My eyes peel open after passing out on the couch in my living room, chest bare and a fresh bottle of whiskey cradled against my cheek. Normally, if a noise wakes me up at this hour of morning, it’s the slurping sound of lips around my cock.

But I didn’t wind up bringing anyone home last night, and these aren’t blowjob noises—they’re knocks.

I run my fingers through my messy hair, groaning as I head for the door. I can’t remember ordering delivery—pizza, strippers, or otherwise. So, tired as I am, I’m curious to see what the fuck’s going on.

I’ve had to blink a couple of times to be sure I’m seeing right once I open the door.

Three women are standing on my doorstep, their arms crossed authoritatively. They’re all taller than I am, which is saying something, since I’m easily 6’4”.

“Ladies,” I greet them, with a charming smile and a nod in each of their directions. They’re not exactly my type, but being polite never hurt anyone. “How can I help you?”

The middle broad—the smallest of the three, so help me—gives me the kind of fee fi fo fum smile that gives the impression she skipped dinner and I’m about to be her midnight snack.

“Mr. Ambrose, is it?” she asks. “We’re here to inform you that you’ve been…purchased.”

The way she says it has me feeling more like a toy than a person. But then I remember the MaleOrder.com bullshit…and I recall how that’s exactly what I am right now.

“By all means.” I make a gesture to welcome them inside.

The smaller of the three walks in first, followed by her fellow Amazon warriors. I swear, each one of them could tell me they knew Wonder Woman and I’d believe them. One of them even looks like she could make Superman her bitch.

“Isn’t it a little late in the night?” I ask, scratching the back of my head. I’m still waking up. “Couldn’t you grab me in the morning or something?”

“No, we couldn’t, Mr. Ambrose. You see, we have a strict twenty-four-hour delivery guarantee policy. And we don’t disappoint our clients.”

“Oh, well, do I get to know who’s purchased me?”

I’m just hoping it isn’t someone like Betty White. Unless it was Betty White.

A man has standards, naturally.

“No, you don’t.”

She gives me that look again, and I just smile and nod.

Damn, they’re intimidating. It’s kind of hot.

“Well, nothing wrong with a little mystery,” I reason.

“Indeed,” the small-ish one agrees.

The two larger ones walk around my place while the smaller one takes in more of my physique.

I can’t blame her.

I have the body of Adonis. Hell, Adonis himself probably would’ve wished he looked this good.

I grab the neck of my whiskey bottle and take a drink while the smaller one steps toward me.

I wonder now if this is where they tell me they’re the ones who bought me and that they’re literally going to eat me alive.

“Your pants. Remove them.”

An eyebrow raises in curiosity, and I fight back the urge to laugh. Her tone and her look tell me she isn’t playing around.

“No dinner and movie, first?”

The other two return and look at me with arms folded over their chests. None of them laugh…or crack a smile. They just stare at me like the prime cut T-bone that I am.

I take another swig of my whiskey, and set it down on my living room table.

My thumbs slide down under the elastic band of my pajamas. Admittedly, they’re not all that sexy, but fuck it. They’re pajamas.

I push them down over my hips and let them fall to my feet. I step out from the heap and put my hands on my hips.

I can see them look down at my cock, and fight the urge to react, just letting their eyes grow wide for themselves. Not that I blame them.

Even when I’m not hard, my uncut cock is thick and long. Like Subway-foot kind of long, though I’d like to think I cost more than just five dollars.

I resist the urge to swing my fucking cock around like a helicopter and decide to wear my most charming smile for them instead.

“So? Liking the angle of the dangle?”

Fucking crickets. Red lights are flashing. Time to exit stage left. But they circle around me, inspecting me for any flaws. And I know they won’t find any.

And they don’t.

I’m Will fucking Ambrose.

“You’ll do. I’m sure the client will be satisfied.”

“Well, I’m a satisfaction-guaranteed kind of guy.”

None of them show any signs of amusement nor even a hint of a smile.

I’m starting to think that maybe they’re robots, not women.

“I’m sure you are, Mr. Ambrose.”

The small one reaches into her pockets. I’m tempted to tell her no flash photography. But it isn’t a camera she pulls out.

It’s a giant fucking neon pink ribbon. And when I say neon pink, I mean that it could be used as billboard in Vegas and still look fucking ostentatious.

“Is that what you’re going to use to blindfold me with so that I still won’t know where we’re going and who my patron is?”

“No, Mr. Ambrose. This is for you to wear. And only this.” The small one points to my cock.

The three of them finally smile.

Now I feel like I’ve sold my soul to the devil. Or, at the very least, his three Amazonian robot wives.

But I’m Will Ambrose. I can play it fucking cool.

“Gladly.”

I take the ribbon from the woman with the most arrogant smile I can muster.

Now if only I knew how to tie a proper fucking bow.

So here I am; in Downtown Chicago of all fucking places. Stark fucking naked save for the pink bow tied firmly around my massive cock.

I look like I belong on some Vegas stage rather than the streets of an upscale Chicago neighborhood.

If I get jumped, tell my sister it’s her fucking fault.

I ring the doorbell to the penthouse that the website people dropped me off at.

And, man, am I not prepared for her.

The woman’s gorgeous, with dark hair and eyes that look like fucking sunsets. And she has a killer body that I want to fuck, lick, and suck till sunrise.

Fucking.

Gorgeous.

“Hey,” I say to her, tilting my head and licking my lips like the cocky asshole I am. “Special delivery?”

My cock twitches just looking at her, which is fucking perfect—because that way, I know exactly where her eyes are going.

I’m going to make this woman mine.