Under Two Billionaire Brothers - jewel crotan (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

Lola rolled her eyes and spritzed more window cleaner on the glass. She could hear them having sex right through the damn walls. If she had to hear them fucking one more time, she would quit. Well, no she wouldn’t, because she really needed this job and they paid her a shitload, but she would seriously scream and rip her hair out. The loud thumping of what she assumed was a headboard banging against the wall was so distracting, she couldn’t even focus on cleaning the damn windows. Her concentration was shot, and if she was being completely honest, she was so turned on she couldn’t think straight.

Being the weekend housecleaner for two of the wealthiest men in Pleasure, Colorado, (yeah, the irony wasn’t lost on her) should have been simple enough, but of course it wasn’t. She had been working for the McKnight brothers for a little over six months and every Saturday and Sunday morning, like damn clockwork, she could hear them tearing up some poor woman -- or two. Tearing might have been an understatement, because if the sound coming through the walls were anything to go by, it usually sounded like the woman was dying.

She grabbed her ear buds out of her pocket and slipped them in her ears. If she was forced to work in these ridiculous conditions, then she was going to tune it out. She ran her finger over her iPod and chose a song that best depicted her current situation. I Can’t Get No Satisfaction by The Stones blasted into her ears and blissfully blocked out all sounds of the debauchery in the next room.

An hour later she took a step back and looked at the study. Everything smelled of lemon disinfectant and shined like brand fucking new. Lola took her ear buds out and slipped them back in her pocket. The time showed a little after ten in the morning, and already her back ached and her stomach growled. She still had three other rooms to clean, too. At least the ‘fuck brothers’ were done with their weekend girlfriends. She left the study and made her way into the kitchen, figuring Ian and Max McKnight would probably be sleeping off their sex marathon until at least mid-afternoon. When she rounded the corner and saw both of them standing at the breakfast bar, she stopped in her tracks. Their backs faced her as they leaned over the counter, their attention on the newspaper. Of course they were shirtless, because there was no rest for the wicked. Her poor, neglected libido raised its head and growled in desire. She wanted to slap the bitch.

So what, if she hadn’t had sex since her last boyfriend -- which was one year, three months and sixteen days ago, but who was counting? Maybe she could sneak out and work on one of the other rooms until they decided to go find something productive to do? Like, for instance, not walking around the house shirtless and tormenting her. She planned on being all stealthy in her retreat, but of course the bottle of window cleaner chose that moment to jump out of her bucket and land by her feet. The plastic bottle hitting the tiled floor was so loud she winced. Ian and Max straightened and looked over their shoulder at her. They weren’t twins, but damn if they didn’t look like they could be. Both were at least a foot taller than her meager five-foot-three frame, with no shortage of muscles or testosterone. They were all man, and damn well knew it.

Max, with his brooding dark eyes and equally dark hair, turned fully around and crossed his arms over his chest, his brow raised at her. He was only a year older than Ian, whose eyes and hair color were a shade lighter. Both oozed Tall, Dark and Handsome -- and she wasn’t immune to it. Hell, they were thirty-five and thirty-six years old, at least ten years older than she, but damned if they didn’t pull off that hot older man look. How many times had she pictured them doing to her what they did to those faceless women every weekend? It was damn near torture knowing that they double-teamed women. Like they were some kind of dual machine that could make every single woman they had behind a closed door scream so many times, Lola wanted to cut her own ears off.

They both stood there and watched her, no one saying anything and the awkwardness increasing with every second. “Um,” she looked around, momentarily forgetting what she was doing. She took a step back and accidentally kicked the bottle of window cleaner across the floor. Wouldn’t you know it, that bastard rolled right over to the McKnight brothers. It stopped between their feet, the blue liquid inside sloshing around, as if to say yes, it was an asshole for putting her in this situation.

