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I finally managed to wiggle my way out of the twins' sticky grasps.
It had been a week since I moved into their house. They abruptly forced me to move in with them, without giving me a chance to go home and pack my things.
They brought me to a store to buy some clothes after my first day at work, but most of the clothes were picked by them. The majority of them had a plunging neckline that didn't fit my tastes. I ended up wearing the same three blouses for the whole of last week, even wearing one blouse two days in a row because the laundry couldn't finish on time.
The twins always had some excuse to keep me staying in the house: they were lonely; the movie hadn't ended; they needed someone to cook breakfast. They were lame excuses, at best. We spent most of the time rutting—that was the main reason why I hadn’t gotten a chance.
It was partially my fault. I tried to find excuses for myself, too. I couldn't get enough of the twins, and the paparazzi were particularly de-motivational.
Somehow, I convinced them to let me go one hour ago—it probably had something to do with my constantplaining about not having my stuff. They wanted to get Tyrone to fetch my things instead, but I was having none of that.
I understood that, as rich twin billionaire heirs, they were used to getting everything they wanted, but there had to be limits to how controlling they could be.
I told them if they kept me in the house, there'd be no sex for a week. I knew they hardly believed me—I hardly believed myself. And then I told them there wouldn't be any breakfast. My bargaining chips were laughable, at best. I doubted they really cared much for breakfast, but they sarcastically acted like they did and let me go.
We had been in the midst of watching a movie...
