“And?”
Smith shrugs.
“She loved it, what can I say? And get this. Trent was in on it too. He shows up at the “taste test” and the four of them suck at her tits like hungry dogs.”
Damn.
This is one special girl.
My interest’s piqued, for sure.
But Smith’s got more to share.
“So yeah. And then the next day, Ford hurt himself working on that heap-of-shit bike. The girl runs out in some tiny t-shirt and her panties, playing Florence Nightingale. Gets blood all over herself. And then these assholes convince her to take a shower. In front of them. Nude and steamy. Damn,” Smith continues, eyes faraway. “Wish I’d been there. Matt says she put on a helluva show, coming like a champ under the water. Real squirter, he says.”
I tally the count in my mind. That’s Matt, Tim, Will, Trent and Ford. Okay, five out of seven. Doing well.
“What about you?” comes my rumble. “You get a taste yet?”
Smith nods slowly.
“I’m a lucky man, dude. After the shower, she comes floating down the stairs in only Tim’s t-shirt, and lets me pet her sweet, wet cunt while we talk. In front of everyone.”
Hot damn. I’m hard just hearing all of this. Adjusting my cock, a long, slow breath escapes.
“Well, shit. I’ve gotta to meet this Macy Jones then.”
Scrunching my brow, I try to think back. But nada. I don’t remember this little girl next door. Maybe my mom told me the neighbor had a baby, but fuck, I was a little bastard then, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four at the time, dabbling with working girls. Why would I care about some neighbor’s baby?
Now, though? I care. I care so much that my dick is stretching out from its slumber. I banged the stewardess on my flight from the city, but that was hours ago, a brief interlude in the Mile High Club.
And this is completely different. This woman could be the mother of our child, the answer to our hopes. My cock knows how important this is.
Smith’s still in his reverie though.
“You should see the girlie,” he says. Shit, his boner’s growing as well, long and thick under his pants. “Long, curly hair. Big, brown eyes. Full breasts, luscious mouth. Small waist but thick around the midsection and even thicker in the rump. She’s a dream.”
I groan.
“Stop, man,” I say, putting up a hand. “Unless you want to watch me jack off right here and now.”
Smith shrugs.
“Do whatever you want,” he says. “Whip that shit out. But I’m telling you, you might want to save that load. Macy’s responsive and sexy, but also shy. Slutty but subservient. Smart as whip, and a good cook too. Fucking perfect for us.”
Holy mother of god. How can one woman be all these things? Sexy but shy? Slutty but subservient? A goddess in the kitchen? She’s a mass of different adjectives, yet every piece perfect, complementing one another.
“Goddamn,” I grunt. “Fuck.”
“You won’t be let down,” my bro answers, giving me a knowing grin. “You’ll see. Because Mom’s invited the Joneses over for dinner tonight, so you’ll meet her soon enough. Just don’t blow it.”
I know what he’s saying. With the seven of us there, all eyes on the sweet brunette, what girl could handle it? It’s more like she’d crack from the pressure, or even worse, run screaming when she realizes what we want.
So I brace myself. Dinner will be the first real test. Seven men and one woman. But there’s no sense in getting carried away. Because we have an eighteen year-old nymphet on our hands, but what are the chances that she’s ready? To have a baby? To take up with seven men? And seven brothers, no less.
Probably less than zero. Experience has made me wary. So downing my drink in one gulp, I stand, rising to full height in the tiny living room.
“See ya,” I grunt, heading up to my childhood room. There are charts to pore over, and more money to be made. Might as well take my mind off the female because frankly, the chances of Macy being the one are slim. So I’m not gonna get carried away. Sure, it’ll be great to get a look. But more likely, the teen girl isn’t gonna be able to handle us once she realizes the full scope of what we want … or so I think.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Macy
Biting my lip, I peer into the closet. Nerves make my hands jittery, and I glance around wide-eyed. Because this is going to be so awkward. We’re going to the Morgans’ house for dinner tonight, but the parents have no idea what’s going on between the boys and me. So they’ll be oblivious, chatting like nothing’s wrong, smiling and making nice.
