by Cara McKenna
Brazen
Cara McKenna
The rules are simple. Be quiet, look sexy, follow orders.
Caroline’s plans for maintaining a harem of eager young men are going as smooth as could be, until a troublesome newcomer arrives and throws her tidy kingdom into disorder. He seems perfect at first. Breathtaking eyes, gorgeous face, a body custom-made to keep a greedy woman up nights.
But Sean’s got something else too—the will and the power to get under Caroline’s skin in a way she can’t stand. And can’t stay away from. He’s too disobedient to work out as a disposable toy in her harem, but it’d be a shame to waste a willing body as fine as his… Perhaps all the man needs is a little discipline.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Brazen
ISBN 9781419926716
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Brazen Copyright © 2010 Cara McKenna
Edited by Jaynie Ritchie
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication February 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
BRAZEN
Cara McKenna
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the economy for collapsing and giving me the chance to do what I love, full-time. Thanks also to my husband, for everything; to my folks for their enthusiasm and support; and to Amy for her tireless dedication to trashy books.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Jacuzzi: Jacuzzi, Inc.
Chapter One
He was trouble the moment Will hired him.
Now to his credit, Will never once batted an eye in the four years he’s been my assistant. And that includes the day I said, “Will, I need you to screen men for me. For a harem.”
“A harem? Where are we going to fit a harem?” he asked, as if we were discussing the logistics of a dinner party.
“Right here in the brownstone,” I said. “It’s getting lonely around here.”
That was a couple years ago and two years after my divorce. One year after I suspected I should be ready to start dating again but found the idea left me nauseous. And now this old house, for many months too empty to contemplate without risking self-pity, has come alive again, with the smells and the energy of eager young men. Not the sounds, however—silence is one of the requirements of the job.
Over coffee that morning I explained to Will—who enthusiastically shares my love of eager young men, in case you were curious—what exactly I envisioned. It was one of those idyllic, Boston spring days. I believe it was Easter, actually. A day for vibrant rebirth, for the resurrection of my sexuality.
“So,” he said, tapping his pencil eraser on the tile of the breakfast bar. “We need a bunch of young men. Give me details. Give me specs.” I should mention that Will is also my interior designer.
“Not too young,” I said. “How about…twenty to twenty-eight. Tall, five-ten to six-two or thereabouts. Gorgeous, muscular but not too beefy—”
“What’s too beefy? Is Hugh Jackman too beefy?”
“I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,” I said. “But that’s as beefy as I’d prefer.”
“Who’s your ideal body then?” Will’s manicured hand hovered, poised to record my every whim. Bless him.
“Ideally,” I said, thinking. “David Beckham?”
Will jotted this down. “So trim but built.”
“Precisely.But not too slender. I’m thinking surfer-type bodies. Swimmers. Dancers but masculine, obviously. No wrestlers or linebackers.” I had given myself permission to be choosy. If my husband taught me nothing else in our twelve mutually miserable years of marriage, he did drive home the importance of only paying for the best.
“Beckham body,” Will said, making notes. “Whose face, Madam Photographer?”
“I’m actually not too picky there,” I said, picturing poor Will holding a photo of Jakob Dylan up beside each of the candidates before shaking his head and turning them away. “If the vision’s too ideal we’ll never find anyone. Just nice-looking men. Dark hair is best.”
“Right. So, Caroline…” Will trailed off, eyes rolling thoughtfully up to stare at the ceiling.
“Yes?”
His gaze fell to mine. “What about…you know. Downstairs?”
“Sizeable,” I said.
“Cut?”
“I won’t discriminate,” I said, feeling gracious. “But they’ll all need clean bills of health from within a week of the day they start, and they should be able to perform on command. This is a fantasy after all.”
“Any shaving requirements?” Will asked studiously, scribbling.
“Down below? No. Just not messy. And no elaborate topiaries. And no one completely shaved,” I added. “That’s creepy. Ditto piercings.”
“What about tattoos?”
“Use your discretion. Chest hair’s fine, either way, but no back hair please. Facial hair’s probably okay. Sideburns are a plus,” I added. “Take headshots of everyone for me to approve.”
“Good thinking,” Will said. “Now how many, do you think?” He offered me the face he makes when we’re both torn between the same two fabric swatches.
“I don’t think I want more than four or five in the house at a time,” I said. “And not twenty-four/seven, obviously. This is a hobby, not a lifestyle. I’ll make up a calendar and we can fill it in each week. You’re great with schedules, darling. I’m sure you can work it out.”
“Right.” He scanned his notes. “And what will they have to do for you? Or to you?”
“Actually, not that much.” I’d been thinking about that, about what I desired from these young men. “I want them to sit around quietly, looking pretty, with their shirts off,” I concluded. “And when I feel like it, I’ll wave one over and do what I like to him.”
