demonstrate multiple-attacker scenarios.”

“Which is code for what, exactly?” I press, enjoying the way Mia squirms under the attention.

“It means,” Rebel cuts in, saving her from answering, “that all three of them took turns demonstrating defensive techniques against multiple attackers.” She pauses, then adds with the ghost of a smile, “Though I’m pretty sure Ethan’s demonstrations were more about showing off than actual training.”

“Blake was no better,” Sophia says with a laugh. “He kept insisting he could take down both Rigel and Ethan if they came at him together. Then spent twenty minutes trying to prove it while I was supposed to be observing proper technique.”

“All I learned,” Mia adds softly, “was that Rigel gets very… focused when he’s competing with the others.”

“And then,” Mia continues, finding her voice again, “they insisted on showing us proper push-up form.”

“Ah,” I say knowingly. “The kissing push-ups?”

All three women freeze, and Malia looks between us, confused.

“Kissing push-ups?” she asks. “What are those?”

“It’s when they kiss you every time they go down for a push-up,” I explain, recalling my experiences with Hank and Gabe’s competitive fitness routines. “Though I’m guessing they didn’t stop at just kissing.”

“Rigel did fifty,” Mia admits, her cheeks now blazing. “And they weren’t all on my… lips.”

“Blake beat him,” Sophia counters immediately. “Sixty-three and he wasn’t even breathing hard afterward.” Her expression turns dreamy for a moment. “Though I definitely was.”

“Ethan doesn’t play those games,” Rebel says with a hint of smugness. “He just told the others to leave so we could finish our… private instruction.”

“And that,” Mia concludes, “is why we’re late.”

“Is everything about sex with you people?” Malia asks, though her smile betrays her interest. “Getting tangled up with men who refuse to let you leave training on time?”

I smirk, stretching out lazily on the couch. “Please, Malia. If you think kissing push-ups are bad, just wait till you hear about blowie push-ups.”

A beat of silence. Then—collective intrigue.

“Blowie push-ups?” Sophia echoes, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Do I even want to know?”

“They’re exactly like kissing push-ups,” I say innocently, glancing at my nails. “Only… it’s not his lips you’re kissing.”

Mia gasps, scandalized but intrigued.

Sophia nearly chokes on her drink .

Rebel cackles, throwing her head back. “Oh my God. That’s genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Malia groans, shaking her head. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Mia presses a hand to her chest, still processing. “Okay, but… how many?”

I smirk. “As many as he can handle before he comes.”

Sophia fans herself dramatically. “Blake is going to love this.”

Mia mutters something about losing her soul to Rigel’s stamina.

And just like that, a new challenge is born.

A beat of silence.

Then—Rebel snorts. “Jesus, we really are the worst, aren’t we?”

Malia raises an eyebrow. “Took you this long to figure that out?”

Jenna shakes her head, setting a tray down with a huff. “You know what I just realized? There is literally nowhere safe from you people.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, licking a bit of icing off my finger.

Jenna shoots me a flat look, then gestures vaguely toward the room. “I mean, we can’t even sit here and have coffee without the conversation devolving into ‘how many blowie push-ups does it take to make your man collapse in a heap of overstimulated bliss.’”

“To be fair, it’s a very valid topic of discussion.” Sophia taps a finger against her lips, considering. “As are all the creative places they fuck us. Training room floor, bed, shower, up against the wall in the armory,” Sophia counts off on her fingers. “It’s just part of the Guardian lifestyle at this point.”

“The Charlie team lifestyle,” Rebel corrects, though her eyes gleam with something that suggests she’s not nearly as aloof as she pretends to be.

Malia shakes her head, but I catch the way she bites her lip, curiosity evident in her expression.

“You know,” Jenna continues as she stacks freshly cleaned mugs onto the shelf above the counter, “I thought hiring Guardian women to run the coffee shop was the smartest call Malia and I ever made. But now?” She pauses for dramatic effect, glancing at Malia, who’s finishing a round of drinks at the espresso machine. “Now I’m starting to think it’s also the most cursed decision we’ve ever made.”

“Cursed?” I ask, amused, sliding a new tray of pastries into the display case. “How do you figure that?”

Malia snorts, handing a cappuccino off to a waiting operative. “She means cursed because none of you can show up anywhere on time, thanks to those sex-crazed men we’re all stuck with.”

“Exactly.” Jenna points a stirring stick at me like a weapon. “It’s like they’ve got a sixth sense for when we need to get to work, so they immediately start sabotaging us.”

“Oh, come on.” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “They’re not all like that.”

Malia arches an eyebrow at me. “You were late this morning because Hank and Gabe decided they’d rather keep you in bed than let you clock in on time. Am I wrong?”

I open my mouth, close it, then shrug unapologetically. “Okay, fair, but we all knew that wasn’t ending any other way.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Jenna claims, throwing her hands up. “They’re all like this. Carter’s the same way—swear to God, he comes home and keeps me up all night, tied to the bed.”

Malia laughs as she pulls fresh grounds into the portafilter. “To be fair, we don’t exactly fight them on it.”

“Obviously,” Jenna replies, smirking now. “But at this rate, we’re all going to be permanently five minutes late to everything and have to pretend it’s a personality trait.”

As Jenna prepares for the incoming lunch rush, the teasing continues to bounce around the group. Despite the morning’s chaos and everyone’s excuses for being late, the banter comes naturally—effortless—between all of us.