But something tells me the Morgan sons aren’t going to let me off easily. I doubt they’ll be on their best behavior, because what is best behavior for them? Just a quick swipe under my dress, nothing more? A mere tap to my asshole, instead of a full-on rub?
Shaking my head, my insides liquefy again. Oh god, oh god. What to do? I want things to be perfect, yet at the same time, everything feels crazy out of control.
But clothes. Right, clothes. At least I can control what I wear. My fingers grab a purple wrap dress, and I smooth it on. Okay, during high school graduation, it was a little loose, but now the fabric hugs every curve. Oh shit, oh shit! I can’t go to a family dinner with my boobs popping out of the deep V, it’s completely inappropriate. So grabbing a blazer, I hastily cover myself. Okay, that’s better. It doesn’t exactly match, but at least I’m decent and ready for a family dinner.
Twisting and turning before the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. It’s okay that I’m a little plump. I’m a chef, after all, and cooking and eating food is what makes me more authentic than some of the skinny ladies on TV who never eat what they serve. Or worse yet, they eat it then barf it up when no one’s looking. Yep, that happens, believe it or not. There’s a little bowl hidden where the camera can’t see so they can spit out what’s in their mouth.
But no, that’ll never be me. If the Morgan boys appreciate my curves, then I’m gonna live it up. Even if they don’t stick around after this summer stint, I’m not ready to go back to my old self. There’s a new Macy, ready to break out.
“Ready honey?” my mom voice calls up the stairs.
I sigh, coming down slowly.
“Yep, ready,” is my mutter.
As usual Marsha is perfect down to the tiniest detail. Her brown bob gleams, nails done to a shine. By contrast, my curls are wild and riotous, surrounding my face in a halo. Whereas my mom’s wearing a face full of make-up, lashes like big, black spiders, I just have on subtle lip gloss and concealer.
Marsha looks at me critically then.
“No need to wear that jacket,” she says. “It doesn’t match honey, and you know how the Morgans are. So stylish all the time. Maybe you could make a good impression on the boys, they might be able to get you a job somewhere.”
I almost choke. A job is the least of my worries right now, especially when it comes to my neighbors.
But I nod numbly.
“It’s a little cold,” I murmur. “Maybe I’ll take off the jacket when we’re inside.”
Marsha turns away.
“Suit yourself,” is her careless reply. “Jim? You ready? I don’t want to be late.”
And carefully, we pick our way across the yard and onto the Morgan’s property. Going in the back door, Maddy Morgan is slaving by herself in the kitchen.
“Hi there,” she says breathlessly, pounding something with a pestle. Holy cow! Is Maddy making her own pesto with fresh basil? My respect for the woman skyrockets.
“Oh hello Maddy,” coos my mom. “How’s it going?”
Immediately I rush over.
“Can I help?” I ask, looking down at the stone bowl. Sure enough, the citrusy scent of fresh basil rises to my nostrils, mouth watering hungrily.
But Maddy shakes her head, shooing us with fluttery hands.
“No, no, you’re the guests. Go ahead and say hello to Ted, he’s waiting for you folks in the livin
g room. Besides, I’ve been cooking for a full house for years, it’s nothing new,” she says with a smile.
I nod, and the three of us head out to the common area. Unfortunately, Mr. Morgan is in a sad state. He’s in a wheelchair by the table, the left side of his mouth pulled down and immobile. In fact, it looks like his whole left side is impaired, and my mother scurries over to his side, hugging him and gushing over how sorry she is that he’s been so sick.
My father salutes him. “Hell of a hit to your golf game, hey Ted?”
Mr. Morgan waves his right hand dismissively.
“Temp’rary,” he manages, the functional side of his mouth smiling.
