Page 25 of Promise of Punishment

Noah: It’s all set. Be here by eight on Friday.

I’ll have to drive straight there after work at the Ashfords with a quick stop to get Bear. It’ll be close, but I think I can make it.

Me: Okay.

Noah: Thank you! You won’t regret it!

10

WAS FABLE JUST WATCHING ME

Fable

The next morning flies by at the Ashfords’ estate. My higher-than-normal stress level might be the cause. I keep picturing Margo firing me at the end of work today.

“Thanks, but you’re not a good fit after all.”

At least I’ve been assigned to clean the bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs in the west wing. The side is for guests while the owner's suite is in the east wing, where Haven is cleaning. I like working alone. I get to listen to music while I dust and tidy up the currently unoccupied rooms. Both earbuds work today, to my delight. Sometimes one cuts out, but now isn’t the time for splurging on new items that aren’t necessities.

Once I’ve saved up again, I’ll be able to live on a less tight budget. I like to keep a certain amount in my bank in case I have to leave without a job and afford first and last month’s rent on a new place. Neither are refundable when you break a lease on short notice—or just flee in the night.

So far, the soothing Zen sounds have done nothing to ease my nerves. I switch to a station that plays popular hits. A song I love comes on, and I try to dance my stress away as I dust the furniture. My thoughts shift to the parties I’ll be serving this weekend at the ‘Lords’ estate, and nerves bounce through my stomach. I haven’t been to a party since I was eighteen and gave my V-card to that loser Wesley look-alike out of self-hate. The house party was stupid and nothing like what I’m about to experience. I’m not as outgoing as Noah. But I’ll be hidden behind a mask, I remind myself, and return my focus to the music.

The sensual song has an upbeat rhythm. I sway my hips and head to the next bedroom. The door is slightly ajar. Nudging it open the rest of the way, I slip inside and dust the traditionally styled furniture that looks like a Pottery Barn dream.

Mom loved shopping there when I was a baby and toddler. My entire childhood bedroom came from the store. I push the memories away, not wanting to get stuck on a loop of my past.

When I turn to dust the nightstand, my gaze lands on a suit jacket placed neatly on the bed. I give the large room a quick scan, praying I’m alone and not invading someone’s privacy. The space looks otherwise untouched.

Hmm. I pull out my earbuds and stuff them in my pocket. Does the jacket belong to a last-minute guest, or was it placed here by mistake? I should find out, but I don’t want to leave without finishing up so the room is fresh in case someone does stay the night.

I dust the nightstands, fluff the pillows, then check the bathroom. My feet halt in the open doorway, my gaze glued to the glass-enclosed shower. A tall man stands with his long, lean, sculpted back to me. There isn’t an ounce of fat on his muscular body. Broad shoulders taper into a deep V, but his lower half is hidden behind a tiled pony wall. Tattoos cover his shoulders and back. A death moth with a skull face, a coat of arms wrapped in thorns with droplets of blood, and a vine coiled around an opened book that has angel wings. The man’s head hangs forward as water soaks his dark hair. One arm is extended, his hand braced on the shower wall while his other arm moves with vigorous thrusts.

It takes me longer than it should to understand what he is doing.

Oh god! I’m spying on a man who’s—oh god.

Leave! Don’t stand and watch.

My body stays rooted in place. The way his bicep flexes and his back muscles contract is erotic in a way I’ve never known. This man is beautiful, built to be admired. He’s like a gladiator brought to life or one of the Greek gods. I like tall men, as ridiculous as that sounds coming from a person my height.

I need to leave.

His arm moves faster, and my breathing matches the rhythm. When I realize I’m wet and tingly between my legs, I’m shocked. No man has ever made me wet.

Leave. This is wrong, rude. And yet, I can’t drag my gaze or body away.

He tips his head toward the ceiling, his body going rigid as he lets out a moan of ecstasy.

A phone rings loudly from the room behind me.

I jolt and look over my shoulder. Is someone in there? Shit.

When I turn back, my gaze locks on insanely defined abs and sculpted pecs—one with a tattoo of a heart and a blade stabbed down the center.

I blink, my brain confused. I was staring at a man’s back, not his front. It clicks.

Oh!