If only Jim and Marsha would listen.
I have to try and make them listen.
Bustling around the kitchen, a slight hum comes from my lips, and I dance around making homemade mozzarella and flatbread dough. Making things from scratch is big for me. It takes longer but I can control the flavors so that the dough is infused with just the right amount of parmesan, basil, and garlic. My mouth waters just thinking about how good it’s going to be.
I’m putting together a simple Italian flatbread. Margherita, restaurants would call it, with a tangy-yet-sweet sauce and globs of runny, milky cheese. Big pieces of basil make it even more aromatic and scrumptious, but it’s this special dough that will propel it into the world of culinary orgasms.
It turns me on, just thinking about it. I wish the boys were here to enjoy the food. Just seeing them shovel my food into their mouths the other night was more satisfying than almost anything I’ve ever experienced before. To be able to cook for people who genuinely enjoy my food is its own reward. To pair that with, well, all the things that came next … that’s my dream life.
I’m just not like other people, I guess. The girls I know at college are into extracurriculars, community service, all topped with getting straight A’s to boot. But there’s a cost, for sure. Because on weekends, they drink a lot, getting completely wasted and shitfaced. Then they sleep with guys right and left, sometimes two or three per weekend. Sadly, the memory’s not even there the next morning. That’s right, between the black outs and hangovers, no one remembers anything.
It’s really sad, in my opinion.
Who would want that?
After my experiences with the Morgans, I definitely want to remember everything.
So yeah, that life doesn’t appeal. I’ve never been with a man, of course, but learning about sex will be much like cooking, for me. It will be experiential, full of noise and touch and taste. So far, these sessions with the Morgan boys have been just what I needed, though I’m certain most of the people I know would be horrified if they knew.
Just as my beautiful flatbread goes into the oven, my parents’ car pulls into the driveway. A few minutes later, my mom bustles in, chattering like a chipmunk about how good Liz Anson’s dye-job looked today.
“Real natural, don’t you think?” she asks. Then she sees me, “Oh, hello, dear.”
“Hi,” I say. “I’m just finishing up a flatbread. Are you hungry?”
Mom flits around the kitchen, dropping her purse on the counter and hanging her keys on the hook by the door. My father grabs the newspaper and heads into the living room, ignoring me.
“We ate at the club, honey,” she says apologetically. “I know you love to cook, baby, but there’s no need. It’s more important to get yourself through school to get a good job. Cooking takes so much time. It’s messy and a hassle, too. Why don’t you just eat out?”
The words stab me in the heart. How can she denigrate what I love?
“Yes, I’m well aware that you’d prefer I didn’t cook,” I say. “It’s my thing, though. In fact, I…”
“Don’t start this again,” Marsha warns in a low tone. “I’m not going to have my daughter slaving away in some hot kitchen somewhere, slopping out food like some lower-class servant.”
I shake my head, exasperated. It’s not lower class to cook. It’s a skill, just like any other, and underappreciated at that.
So I turn to face her, hands on my hips.
“Mom,” come my serious words. “I’m not going to be ladling globs of mac and cheese at the Country Buffet, wearing a hair net and smoking cigarettes between shifts. I’m talking about becoming a chef, creating recipes, working in a high-class restaurant. Possibly writing cookbooks or even having a show on TV. You think that the Pioneer Woman is low-class? She probably has more money than God.”
I was talking about my favorite home ec goddess, Ree Drummond, who has her own show on the Food Channel. I worship Ree, curvy and domestic with that flaming red hair, making her home a safe space for her husband and four kids. That’s what I wanted to be, but my parents aren’t having any of it.
“We’ve talked about this, young lady,” Marsha says, frowning deeply. “Stop it right now.”
And I sigh again. As usual, we’d reached an impasse. My dreams are just too different from what my parents want for me. My mother was a commercial real estate agent before she retired, picture perfect with a slick, dark-brown bob and acrylics on her fingertips. She thinks in blue and white – as in blue-collar and white-collar. And she wants me squarely in the white-collar realm. Food service of any kind, in her mind, is blue-collar. Not good enough for her daughter.
Plus, Marsha’s not the kind of mother who asks if I have a boyfriend every five seconds, which is nice, sort-of. But she desperately wants me to get ahead, and having a boyfriend would do the opposite, taking up precious time when I could be bettering myself.
As if to demonstrate, the woman pulls a Perrier out of the fridge and touches on one of her favorite subjects.
“Did you look into rushing?” she asks, referring to sorority pledge week. “Most girls rush their freshman year but I’m sure sophomore year is fine, too. I want you to get the most of the college experience.”
