****
The crowd started out as a dozen of people loitering outside the concert venue, but as time passed, more people trickled in and then it had become some sort of silent explosion, with multitudes of gawking tongue-tied females of all ages converging on just one spot.
It was enough to have Charles Baker, the venue’s head of security, call for backup. If this turns into a stampede, Charles thought, those three are definitely to blame.
He could understand why Staffan Aehrenthal was here, being the special VIP guest performing for Celsius’ tour. But what about the other two puss-fucks or whatever it was that those women called them? Why in hell were they here and trying to turn what should have been a peaceful security gig into a potential disaster?
Three billionaires who were too damn attractive for their own good – all in one place! If Charles had been born a woman, he supposed he would have been speechless with sheer awe, too. One of the three men laughed, and the rise of excitement from the crowd was palpable.
“Get into position,” Charles snapped at his men.
Another spoke quietly, and then all three turned around.
Charles turned around too, hoping that whatever it was – it would be something that would get the three billionaires out of his turf as quickly and safely as possible. The women around him were releasing all kinds of hungry vibes, like sharks circling their prey.
At that moment, he did not envy any of the three men at all.
These women would tear them apart given the chance.
****
Saffi stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the trio of Pussketeers waiting outside, lounging against a stretch limousine parked directly in front of the venue’s main gate.
The man laughing out loud was Constantijin Kastein, the media tycoon and Netherlands’ #1 Playboy, golden-copper hair glinting under the moonlight. The man standing next to him spoke, and he looked up, his silver eyes glinting with knowing amusement as he looked at Saffi.
At that moment, Saffi could definitely understand why Yanna Everleigh, Constantijin’s fiancée, and millions of other women were so in love with him.
The man who had spoken to Constantijin was the one she had just recently met. But of course Saffi knew of Rathe Wellesley, and it wasn’t just because he was Staffan’s friend. Tall, with chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes, Rathe was said to be the epitome of the Iron Duke, who was his great-great-great-something-grandfather. He was also England’s #1 Heartthrob, a title that the coolly analytical Rathe had always despised.
Rathe raised a brow at her, but his blue eyes were smirking, as if knowing something she didn’t.
If she hadn’t been nervous earlier, Saffi was beyond nervous now. She took several deep breaths before allowing herself to meet the gaze of the last Pussketeer.
Staffan Aehrenthal was leaning against the passenger door of the limo. He was freshly showered and wore a long-sleeved striped cotton sweater, slacks, and stylish-looking loafers. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her.
Saffi had curled her long dark hair for the occasion, and she matched the sexy-wild hairstyle with dark mascara on her eyes. She was wearing a cropped shirt that would have exposed her black bra if she raised her hand even an inch above her waist, and denim shorts so short that it had Staffan gritting his teeth while his c**k immediately reacted in response to the sight, growing engorged beneath his pants.
Ah f**k, only Saffi made him hot with fury and arousal at the same time.
Saffi’s mind became a blank when she found all three Pussketeers gazing at her.
Oh my God, how could she resist this?
Staffan cursed, surprising his friends. But he had seen where Saffi’s hand was going and he knew exactly what she was planning. “Saffi,” he growled. “Don’t you dare---”
She took out her iPhone, pressed the shortcut for camera, and took a snapshot of them. Then she quickly opened the photo using a social media app, the one that was linked to all her accounts. Pinterest, Tumblr, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook – it made it easy to blast the message to the entire universe with a single click.
OMG. Staffan Aehrenthal with the two other Pussketeers in the house! #definelucky
Saffi pressed the SEND button.
“---post a photo.”
A clicking sound confirmed her post’s successful upload to the various social media accounts she managed as StarryEyed4SA, mere seconds before someone swiftly retrieved the iPhone from her hand. Saffi looked up and found herself locked in a circle of billionaires.
Two were grinning, one was scowling.
“Saffi.” Staffan’s voice was quietly menacing.
Saffi cringed. “I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry. The world needed to see---”
“---anything except another goddamn photo of any of us.” Staffan growled the last word out, his f**k-me eyes blazing.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, looking down. She heard Staffan sigh over her head, but no one else spoke. After a moment, Saffi was unable to bear the silence any longer. She cleared her throat. “Umm…what’s…the plan?”
Staffan nodded.
Constantijin grinned.
Rathe sighed before taking off his pinstriped blazer. “Here you go, Saffi.” His voice was clear and dulcet, very duke-like if Saffi said so herself. Not that, she thought, she had met any other duke aside from Rathe.
Looking inquiringly at Staffan and getting his nod of approval, she gingerly took the blazer from Rathe and put it on. She supposed Staffan didn’t want anyone to catch sight of her bare belly, which wasn’t really sexy at all. But – Saffi had no choice. She had promised Brittany that they’d dress like twins, and Brittany had unfortunately chosen to crop her I’m A Celsius Fan shirt ala Britney Spears during her teen years.
“Sorry, Saffi, I lost the bet.”
It was all the warning she had before Rathe bent and swept her up to heft Saffi over one broad shoulder.
“Aah!”
Camera bulbs flashed amidst hundreds of clicking sounds as Rathe started to walk towards the limousine, flanked by Constantijin and Staffan at each side. He said apologetically under his breath, “Constantijin cheated. He really should be the one doing this.”
Constantijin retorted, “I did not cheat, Your Grace. You just suck at poker. You always did.”
Ignoring that, Rathe told Saffi, “You two should just admit to your relationship.”
“Not just yet,” Saffi protested. “The other fangirls would be crushed.”
“Saffi, my dear,” the duke murmured as he bent down to deposit her inside his limousine, “Can’t you see that Staffan’s already crushed every other woman’s heart since he met you?”