A moment passed and then Ian bent down, picking up the bottle. Her mouth went dry as she watched the play of muscles bunching and flexing as he moved. Holy hell. She didn’t even know men could be built like that. When Ian stood back up he made no move to give her the bottle. The brothers stood side-by-side, their chests carbon copies of chiseled perfection. Their pecs were hard outlines atop their chests. Their abdomens were rolling hills, putting the term six-pack to shame, leading down to a defined V-cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the sweats they wore. Mouth gone dry, she lifted her eyes to their faces and looked between them. They wore equally amused expressions and she knew damn well they had seen her eye-fucking them.
 Her face heated to an uncomfortable level and, like any other time she was mortified, she started to sweat. She knew she was the color of a ripened tomato. It was a curse, a damn-it-all-to-hell curse. Without saying anything, Lola walked over and grabbed the bottle, mumbling her apologies under her breath. Ian let her have the bottle without any resistance and she was thankful that neither of them pointed out the obvious, that she had been checking them out. It wasn’t her fault though, because men who clearly worked out like they did and had bodies to show for it had to know the effect they were going to have on the female population.

Lola didn’t wait around for them to finally open up those perfectly delectable mouths and call her out. Gripping the bottle like she could strangle the life out of it, she practically sprinted out the patio doors. The weather was nice, and she needed to get out of that house and away from those men. She may have wanted them in the worst sort of way since first sight, but she wasn’t a fool. Men like them didn’t want a woman like her. She was their maid, for heaven’s sake, and she knew the kind of women they took to bed -- women that came from high-class, wealthy families. They were women with mile-long legs, big fake tits, and unnaturally blond hair.

Once in the pool house with the door shut behind her, she set her bucket of cleaning supplies down and exhaled roughly. She glanced up at her reflection in the mirror in front of her: Her dark hair wasn’t smooth and straight. The curls were unruly because of the humidity and it looked like she’d stuck her finger in an electrical outlet. She was short, by normal standards --hell, standing next to Ian and Max, she only came up to their delicious chests. Her breasts were probably the best assets on her body -- not fake and of a pretty good size, with a natural slope to them. But it was clear the McKnight brothers preferred the silicone look.

She cupped her breasts through the thin white T-shirt and tilted her head. Not bad, and to hell with them if they thought any less. Forgetting about them for about five minutes, Lola went about the task of cleaning the pool house. Bras and panties littered the floor and couch, and she wasn’t even going to get started on what she found in the bedroom. Who in the hell, especially at their age, fucked so much? They were nearly forty, for fuck’s sake. Of course it wasn’t like they were ancient, but she was younger than them and she wasn’t even getting any. All that money, plus their good looks, probably attracted women like bees to honey. What she needed to do was quit thinking about their fine asses and get the job done, so she could go home and not have to worry about seeing them for another week. Of course, that was easier said than done.

 When Lola was finally finished with the disgusting pool house, she headed outside and immediately heard the sound of feminine laughter and splashing water. Great, maybe she’d walk in on a nice orgy. Cue the freaking sarcasm and eye rolling. She opened the door and lo and behold, found two scantily clad women in the pool, atop Ian and Max’s shoulders, playing a game of chicken. Their monstrous breasts jiggled as they tried to knock the other one down. Why in the hell they even bothered wearing those miniscule triangles was beyond her. The material only covered their nipples, and that was stretching it.

Water splashed in every direction. Did these men have lives, outside of fucking women? For as much as they screwed during weekends, she doubted they could even get it up during the week. For all she knew the two women squealing like schoolgirls were the same from the previous night. It sure would explain the marathon session, and the overly loud screams coming through the wall. There she went again, thinking about their butts, naked, as well as other parts of their anatomy.

Lola tried to be inconspicuous because she was still embarrassed about her encounter with them in the kitchen, but of course she couldn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey, Lola,” Max’s deep voice called out to her and she stopped and looked at him. “Wanna come in for a little dip? It’s kind of hot out today, and I know you must be stifling in all those layers.” He did a really slow once-over of her body and she felt her face heat.

Looking down at her clothes, she had no idea what he was talking about when he said “layers.” She was wearing a thin-ass T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts – probably the least amount of clothing that would be considered acceptable in the company of one’s bosses. But she was cleaning their house, and they had never specified her wearing a uniform. If they didn’t like what she wore to clean up their whorehouse, then they could come out and tell her.

“Um--”

Before Lola could get another word out, one of the buxom blonds decided to answer for her. 

“She’s the help, isn’t she?” The way