Chapter 3: The furniture installment.
The coffee maker finished its final gurgle and fell silent. I poured the dark brew into four mugs, my hands steadier now. The familiar ritual was grounding. I arranged them on a tray, the ceramic clinking softly, and carried it out of the kitchen’s safety.
In the bedroom, the scene had transformed. The large bed frame was taking shape, a skeleton of pale wood rising from the carpet. Zlatan was on his knees, tightening a bolt with a ratchet, the muscles in his forearm corded with the effort. Darren held a support beam steady, his face flushed. Erkan was by the window, unpacking the slats for the base, his movements fluid and economical.
“Coffee’s up,” I announced, my voice finding a more normal register.
They paused, wiping their hands on their jeans. “You are a lifesaver,” Zlatan said, taking a mug with a grateful nod. His fingers brushed mine, and they were warm, slightly rough.
Darren took his with a muttered, “Much obliged.”
Erkan accepted his without a word, just that same quiet, appraising look over the rim of the mug as he took a sip. His eyes held a question I didn’t want to answer.
I stood there, sipping my own coffee, feeling like a spectator in my own home. What was the protocol here? They were doing a job, a good one, by the looks of it. They were polite, despite… everything. A tip. They’d probably expect a tip.
Shit.
I mentally rifled through my wallet, which was upstairs in my purse. I’d taken out cash for the week, but that was two days ago. I’d paid the landscaper. I’d bought groceries. I was almost certain there was nothing left but a few singles and some receipts. Jason always handled the cash for these kinds of things. My face grew warm again. How could I not have any money to give them?
The rich, earthy smell of the coffee began to mix with another scent, one that was distinctly human. It wasn’t unpleasant, not yet. It was the smell of work. Of effort. A warm, salty musk that began to permeate the air, cutting through the sterile new-furniture smell of cardboard and compressed wood.
Zlatan drained his mug and set it down on the floor. “Okay, back to it.” He grunted slightly as he stood, and a faint wave of his scent reached me—clean sweat, coffee, and the faint, honest odor of a man who’d been laboring since sunrise.
As they moved the heavy mattress into place, the room seemed to shrink. Darren, red-faced and puffing, had dark circles of sweat blooming under the arms of his t-shirt. The scent was stronger now, more pungent. Erkan, for all his sleazy grace, had a fine sheen of moisture on his temples and his neck. When he reached up to guide the mattress onto the frame, the hem of his shirt rode up, revealing a taut strip of skin and the damp waistband of his boxers. The sight was unexpectedly intimate.
I found myself watching the play of muscles under their clothes, the shift of shoulders, the flex of a back. My own skin felt hypersensitive, the silk of the robe suddenly feeling like a crude costume. The memory of my near-nakedness in the hallway throbbed between us, a silent, shared secret. The blush returned, a slow burn creeping up my chest. This was different from the stage, from the controlled fantasy of the club. This was raw and real and happening in my bedroom.
Zlatan straightened up, pressing a hand into the small of his back. He caught me looking. His gaze didn’t flicker away. It held mine for a beat too long, and in that moment, the professional veneer felt paper-thin. The air was thick with the smell of their sweat, the sound of their breathing, and the unspoken tension that I had no cash to make go away.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Almost done,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Just the headboard left.”
But we both knew that wasn’t what he meant.
The air between us felt charged, thick with the unspoken memory of my robe falling open. I quickly looked away, my cheeks burning, and focused on the headboard leaning against the wall. “It looks wonderful,” I managed to say, my voice a little too high. “You guys are really fast.”
Erkan grinned, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Comes with practice. You’d be surprised how many beds we put together in a week.”
“I bet,” I said, forcing a light laugh. I could feel their collective gaze on me, a tangible weight that made the silk of my robe feel insubstantial. The masculine scent of their sweat, now a familiar presence in the room, was doing strange things to my concentration. A low, warm thrum had started deep in my belly, a persistent echo of the frustration I’d felt before the doorbell rang.
Darren heaved the headboard upright with a grunt. “This is the last piece. Solid, isn’t it?”
“My husband wanted something that would last,” I replied, watching the cords in Zlatan’s neck stand out as he helped guide it into place. My eyes traced the line of his shoulders, the efficient power in his movements. The earlier embarrassment began to curdle into something else, a daring curiosity that made my heart beat faster against my ribs.
Zlatan slid the final bolt into place and tightened it with a final, decisive click. He straightened up and surveyed their work, hands on his hips. “There. A bed built to survive anything.” He turned his gaze on me, a slow, appraising look that missed nothing. “So, what does a person do who needs a bed this strong?”
The question hung in the air. Erkan and Darren paused their clean-up, looking at me with open interest.
I felt a reckless idea begin to form, a perfect, wicked solution to my cashless problem and my own simmering tension. I smiled, a real one this time. “Well, it’s not for sleeping, that’s for sure.”
Erkan’s eyebrows shot up. “No?”
“My calling is a little… different,” I said, letting my gaze drift over each of them. I tightened the belt of my robe, a deliberate, theatrical gesture. “I’m a dancer. And a masseuse. I own a club.”
Darren blinked. Zlatan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened with interest.
“A dancer?” Erkan repeated, a slow, understanding smile spreading across his face. “What kind of dancing?”
The thrum in my belly became a definite, pulsing heat. This was it. This was how I could pay them. This was how I could finish what I started.
“The kind you don’t see on television,” I said, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. I took a small step toward the center of the room, toward the new, vast expanse of the mattress. “I was in a… very particular mood when you gentlemen arrived. You interrupted me, actually.”
I let that admission settle in the silent room.
“So, since I have no cash for a tip,” I continued, my hand going to the knot of my belt. “How about a free sample?”