Krystian watches me with amusement. “I can’t be the only one who thinks this is sexy.”
“Sexy?” Everett whirls towards Krystian.
“Those cute little noises she makes? The way she licks syrup off her lips? Fuck yeah, it’s sexy. I’m hard as a rock.” Krystian glances pointedly down at his basketball shorts, which are currently tented.
I giggle and lower my head, unsure if I should be proud, embarrassed, or a combination of the two. To know that these strong, proud, sexy men find me attractive…
Yeah, it’s a heady, intoxicating sensation, and one I could get used to.
The men watch me eat, not even bothering to pretend they’re doing anything else. Everett tries to appear disgusted, releasing the occasional grunt and eye roll, but there’s an incandescent heat in his gaze that blazes through me in a sweeping inferno.
Once I finish every last bite—going so far as to lick the takeaway box—I fall back on the bed, feeling satisfied in a way I’ve only felt a few times before. And…stuffed. My stomach feels bloated, and whenever I move, nausea curdles in my gut.
“Ugh. I ate too much. Is this what it feels like to fall into a food coma?” I flop around dramatically.
Krystian chuckles and pats my ankle. “Hang in there, love. You’ll survive.”
“I hate food,” I whine.
“No, you don’t,” Zaid counters with a snort.
He’s right.
I really, really don’t.
“Go get dressed,” Everett instructs, nudging the bag of clothes closer to me. “We need to leave as soon as Rafe returns.”
I swivel my head to stare up at the brooding giant, pushing my lips out in a pout. “You’re not going to let me whine and complain, are you?”
Everett simply folds his arms over his chest and scowls.
I take that as a no.
Sighing, I throw myself off the bed, grab the clothes bag without looking at it, and head to the connecting bathroom. Once inside, I lock the door and dump out the contents Everett bought me.
I expect to see either extremely frilly, obscene clothing I wouldn’t be caught dead in…or a hideous outfit a grandma would wear.
The clothes are, surprisingly, cute. Modern. Stylish.
And in my size.
I slide on a pair of hot-pink panties, trying not to blush at the prospect of Everett—freaking Everett—picking them out for me. The jeans go on next, and I can’t help but think they fit like a dream, molding to my curves. There are a couple of different shirts, as if he wasn’t sure which one I would prefer, and a bra.
A bra that fits me perfectly.
What the fuck? How did he know my bra size?Idon’t even know my bra size.
I choose the pink shirt, then I dig through the rest of the bag and pull out a hairbrush, some hair ties, a toothbrush, and toothpaste.
I never had to do any of this stuff before. I was always just…clean, with perfect teeth and perfect hair. I didn’t even have to brush it if I didn’t want to; the strands cascaded in perfect waves down my back.
That’s certainly not the case now. I’m sporting a serious case of “rat’s nest” on the top of my head.
After a few minutes of painstakingly combing out all of the snarls and then brushing my teeth, I deem myself presentable. There’s nothing I can do about the black and blue bruise on my face, however.
I enter the room to see the rest of the guys finishing up their own breakfasts.
“How did you know my bra size?” I ask Everett bluntly, dropping my dirty clothes on the bed.