“Do they need staying power?” Will asked, and his businesslike calm made me wonder if he’d ever worked as a casting agent in the adult movie industry.
“Actually, no. I don’t plan on sleeping with any of them.”
His eyebrows finally rose with surprise. Or disappointment. “No?”
I shook my head. “No. I think I just want to take advantage of them. I don’t want a dozen feral young men manhandling me. Although if any of them are willing to manhandle each other for my entertainment, I’ll pay them a little extra.”
“Right.Anything else?”
“Yes, Will. Please fetch me another coffee.”
* * * * *
And so that is how I came to this moment, sitting pri
mly on my overstuffed leather sofa, a glass of decent pinot on the coffee table and a fine young man in his briefs beside me, letting me fondle him. I don’t know this man’s name, or any of the others’. This young man, who’s probably twenty-four or so, tall-ish and built-ish, with brown hair and eyes whose color I haven’t bothered to notice yet, he’s not the one I called “trouble” earlier. This one, whimpering softly as I stroke his erection through the cotton, is exemplary. Quiet, obedient, responsive and passive. I’m half watching Cool Hand Luke on the television and half molesting him.
It’s five in the afternoon on a rainy Thursday in September. Inside my old four-story townhouse on Beacon Street (with a fantastic view of Boston Common—what a legal coup that was) it is cozy and comforting and I am content. If my neighbors have the time to notice how many attractive young men come and go from my home in a given week, I think my excuse is solid; I’ve been a professional photographer for years. And even if they suspect the truth, I honestly couldn’t care any less.
It’s difficult to worry yourself about other people’s opinions when a gorgeous man is sprawled beside you, thighs spread, dick rock-hard, face straining to try to hide how close he is to coming.
“You may moan,” I say magnanimously when I know he’s on the brink.
He takes me up on the offer and soon enough his grunts and groans drown out the movie.
“Push your shorts down,” I say.
His fists are clenched beside his legs where they won’t get in my way, and now he shoves his briefs impatiently down his thighs. The cock I’ve been stroking lazily for at least twenty minutes doesn’t disappoint. Long and thick and dark.
Across the room, seated in my favorite reading chair, is the man I called “trouble”. He is trouble because it’s his first day here and he’s already flouting my rules. One rule is that my boys don’t wear shirts. It’s a kind of anti-uniform. Jeans are fine or just underwear—although no billowy boxers, thank you—and bare feet. Pajama pants, after nine p.m., are also permissible. But no shirts. This trouble-man, he’s wearing a gray tee shirt. He looks good in it but he’s a rule-breaker, nonetheless. I would say it’s a first-timer’s mistake, but something in his eyes tells me he doesn’t make mistakes.
This trouble-man, he’s beautiful. He may be the most stunning man I’ve ever seen, in person or anywhere. I bet he’s in his later twenties. I bet he’s six-feet even and I bet he’s hung. That’s what his eyes are telling me with cold confidence. Piercing eyes with some vague, charismatic sadness about them. Clear, bright blue like a chlorine pool. They make my own water, they’re so intense. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t watch my hand, busy in the other man’s lap. He stares brazenly at my face. Staring is also against the rules. I will deal with him later.
I release the currently suffering young man’s dick and slide the coffee table on its Oriental rug a few feet farther away from us across the hardwood. I move and I kneel, settling between his legs, sliding his underwear all the way off. I can tell from his twitching right hand that he wants to touch himself, that his abandoned erection is paining him in its insistence. I smile to myself, thinking of his suffering and push his knees a little wider.
“Scoot forward,” I say, and he obeys.
His smell is as uniform and as unique as any of the others’. Personal yet universal. Potent and ten times as intoxicating as the wine. Summer is nearly over and his tan is just starting to fade. His thighs are pale and I like the contrast of his white skin against the rich brown leather. I like the contrast of the deep mauve of his cockhead and his blushing cock against the dark hair between his legs. I stroke his inner thighs as I think these things and I make him wait.
I can feel the trouble-man’s eyes on my back. I touch the underside of the helpless man’s dick, and he whimpers again. I wonder if the trouble-man is arrogant enough to be touching himself without permission. I pretend that he’s the one at my mercy because these boys are interchangeable.
Or they’re supposed to be.
“You look good,” I say to the man spread wide before me. I stroke him until the pre-come glistens at his slit, until his groans become maniacal. Now he’s ready. I’m ready. I hold him tight in my fist and lower my mouth to his head. He tastes like he smells. Like desperation and youth.
