He frowned, remembering something the doctor had said—that the headache might last for days. “I should tell Andrei to cancel your RSVP for definite. You might still have the headache when it comes time for the gala.”
“Don’t you dare,” she snapped, half sitting up, then letting out a shriek of pain before she sank back against the covers.
He leapt up, hovered over her. Hating that he couldn’t help her, hating that he was fucking useless. “What can I do?” he demanded.
She gulped. “Nothing. Just…” Blowing out a breath, Sascha whispered, “Just don’t cancel the RSVP.”
“Why?” he asked, a confused scowl puckering his brow. “What’s so important about the gala?”
“Andrei was so… I don’t know, dismissive? When we were talking about the gala. But he said it was a big deal. He shouldn’t be alone when he makes a keynote speech.”
Touched on his friend’s behalf, his smile grew slowly.
This.
It was this that made him think of her as their Snow White. She’d bounced into their world, intent on making things right in ways that no one had ever tried. Even going so far as to attempt to fulfill their kinky needs.
Of course, she had to share those kinks for it to work, but he knew this was the first time she’d ever contemplated sleeping with five guys at the same time. Sean had said as much, anyway.
Still, with the other lovers they’d shared, no one had given a fuck about their career. Well, outside of the prestige of their positions, that is.
Devon’s girlfriends usually fell for his brains, sure, but it helped that his Rain Man tendencies were softened by a bank balance that could cushion any verbal slight he had a habit of inflicting upon people. With the rest of them, they all held positions of power, and he didn’t doubt that the women they’d shared had known and appreciated their status. They’d had careers of their own. It wasn’t that they were solely after their money, he conceded with ease, but nothing like this.
They hadn’t cared.
The difference was enormous.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked crossly as she rubbed at her temple again.
“Thank you,” was all he said.
“For what?”
“Giving a shit.”
She blinked at him. “Oh.”
His smile was warm. “Yeah. Oh.”
Eight
Movement hurt.
Seriously.
Jesus, she was supposed to dance tonight too. Well, okay, Andrei hadn’t mentioned dancing. He’d just mentioned a speech. And he was an economist. Or, if what she’d heard on the other end of a phone call the other day was right, a quantitative analyst.
Even googling that hadn’t clarified things.
Maybe she was still a little dumb thanks to the whole being hit with a car thing, but humanities people never gelled well with math people. At least, she was going to use that argument and defend her dumbness with every ounce of her being.
Someone had to take a stand against all the geniuses in this damn house.
Sinking into the sofa with a grimace, the sofa she’d been fucked on by her date a mere four days ago, she rested her head against the plush cushion, and tried to get comfortable.
Of course, it was impossible. Her head was… She didn’t know what it was. Equal parts concrete and mush, she felt sure. Nothing was soft enough for it, and after seeing footage of what had happened that day at Regent’s Street, she could understand why she was feeling so delicate.
Fortunate was an understatement, she knew. In fact, it was more than that. She had a guardian angel or somebody watching out for her. That was the only explanation as to why she’d come out of that scrap with a broken wrist and a sore head.
Okay, sore was an understatement. Tits in a meat grinder probably ranked lower on the list of how badly her head ached. The nausea it triggered was adding to her woes, but after being flung through the air like a goddamn Raggedy Ann doll-gone-trapeze-artist, it was still hard for her to believe she was all in one piece.
The car on the opposite side of the road had been scant seconds away from running over her damn head. Tits through a meat grinder was probably how her noggin would have looked if that had happened.
“You look uncomfortable.”
She blinked—even that hurt today—but didn’t bother tilting her head to see who spoke. She recognized the voice—though he used it rarely, as he was probably the quietest housemate here, Sawyer’s voice nevertheless packed a punch.
He had a kind of brogue that did things to her insides that insides had no place feeling; especially when she was as wrecked as she was.
His Scottish accent had him rolling his Rs and calling her things like ‘lass’.
Be still my quivering heart, she thought wryly.
“I am uncomfortable,” she admitted, voice hoarse with the truth of that as well as her body’s response to his gorgeousness—the timing of which was nothing short of inappropriate.
He sighed, a pained look crossing his face at her words, then stepped into the room. She’d noticed he was often ill at ease when Devon wasn’t around, which kind of saddened her. She felt like she was learning them all, bit by bit, but Sawyer was the hardest to crack if she was being honest.
Devon was, in his own way, a loudmouth. Used to blurting out whatever shit came into his head at whatever moment—didn’t matter if that moment was appropriate or not.
She figured Sawyer was so used to trying to calm situations down that Devon riled up, he allowed himself to fade into the background.
He was a watcher.
Just not the same kind of watcher as Kurt, she thought with a snort. A snort that had her whimpering a little as the tiny vibrations made her eyes ache.
When he settled beside her on the couch, she carefully tilted her head to look at him.
“You doing okay there, lass?” he asked, tone gravelly with a concern that made her pussy ache.
Bad pussy!
Talk about her body giving out mixed messages!
“No, not really,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as pathetic as she felt.
“Would a massage help?”
