Chapter Nineteen
Jack
I scroll through the reports on my screen, eyes skimming numbers that should impress me—financials, properties, some investments I threw money at just to see if they'd stick.
I still don't know how the original Jack had this much cash. Like, what did he do? Sell organs? Win the lottery? Blackmail the mafia? The wealth is absurd. Too absurd.
But honestly? None of it matters right now.
Because as much as I like having Ciel and Nolan around—the house feels alive for the first time—there's one glaring problem.
I haven't had action in a while.
Like… a while. I can't even sneak out of the house to visit, him in the town nearby because Ciel and Nolan are like hawks circling around me.
I've had to rely on my hand, but that got old after the third round of me, myself, and I. It doesn't help that Ciel is walking around trying to seduce me with his glossy lips, bare legs, and tragic puppy eyes.
He thinks he's a siren, and sure, he's beautiful scratch that more than just beautiful—but I've burrito-wrapped him more times than I can count.
I rub my temples. I need relief. A distraction. Something.
And then—
Movement catches my eye.
I glance across the room, and…
Oh.
Oh no.
Nolan.
On his knees.
Kneeling on the floor, scrubbing it like this is the final test before sainthood.
And those shorts—dear god. Those shorts should be illegal.
They're tiny. Tight. Stretched to their absolute limit. I can see the outline of his thighs, the muscle definition, the way his ass—his veryblessedass—fills out the fabric like it was tailored by divine intervention. Clearly those squats in the gym have results.
And then he wiggles.
He's not even trying, but he wiggles his butt just enough to make my sanity pack its bags and leave.
What in the low-budget gay porno is this?
I choke on my own spit.
Listen—I may have liked everyone before. Man, woman, didn't matter. But when it came to men, I always leaned toward the delicate ones. Pretty, soft-featured, smaller frames. The type who looked like they could fit in my lap without effort.
Not this.
Not Nolan.
Not broad-shouldered, large, muscles-for-days Nolan.
Not manly-man beta guard dog Nolan.
And yet—my eyes don't leave him.
The tank top clings to his chest, damp at the collar from sweat. His back flexes every time he pushes the rag across the floor. Veins line his forearms, sharp and visible, and oh great—now he's biting his lip in concentration like this is his holy crusade.
Something deep in me stirs.
"Absolutely not," I whisper under my breath.
I rub my eyes, glance back at my financial reports. Numbers. Yes. Numbers are safe. Numbers don't squat in tiny shorts that should be classified as weapons of mass destruction.
But my gaze betrays me.
Back to Nolan.
Back to that view.
And then—he bends down again.
Face nearly to the floor, ass arched high like he's auditioning for a different kind of job.
I make a strangled sound.
No. No no no. I'm not doing this. Nolan isn't even my type. He's serious, stubborn, infuriating. He looks at me like I'm the villain in his tragic love story. There's no universe where I should be looking at him like this.
So why the hell is my stomach flipping like a teenager seeing boobs for the first time?
Am I that frustrated?
…Or has Nolan actually changed my preferences?
I shift in my chair, very aware of how dangerous this train of thought is.
Okay. Distract yourself. Do something casual.
I look at the pens on my desk. Perfect. I knock them off deliberately. They clatter loudly against the hardwood, rolling in all directions.
Nolan pauses. Turns.
And our eyes meet.
He raises a brow but doesn't push. Just shrugs and goes back to cleaning, entirely unaware that he's personally responsible for my sudden bisexual crisis 2.0.
I sneak another glance. Big mistake.
He's leaning forward again, tank top riding up, revealing the hard lines of his back and—oh, for fuck's sake—there's a bead of sweat rolling down his spine. Slowly. Teasingly.
My brain short-circuits.
This is torture. Actual torture. I didn't sign up for this.
I drag a hand down my face and groan into my palm.
I sink lower in my chair, shoving my hands over my face like that'll erase the memory. Spoiler: it won't.
Nolan hums softly to himself as he works, completely oblivious. And maybe that's worse—that he's not even trying. He's just existing. Just cleaning. Just… being Nolan.
And somehow, that's enough to unravel me.
Well. This is interesting.