My parents sit down and tell me to head into the living room to say hi to the Morgan boys. But before I do, Mr. Morgan holds out his right hand and when I take it, he pulls me in close.
“Such a pretty one,” he manages, wheezing a bit. “So pretty.”
I blush and he chuckles. Man, some guys. Even when they’re seventy and partially paralyzed, they still got game. No wonder the boys are the way they are.
But where is everyone? As my parents chitchat with Mr. Morgan, I make my way into the living room. And here’s the answer. Seven tall sentinels look at me, making it difficult to breathe. Seven pairs of blue eyes, all trained on me the minute I walk into the room.
I note that the last brother, Sam, has finally arrived. He’s quite a bit older than me. His dark hair is wavy like his brothers’ but has a little bit of grey strewn throughout. He still has the Morgan build, though, muscular and fit. And his eyes are that bright blue of topaz Caribbean waters.
Man, what a silver fox. All dressed up in a button-down shirt and dark jeans. In fact, all of the guys look nice tonight, in designer clothing, freshly showered and smelling like musk and pine. Immediately, my senses prickle.
“Hi,” comes my soft greeting. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Is that all I can say? Really? After all that’s happened? A blush covers my cheeks immediately.
But the brothers are smooth.
“Hey Macy,” greets Matt. “Good to see you. Macy, this is our brother Sam.”
Sam looks unimpressed as his eyes look me up and down, assessing every inch from the crown of my head to the peep-toe heels on my feet. He takes my hand and shakes it.
“Nice to meet you,” comes a smooth growl. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
My heart starts beating fast and furious. Because Sam’s so gorgeous and the fact that he’s older just makes teacher-student fantasies run through my head. I press my thighs together to keep from getting too wet, squirming a little already.
But Sam doesn’t seem affected at all. In fact, the opposite. He’s a little dismissive, looking off into the distance. Like he’s not nearly as impressed with little Macy Jones as his brothers have been.
Oh shit. Or maybe he knows what I’ve done? Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed. Maybe I really am a whore, a super slutty piece of trash. Maybe what I’ve done is not okay, even if it does feel good.
The confidence I came in with has now left the building, and I’m wrapped in a full-body blush. Sam’s eyes go dark as he takes in my physical reaction to this encounter, but still, there’s no glimmer of lust or arousal or even interest. Just flat blue.
But the other brothers are on a different wavelength. Matt sits and pulls me onto his lap, his lips to my ears. “Don’t worry about him,” he whispers. His breath on my skin makes me shiver. “He’s a crabby old bastard but he likes you.”
This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be sitting on a man’s lap, ready to let go after five seconds.
But I can’t help it. My insides are already burning hot, despite Sam’s cool reception, and I let Matt’s hand wander up beneath my skirt, scrunching the material around my hips. Oh god, oh god, so soon? But like a woman in a daze, I can’t help it. I’m caught in a dream, and it’s the best dream ever.
So Matt continues. His brothers watch intently as those big fingers press ever so lightly against the thin satin of my panties. They’re a pale pink, and sure enough, his fingers come away damp, making the alpha chuckle. He spreads my legs wider for everyone to see, and there’s a wet spot at my crotch, a tell-tale sign of arousal.
A low, throaty moan rises in the room, seven pairs of eyes on my steaming cunt. The brothers tense, like coils ready to pop, as Matt rubs my clit through my underwear, his other hand moving into the V of my dress, splaying against the skin of my breast.
“Let’s get this off you, hmm?” he rumbles low. “Will, get her jacket.”
In a flash, Will’s by our side, helping me struggle out of the blazer. And then it’s just me in this too-tight dress, sitting in the lap of a handsome man with six brothers watching ravenously.
I’m nervous. Real nervous. The men are so intense, and with our parents just one room away, a thrill runs down my spine. Because it’s playing with fire. If before, we’d taken risks in the kitchen and shower, this time we’re asking for it. Literally, Maddy, Ted, Jim, and Marsha are mere feet away, talking like nothing’s wrong. I can hear their voices even, a low murmur punctuated by the occasional chuckle.
