Page 8 of Rent a Masked Duo

His small, warm body is pressed against my cheek, and his whiskers twitch against my nose. He’s making a low, insistent noise that translates roughly to I have needs, and you are the person who addresses them.

“Okay,” I mumble. My mouth is so dry. “I hear you.”

The light through the curtains is gray-gold, which tells me it’s already morning. I’m in a strange bed in an aggressively floral-patterned room, which also tells me yesterday was not a dream.

I told them I would think about what I suggested yesterday, didn’t I? I didn’t exactly have any time to think about it before I passed out.

I don’t really need to, though. It’s not like another alternative magically revealed itself over the past twelve hours or however long it’s been since I made my proposition. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that it’s what needs to happen. I mean, I woke up in a T-shirt that isn’t mine, in a house that isn’t mine, with a bandaged heel and a stomach that isn’t twisting with hunger and a guinea pig who’s being taken care of. Every single one of those things is better than what was waiting for me at the altar.

Wiggles squeaks, and I lift my head from the pillow before he can pee on it or something to get his point across. As soon as I set him on the floor, he immediately makes his position on the matter of breakfast very clear by circling my ankles like a shark. “Okay, okay,” I murmur, limping my way to the bathroom I passed on my way to the bedroom last night. Like the one downstairs, it’s almost aggressively pink and floral. But it’s clean enough that I know those guys do not spend a lot of time here. Men are not usually this clean.

Once I’m finished, I carry Wiggles down the stairs. Slowly, careful of my heel. I smell coffee downstairs, and it’s waking up the last corners of darkness in my brain, the way caffeine tends to do. When I round the landing, I come to a dead stop.

Two men are sitting at the table, and neither of them is wearing a mask.

Neither of them looks up right away, either. One of them is reading something on his phone while the other pours sugar into his coffee like a man who’s not concerned about his blood sugar so long as he gets his daily dose of dopamine.

“You took off the masks,” I say for lack of anything better.

Though I’m only seeing their faces for the first time, I know who is whom right away. The tackler looks up first. His face is unfairly handsome. He has dark hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it all morning and a jaw with a small scar just below the left corner of his mouth.

The driver has shorter hair, close-cropped. His jaw is covered in stubble, and he has a mouth that brings the word sensuous to mind. I swallow hard while heat creeps up my neck at the weight of his dark eyes on me.

“I was sick of that thing,” the tackler explains before running a hand down his cheek. “Besides, we figured we would meet you halfway.”

“I’m glad. It was unnerving otherwise.” I haven’t moved a muscle since I saw them. Now I take my first step, favoring the ball of my foot. The driver pulls a chair out for me while the tackler pours coffee from a half-full pot on the counter.

The business of adding cream and sugar gives me something to do with myself that isn’t staring at them and their ridiculously handsome faces. Once I set Wiggles on the floor, he paws my shin. “We set his crate up,” the tackler explains, jerking his chin toward the corner, where sure enough, everything is assembled the way it was back home. I set Wiggles in that direction, and he scurries off. One less thing to worry about.

Meanwhile, I have a new worry. The fact that the two of them have me feeling like a giggly schoolgirl with a crush on the cutest boys in class. This is so stupid. But they’ve been nice to me, too, and they could’ve taken me up on my offer yesterday without hesitating. Taken advantage of it. Instead, they made me a grilled cheese and gave me clean clothes to wear and let me sleep all night without making a single noise that might wake me.

Not that it makes them saints or anything, but they’re a lot nicer than the man who would otherwise be my husband if they hadn’t barged into my life.

“So,” the tackler murmurs while I try, and fail, not to blush at the way his gaze crawls over me. “Same question as yesterday. Do you still want what you asked for?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “Yes.” I lift the mug and take a deep gulp of coffee while they have one of their silent conversations across the table.

The driver nods slightly. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“You saw what I had to look forward to, up at the altar. Right?” The thought alone is enough to make me shudder. “You already saved me yesterday, but it was temporary. I need something more permanent, and you’re…” Here. Hotter than anyone has any reason to be.

“I’m Mark,” the driver introduces himself. “And that guy is Jax,” he points to his friend.

I nod, pleased to finally know their names.

“You ever had a man touch you?” Mark suddenly asks, his eyes burning with what might be desire. I mean, this is all new to me, but I remember the look in Patrick’s beady eyes yesterday.

Only this time, the sight of that desire doesn’t make me want to puke. Instead, I’m a lot warmer inside than any T-shirt and oversized shorts should make me feel.

“I haven’t done anything with a man, but I’ve used toys on myself,” I blurt out, because in my mind that’s better than saying I’m a virgin who has no idea about sex whatsoever.

“Is that so?” Jax smiles a little, leaning in. “What kind?”

“Vibrators and stuff.” I bite my lip, as I continuously wonder why I’m even telling them. I’ve never told anyone before, and I wasn’t planning on sharing what I do behind closed doors. “But that’s it.”

“Just wait until you get a feel of the real thing,” Mark teases, and a warm tingle works up my spine.

This is happening. It’s really happening.