“Is one in the cards?”
His lips twitched. “Aye. It can be.”
Aye? Ugh, Jesus. If he spoke any more archaically, she’d spontaneously orgasm. Headache be damned. “Do you speak Gaelic?” she asked, ever hopeful.
Her out of the blue question had him blinking. “It’s a dying language.”
“So? If anyone was weird enough to learn a dying language, it would be someone in this house.”
He smirked, and the cocky, megawatt grin was capable of challenging Devon’s beatific smile to a game of rock, paper, scissors. And God only knew how Devon’s affected her… She wasn’t sure whose smile would win in such a contest, was just grateful their lips belonged to her for the foreseeable future.
Sheepishly, she thought, he admitted, “I speak Gaelic.”
That whole emoji with hearts for eyes thing? Yeah, that was her right then. “Damn. You need to speak to me in Gaelic.”
He chuckled. “Maybe when you’re ready to be bowled over.”
“Bowled over into bed?” She considered that and his nod. “You’re right. What with you and Andrei, you could probably make me come from words alone.”
“I thought Devon was supposed to wreak that particular miracle.”
“Between you and me, math doesn’t compare to Gaelic and Russian.”
His chuckle deepened. “You’re crazy, you know that, right?”
She winked—regretted it after, and made a note not to do that again today. It would seem even her eyelids hurt. “Takes one to know one.”
“What about Kurt?”
“German doesn’t do it for me. Although, his accent is cute. I like when he swears in German. Scheisse and Arschloch sound so much worse than shit and asshole.”
He rubbed his chin and confessed, “Never thought about it, lass, if I’m being hon
est.”
“That’s because you’re a math guy. Math people don’t think about things like this.”
“Is that right?” he asked, sounding amused. She was used to that though.
In a way, she and Devon were kindred spirits. She had some decorum. But her thoughts rarely ran along lines that could be considered ‘normal’.
“Aye, lad, that’s right,” she mocked, pronouncing ‘right’ like ‘reet’.
He winced. “Jesus. Stick to the American accent, Sascha.”
Her lips pursed into a pout. “You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m hurting,” she whined.
“I offered a massage, didn’t I?”
It was her turn to wince. “I’d love one, but I don’t think I could.” Biting her formerly pouting lips, she whispered, “Promise you won’t say anything?”
He cocked a brow. “To who?”
“Anyone in the house.”
Curious, he asked, “Okay. I promise.”
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stay at the gala tonight, but I refuse not to go.”
His frown was so loaded with concern, she couldn’t cope. These guys… what was it with them?
Hell, her dad had barely looked up from his paperwork when she’d told him she’d broken her foot back in high school. The stepmother from hell had actually shown more concern.
Yet these men?
It was like she was the center of their world, and Jesus, was it potent. And addictive.
How had any of the women before her learned to do without it?
It was overwhelming, sure, but at the same time, it was empowering. It made her feel like she could do anything, be anything because these five insanely intelligent men saw something in her, something that made her special enough to be able to be with them.
Not just one of them, but all of them.
She’d have shaken her head at her thought process if she hadn’t known the agony triggered by that particular mistake—one she’d made too many times in the past few days.
He rubbed his jaw at her words. “I’m not going to convince you not to go, am I?”
“Nope,” she retorted stubbornly. “I’m going to be there even if it means I need to get high on Ibuprofen first.”
He grunted. “Let’s see if we can make you feel better with a massage, huh?”
She blinked. “Everything hurts. I can’t see how you massaging it will make the pain go away.”
“I can be gentle,” he retorted with an eye roll. “Come on. If you’re going to be stupid and do what you want regardless of your own health, something every single one of us would cherish more than a visit to a damn gala where we’re keynote speaker, let’s try to make you feel better first.”
She scowled at him. “He should have someone there with him.”
Her statement had him grunting, but otherwise, he ignored her as he maneuvered himself so that he could slide his hand under her knees then the other behind her back. “I’m going to lift you, when I do, move your good arm and support your head.”
“You won’t drop me, will you?” She eyed his brawn with concern.
“I’m offended,” he said with a snort.
She huffed. “Everyone knows that bodybuilders actually have very little muscular strength.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not a bodybuilder.” He huffed back at her. “Ready? Three, two, one…”
Flinching when he lifted her, but managing to hold and support her head with her hand, he carefully moved away from the sofa, then gently stepped towards the door.
Gulping, Sascha murmured, “This is such a bad idea.”
He cocked a brow at her as he maneuvered her through the door. “It is?”
“Yeah. I’m not ready to have your hands on me. I’m going to want to cum, and even though that will feel great, the aftermath won’t be worth it.”
Her words had him freezing in place. Then, hissing out a breath. “Jesus Christ. You’re as bad as Devon.”
Because her thoughts had run along similar lines earlier, she had to smile.
“Stop looking so proud of yourself,” he retorted, returning to the earlier caution with which he’d moved as he carried her down the hall.
“Why? I managed to stun you. I don’t think that’s something that happens often without Devon around.”
