“We’re not made of money, Miss Martin,” Lucas said. He was sprawled in his chair, one arm slung over the back. His body language said “boredom”, but his expression was far too hard for that to be true. “Frankly, it’s pretty damn generous of us to offer this. These special funds of yours can’t pay the rent.”

“Obviously there will be boundaries.” Manson was having none of the banter. He was all business, elbows on the table as he leaned toward me, my outrageous invoice sitting in front of him. But there was a gleam in his eyes, tension in his stance. He was thoroughly enjoying this. “Your safeword ends anything and everything. If you agree to the deal, we can start working on the car. We have to wait for parts to come in, shipping an engine takes time. I’d say we’ll have it fixed in five, maybe six weeks. In the meantime, you’ll be paying off your debt.”

“By doing what exactly?” I said. “Being your on-call Fleshlight?”

“If that’s how you would prefer to think of it.” Manson wasn’t giving an inch and I hated it. This calm, perfectly controlled side of him made me irrationally frustrated.

“You’ll be doing whatever pops into our sick heads,” Jason said. “We can’t give you a schedule ahead of time, princess. We’re busy, you know. But if you’re walking around town and one of us happens to snatch you up, you’d better be ready for it.”

“Free use,” Lucas said. “Whenever and wherever we want.”

My insides tightened, squeezing like there was a band low in my belly. It was a scenario that sounded good in fantasy — so damn good. But actually following through with it? Submitting myself to them, using sex as payment? Letting them fuck me whenever and wherever they wanted? That wasn’t exactly subtle. It wasn’t easy to hide.

If I’d thought one night as Manson’s slave was wild, then I couldn’t even imagine what something like this would mean for me.

My palms were sweating. My mouth was too dry, and I paused to take a long drink of the water. It seared a cold trail down my throat, and I shivered as I set the glass down.

“It’s your choice, Jess,” Manson said. “You have options here.”

Yeah. He kept reminding me of that, dangling it in front of my face like he hoped I’d choose something else. But I knew better than that. Manson wanted me to agree just as much as the rest of them, but he wanted me to choose. He didn’t want me to relent out of desperation.

He wanted me to acknowledge that I wanted it too, even if I didn’t fully understand why.