Growly Boys

“And you’re creepy as fuck,” I shoot back before I even get a look at deep voice who snuck up on me.

“I guess we’re even.”

I hope that snap back was enough to cover the yelp that slipped out, I sounded like a strangled squirrel.

Heart now trying to escape my ribs, I spin round and find myself in front of the sexiest man alive, leant casually in a doorway behind me.

Shit.

If there’s a hotline for men who radiate unsafe levels of raw, testosterone drenched charisma, I need the number. Immediately.

He’s tall, no wait, massive. Built for chucking chubby godsesses like me over his shoulder.

Dark hair is pulled back into a loose tie at the nape of his neck. He’s gotta be a lumberjack going off the flannel shirt, unbuttoned, done on purpose to give me a peek of the lines of his huge chest covered in tattoos.

I’ve met men like this before, commanding, magnetic, terrifyingly attractive. But none of them have ever made my skin crackle. When he appeared the oxygen decided to start vibrating.

“I’m Corrian,” he rumbles. “Frankie?”

I have to physically stop myself from biting my lip at his voice, which vibrates through my ribs.

“Yep," I make sure the P pops. "You definitely don’t look like someone who runs a daycare.”

“You don’t look like someone who'd pass a background check.”

“Touché.” I snap back with a wink and finger point. Smooth Frankie, real smooth.

He waves me into the room behind him and I step through, only slightly concerned I’m about to be murdered.

Corrian grabs a folder from the table and hands it to me, gesturing for me to sit down in one of the massivly oversized chairs.

“Standard HR nonsense. Ignore most of it.”

My brows pull together, I open my mouth to say something, but the door creaks. 

Hold my ovaries, another one has just walked in. No, that’s wrong, he intimidated the door out of his way.

Corrian is stacked, this new monster is otherwordly.

The snacks.

I squeak, making both men jump, sling my backpack onto my knee and fumble with the zip. I spent almost all of my remaining cash getting these snacks.

Grabbing the packets, I start filling the coffee table in front of me. While I'm fussing, I sneak a look at the new eye candy. The man mountain is wearing black joggers that hang low enough to make my internal monologue slide to horny new places.

His hair will be my downfall. Full undercut, long mohawk braided in a thick rope that hangs to the back of his thighs. It resembles a spine he tore out as a trophy. Tattooed runes crawl up the sides of his skull, curling behind his ears. I want to taste them.

Down Frankie.

It’s boiling in here now. I pull the scrunchie from my wrist and stretch up to tie my thick, annoyingly unruly curls back off my neck. The baby hair underneath is stuck to my neck sweat.

I need air.

Out the corner of my eye, I see them both freeze at my movement. Both sets of eyes trained on me. But new boy’s breaths are forcing the expanse of his chest up to his chin. If I didn’t know better, I would say that's rage he's containing.

The two men exchange a look, Corrian shakes his head once, the man mountain clears his throat, then heads to the corner of the room, pretending to check a clipboard.

Time to break the tension.

“Snacks.” 

Neither of them move.

Jesus, I'm sure it wasn’t that hot when I left this morning. The silence is stretching long enough for my sweating to reach uncomfortable levels, though that might be from the way viking boy is still looking at me.

Clearing my throat, I shift awkwardly and grab from the table.

“Sooo,” I say, voice a little too chipper. “Juice pouch?”

I hold it out in front of me, not to either one, to the room. Neither move.

“Okay, what about…” I dig deeper. “...a lollipop?”

Nope, no response. I sigh, toss the juice pouch onto the table a bit too hard. If they won’t have it, I will.

Somewhere in the last 20 seconds I’ve decided I’m out of here. It’s too weird.

I pop the lolly in my mouth and that get's a response, but abso-fucking-lutely NOT what I was expecting. 

They both growl. My eyes snap up at the feral sound that comes from low in their chests.

“You guys don’t have…allergies right?” I pull the lolly out of my lips with a pop.

Their eyes widen, man mountain takes the smallest step forward. So much heat now it’s pulsing across my skin in waves, pulling goosebumps from places I didn’t know could goose. Please don't be a fever. The last time I got the flu I thought it was all over, my end was coming.

“It’s so fucking hot in here.”

Both sets of eyes drop as tug off my hoodie in one smooth, overheated motion to reveal my tee slogan.

‘Don’t bully me. It turns me on.’

I think it’s funny. But honestly, I didn’t think I would be taking my hoodie off. If I thought I would be visiting the surface of the god damn sun, I would have gone for something more appropriate.

Corrian’s mouth twitches. Viking licks his bottom lip.

And me? I’m one sweat-glossed inch away from crawling back into the woods and letting a possum raise me.

It's really time to go now.

“Right, thanks for the opportunity, but…”

Before I can finish that sentence, the door slides open again. Hot guy three, and this one has to be their CEO or some shit, he screams offshore accounts. Massive aswell, slightly shorter than the first two, but I suppose everyone’s smaller than viking boy. 

Pale skin, silver hair cropped short at the sides, a muscle bound villain with a china tea cup in one hand and tablet in the other.

“Of course she’s wearing that.” His voice is low and velvet.

I blink. “I’m sorry, who the fu–”

He raises a single finger, and finally looks at me. Those eyes are polished ice, calculating and cold.

“Ezra,” he says introducing himself. 

Corrian makes a noise in his throat, Ezra ignores it and takes a casual sip of tea.

“She’s scenting the whole goddamn room,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry, the what now?” I choke out.

All the hair on the back of my neck stands to attention. I turn slowly to see the fourth one.

Leaning on the doorframe, carved from shadow, he's broad, barefoot and shirtless. Hair pitch black and buzzed at one side. Tattoos crawl across his entire torso, every muscled inch is covered, moving up his thick neck like smoke licking at his jaw. Across his hairline ink stretches a dark halo. Down the side of his cheek, neat script is inked in the same language viking boy has.

Oh he's dangerous.

He inhales and holds it. I swear on every pack of mini donuts I’ve ever loved, he growls so low I feel it through the soles of my boots.

My mouth opens, nothing comes out, I’m blank. 

Confused, too hot, too horny, drowning in testosterone, I still don’t know what this stupid job is, no one is speaking to me, I feel like a zoo exhibit and I'm getting really, really pissed off.

I open my mouth to bitch them out and tell them where they can stick their job, when finally, someone speaks.

But not anyone in the room. 

This comes from the hall.

“WHO’S SCENT IS THAT AND WHY’S IT MAKING MY DICK HARD?”