Helena was greeted by six men—no, creatures—so beautiful they looked like sins carved into flesh.
They stood in a semi-circle like flower arrangements at a funeral for her self-control, all shirtless, all glistening like they'd just stepped out of a rain-soaked dream.
They looked... polite.
Right?
They didn't touch her. Didn't crowd her.
They simply gestured, elegant and wordless, toward a shaded resting spot under a giant summer tree—its leaves broad and waxy, golden-green and swaying like seductive fans.
The cushions beneath the tree looked suspiciously soft.
Too soft. The kind of softness that whispered, Lie down, sweet thing. Let us ruin you slowly.
Helena stood frozen, arms stiff, thighs tense, brain screaming.
Because the longer she stood there, the more impolite she felt.
Not because they were inappropriate.
But because she was already mentally undressing all six of them in reverse order of eye contact.