“No. You’d be right on the mark there, lass.” His grunt was more from disgust than from effort as he, effortlessly, carried her up the fucking stairs. To the fourth floor in the five-story house.
Okay, if that wasn’t enough to make a woman melt, she didn’t know what could do it.
By the time they made it upstairs, all thoughts of arousal had dispersed to dust. “Ow,” she whimpered as he carried her into his bedroom.
She’d tidied his room when on the hunt for dirty laundry, so she knew what it looked like. But it was the first time she was there in anything other than her ‘official’ capacity.
Amazing, wasn’t it, how the same object could appear totally different when she was changing the sheets, and now, with the prospect of laying atop it, it could feel like another bed? Another bedroom, in fact.
The bedroom was one of the plainest in the house. A bed, two bedside tables, and a large armchair nestled by a bay window that overlooked the back yard. That was it.
She loved it on her rounds. It was the easiest to pick up after. Now, there was a comfort in the white walls, the white sheets she’d pressed herself… it was clean, calm, soothing. Quiet in more ways than just the nonexistent décor.
With a wince, she allowed herself to be pressed onto the firm mattress. It was one of those space agency ones, where the minute you pushed your butt into it, you were glued there for all eternity.
This time, however, she quite liked the sensation. It was supportive on her weary bones. Just because she hadn’t broken anything else, didn’t mean the rest of her wasn’t bruised and sore from being hurled against the ground by a moving vehicle.
“You need to roll over, Sascha,” he murmured, his voice so low it was like a hum. When she grimaced, he asked, “You need help?”
A sigh escaped her. “I think I do. Jesus, I hate being so incapacitated.”
“It won’t be for long,” he reassured her, carefully supporting her neck as he helped guide her onto her front.
With her face smushed into the sheets, she groaned. “Shit. We didn’t take off my shirt.”
Silence followed her words.
“Sawyer?” she asked, more into the sheets than at him.
“You wanted to be naked?”
“Well, half-naked,” she retorted with a quick smirk that he couldn’t have seen anyway. “Isn’t that how massages work?”
He cleared his throat. “True. But it’s okay, I can pull it off just as easy like this.”
She wasn’t sure how that was possible, was just grateful that she wore a baggier than usual man’s shirt.
Hearing him moving around, curiosity almost got the better of her. But she stayed in position, appreciating the change from laying on her back, and having different muscles aired and others supported.
The sound of his shoes clicking against the floor as he toed them off was one she immediately recognized. Another, a drawer whistling open then closed before he retrieved something that clunked against the white enamel bedside tables. She felt and heard the mattress squeak as he climbed onto it, and she’d admit to being too exhausted and downright weary to feel anything more than relief at the prospect of having some of her aches massaged away.
A few days ago, pre-car crash, she’d have been too busy humping Sawyer’s leg to wait for him to dally around doing God knows what. Now, she had no choice but to be patient, because her body wasn’t going to let her do anything else.
His hands came to rest on her waist. She felt his knee settle in a kneeling position beside her left thigh, the heat from his body radiating against her skin. His fingers were strong, warm. That warmth seeped into her bones, and she nestled deeper into the sheets, knowing
she was about to enjoy this.
He tugged at the hem of her shirt and she pulled her stomach in and raised her butt to release any pressure on the fabric. It wasn’t too hard for him to work the shirt up to her armpits, baring the majority of her back.
“You can try to pull it over my head,” she told him. “I’ll deal with the pain if it means you working at my shoulders.”
He snorted. “You’re a bossy little miss, aren’t you?”
She sucked in a breath when he did as she’d asked; quickly lifted the fabric over her shoulders and head. When she settled back into the plush comforter, Sascha would admit to feeling dizzy and sick with the movement. It took her a few seconds to whisper weakly, “Sometimes. Not always for my own good though.”
“I’d never have guessed. Need a keeper,” he commented gruffly, but before she could reply to that cheeky remark, she let out a gasp as cold liquid suddenly pooled at the base of her back. The scent of sandalwood, oranges and cloves whispered through the air, perfuming her skin and the bedroom with its seductive scent.
“You could have warned me,” she grumbled, but sighed happily as he made a ‘W’ with his hands at the base of her back by resting his thumbs together, then dug them into the muscles.
“No point. You’d have tensed more.” As he worked his fingers into knots she hadn’t known she’d had, making her force herself to stay still so as not to wriggle and cause a deeper headache, he murmured, “Jesus, the bruises on you, Sascha. You look like we’ve been beating you.”
“You just try it, buddy,” she warned him drowsily, moaning as he ran his thumbs along the side of her ribs, letting his little fingers drag against the plumped edges of her bared breasts. She knew going bra less had been the best decision today. “I know how to defend myself.”
He chuckled. “You do, do you?”
“Aye, I do,” she said in a mock brogue. “My dad’s a cop. He busted enough pedos, rapists, and pervs to scare me into learning how to protect myself from predators. Now, I can prey on them. How the world turns,” she finished triumphantly.
Hers To Keep: THE QUINTESSENCE COLLECTION I Page 14