But the Morgans can’t be stopped.
“So Macy,” Sam drawls, “I hear you’re quite the budding chef.”
What? Why is he asking me this when I’m literally draped all over his brother, legs spread, panties wet?
But I nod, trying to keep my voice unaffected, even as Matt’s hands do a number on my body.
“I love to cook,” comes my soft mewl. “It makes me happy.”
Sam nods approvingly, eyes still sharp.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Sam says. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
What? What kind of question is that? Now, of all times?
“No of course not,” comes my sputter, sitting up slightly. “No, definitely not.”
Sam moves on, expression suddenly hot.
“Do you like what my brother is doing to you right now?” he asks quietly, that voice a low rumble. His head is tilted. I’d say he looks like a lion crouched in the grass, focused on its prey. That posture is curiously relaxed, but his gaze follows every move of Matt’s hand, weighing every answer carefully.
And unbidden, a whimper escapes my lips, a precursor to what I suspect will be a four-alarm wail. Because I can’t resist. The sensations are building like a tsunami, magnificent tension pooling in my belly. I don’t want to let go here, with our parents so close. Yet, I do. I want it, and I can feel it rumbling, the steady build like a storm drawing close.
“Yes,” comes my breathy pant, my eyes dazed already. “Yes, I like it.”
“Good,” he says, eyes bright.
For sure, I’m gonna explode now. For sure, it’s gonna happen, Matt’s rubbing my clit smooth and steady, driving me to a peak. But suddenly Maddy Morgan’s voice pierces my dream.
“Dinner’s ready! Boys!” she calls. “Dinner’s ready! Please escort our guests into the dining room.”
Like a startled rabbit, I jump off Matt’s lap. Oh my god! Seven pairs of eyes are still taking me in, appreciating the wetness between my thighs, the big boobies bouncing as I struggle.
Because I need to get dressed. In a rush, I push myself back into the purple wrap, struggling to whip those creamy curves into shape.
And like a gentleman, Sam steps up with my blazer in hand.
“Missing this?” he says, one eyebrow quirked.
“Oh god,” I rush breathlessly, struggling into the fabric. “Oh god.”
And just like that, I’m covered up again, like nothing’s wrong. Nothing except for the fact that the atmosphere in the room is still heavy with lust, the boys smiling lazily, adjusting themselves.
“Come on,” comes my breathless whisper. “We gotta go.”
And those big forms unfurl, stretching long legs to wander into the dining room like nothing’s wrong. Oh my god, oh my god. Did we really come so close? It’s impossible, my parents are right here.
; Yet it really did happen, and I try to catch my breath, hoping the flush on my face is mistaken as just being hot, and not aroused.
Fortunately, Mrs. Morgan has made quite a spread, and everyone’s attention turns to the food. Two pans of gooey lasagna on the table along with a huge bowl of salad, a mound of garlic bread, a platter of green bean almondine, and some stuffed mushrooms. Color me impressed that she managed to pull all of this together on her own.
The boys dig in, heaping praise on their mother for always keeping their bellies full.
“Fantastic,” compliments Trent.
“Absolutely incredible,” growls Ford. “You did great, Ma.”
Maddy Morgan beams.
“I love to cook,” she says. “And I love it most when it’s for my boys.”
A blush rises on my cheeks again. Because I would love cooking for these men too, every day of the year. How strange that we get pleasure from the same thing, even though our viewpoints are completely different.
Conversation flows easily, but my nervousness grows because Marsha is all about making connections, and the Morgan boys are an opportunity not to be missed.
“Tell me about your law practice,” she coos, turning towards Ford.
I look at the big man, shocked. Really? Turns out that Ford, Mr. Motorcycle, is also an attorney. Who would’ve thought that this Harley-riding, barrel-chested alpha with the devil-may-care attitude would be a successful business lawyer?
His Baby: A Babycrazy Romance Page 50