I’ve tasted this man before, several times. He’s been coming here for a few weeks and he’s good. He has a perfectly suckable cock, not too big around, but enough to feel powerful in my mouth. He never disobeys the no-thrusting rule, never gives me cause to gag, never grabs my hair and tries to set the rhythm. He is an exceptional student. A star pupil. I hope the troublesome newcomer is taking notes. I decide to reward the obedient man. I milk him with one rough hand and flick my tongue over his head rapidly, the way he seemed to love the last few times. His thighs tense and I see the knuckles of his fisted hands go white.
I know, I know. This sounds so detached. What’s in it for me? you might be wondering. Well, there’s no accounting for kink. No link between what we want to want and what we actually do. And this is what I want. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but I’m getting off on this. Somewhere beneath my tasteful, tailored housedress, I’m as wet as a lake. I was dutifully (read, grudgingly) on board with the whole monogamous sex thing for twelve years and my ex-husband, for all his faults, was a good-looking man and a good lover. A courteous and respectful lover, sometimes to a fault. But this, right now…isn’t this exactly what I thought about all those years when my eyes closed and he took me with his mouth or his cock? Some beautiful younger man, muscles strained as I pleasure him, the perfect marriage of dominance and submission. Giving and taking. I like balance. I’m very good at yoga.
And since you’re probably interested, I’ll be forty next month.
And yes, if I’d worked a bit harder at promiscuity at an earlier age, I suppose I could technically have been this boy’s mother. Still, as lurid scandals go, I know mine is vanilla. But this is Beacon Hill, I’ll remind you. My taboos are fittingly conservative in keeping with the address and the decor.
Now back to the matter at hand. In hand.
As all of this is going on, as I’m teasing this handsome young man into hysterics, I’m wound tighter than a bedspring between my legs. I’m on fire. But I can’t show it. I won’t give away my arousal in front of these boys or touch myself or let them touch me. The stark utility of it is what gets me high. Again, contrast—cold control versus hot, quaking helplessness.
But in my mind, the rules are null and void. In my mind, the trouble-man surprises me. He sneaks up from behind as I suck his colleague, and I feel his steady hands ease my dress up over my hips. I can just about hear the clink of his unbuckling belt, the sound of a zipper sliding down over his straining cock. I ache, thinking of him tugging my panties to one side and the feeling of his head pushing into me. I’m so wet, he’d sink like a hot knife into butter. I haven’t been penetrated since my husband, years ago now, and at this moment I want the trouble-man’s hands clamped around my waist, and I want to feel every inch of him sliding in and out. I don’t care which of us he’s aiming to please. I only want the bump of his hips against my ass and the slap of his balls as he plunges all the way in.
That is what I’ll think about tonight when I’m alone. For now the fantasy is cut short. The desperate man at my mercy gives in. I stroke him hard as he comes, wanting every drop he can give me. Not too sweet, not too bitter—just right. His body goes limp as his voice dies. I swallow and stand and wash him down with a sip of wine. I smile at his flushed face, his ragged breaths and I lean over and tousle his hair.
“Very good,” I say. “I hope to see you again this weekend. Talk to Will about schedules.”
He nods deliriously.
I switch off the television and pick up my glass. I pass the man who spells trouble on my way out of the den and catch his eyes for a moment. He breaks another rule by holding the gaze and yet another by smiling. His grin is lopsided, much deeper at one corner and it gives him a di
mple. He smiles like a man with something very clever to say, but he doesn’t break that rule. Not yet anyway.
I smooth a lock of my just-starting-to-gray hair primly behind my ear, and I give the trouble-man a good looking-over. He’s hard behind his fly, which I record mentally as a point for me. I’m going to keep this one waiting a long time.
Chapter Two
It is Sunday evening. It is raining yet again, a heavy shower with the occasional clap of thunder. It is my favorite weather for staying home with four or five young, submissive men and enjoying the simple pleasures of domesticity.
If you’re curious about what these men do when they’re not actively being taken advantage of, it’s quite low-key. Lounge, I’d say, is the best description. They sit on my comfortable furniture in the den or the sitting room or the sunroom and do very little aside from look inviting. They’re allowed to read the paper or browse my artsy magazines, although if I walk into the room they have to put such distractions aside and await instructions. Unlike other sorts of pets, they’re not allowed to stare or drool. They may cast me questioning, eager looks from time to time then glance away discreetly, pretending to find the view out the window supremely engaging.
Tonight I am feeling atmospheric. I love thunderstorms, though it’s highly unlikely that we’ll lose power. Instead I flip off all the switches in the upstairs fuse box and light candles. It’s worth having to reprogram all the clocks the next morning. The lights from the Common leak in, but I pretend it’s the nineteenth century and they’re gas or however that worked. Sometimes a car drives past on the street below with its stereo blaring, but on the whole it’s a convincing fantasy.
The trouble-man is here tonight. He arrived on time with the others, trickling in around seven, admitted by Will, playing the part of my stoical, diplomatic doorman.