It’s more like she wants me to meet all the right boys and girls whose rich parents were in the Greek system as well. It’s totally not my thing, getting dolled up in thousand dollar frocks and painting my face full of make-up, while making fake chitchat with social-climbing ladies.
“Um, no,” I mutter, peering into the oven.
But Marsha can’t be deterred.
“Well, you’re almost a shoo-in for Phi Beta Gamma, since you’re legacy,” she says, referring to the sorority she was in, and my aunt and grandma too. “It should be a formality, nothing more.”
I sigh again. When will Marsha get it? Not too soon, evidently.
“Mom,” I say, exasperated, “I do not want to join a sorority. I don’t even want to go back to college.”
Marsha sucks in a shocked breath then.
“Macy Lynn Jones, that is not an option.”
My head shakes miserably.
“Why isn’t it an option? You know I want to go to culinary school. Why can’t I just go and become a chef and stop wasting money on a degree I don’t even want?”
But Marsha is horrified.
“You don’t even know how lucky you are, young lady,” she snaps, eyes narrow and boring holes into my frame. “So many kids struggle to pay for college and here we are, paying your way. Yet you don’t even appreciate it one bit.”
“I do appreciate it,” I cut in meekly. “It’s just that ….”
Marsha twists her head curtly.
“So stop acting like a spoiled brat. And stop with this incessant cooking. This is beneath you, Macy.”
The timer goes off on the oven, punctuating her comment. Ignoring her, I pull the gorgeous flatbread out. It looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine and smells like a miracle. My stomach growls loudly.
But Mom doesn’t care. She stomps to the living room, Perrier in hand and confronts my dad.
“Jim, your daughter is at it again, talking about cooking this and cooking that. Will you tell her that no child of ours is going to work in food service? I swear, what will make her appreciate us? Talk some sense into Macy, will you?”
But my fingers move quickly, and I slice some flatbread, putting it onto a plate. Fortunately, my dad ignores me as I pass, heading up the stairs and into my room. Funny the difference a few days make. They were so happy to see me when I got back that they threw a party. Now they can barely look at me. My grades were bad this semester, so that probably didn’t help. And now I’m – gasp – cooking. Whatever will they do with this daughter who’s such a disappointment?
Defeated, I look around my childhood bedroom. I’m a simple girl. I really am. I like to read and I like to cook. I’d be so happy just doing those things. Well, and maybe some other things, now that I’ve be
en introduced to the Morgans.
Because they’re a part of my plan.
I’m not as dumb as people think.
I’m not clueless.
Because I want a baby.
A real one, cuddly and cute.
It won’t be easy because how many teen girls want babies? In fact, it’ll be damn hard because an infant is a handful and then some.
But I know what I want.
It’s just that what the world wants for me is different.
Starting with my parents. Holy hell, my mom would blow a gasket if I suggested having a baby at eighteen. But honestly, I’ve always loved the idea of holding a child to my breast, suckling milk. I can imagine the smell of the child, the feel of its tiny hands wrapped around my fingers. It makes my belly ache with longing.
And what about college? That’d probably be done for, at least. Who can juggle feedings around the clock with studying, exams, and term papers? Not me, that’s for sure.
So conventional wisdom is I stay in school, graduate, get a fast-track career and land in the CEO seat after twenty years of slogging away.
Too bad that’s not what I want at all.
Not even close.
But one wrinkle. You have to have a man to have a baby. Sure, there’s artificial insemination, but no sperm bank will take me seriously. Eighteen year old naif? Teen with no money, no prospects, no job? Please, I’d have a better chance of landing on the moon.
So yeah, I need to do it the regular way. And for that, it means a boyfriend who enjoys home and hearth as much as I do, who wants a woman to mother his child, to make his meals, to keep his house. I want those things almost more than going off to culinary school. I’d love to create food, but I can do that for my own family. I can share my recipes with the world in written form. My dream is to figure out how to mix these wants into something real.
My parents love me, I know they do, but their dreams aren’t mine. I don’t want to be a disappointment to them, but I also know I can’t follow this path they’ve set out for me. But if I do what I want – if I get pregnant and choose to be a homemaker – they’ll probably never speak to me again.
So what to do?
There are no good choices.
All possible outcomes seem bad.
After all, I had a high school friend, Eliza, who got pregnant when she was sixteen. She was actually pretty excited about it and her boyfriend asked her to marry him. I thought it was really sweet, but my mom called Eliza a slut and a know-nothing, talking for weeks about how hard-working people’s tax dollars would be wasted on welfare for this little teenage whore and her spawn.
Clearly, I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Eliza anymore after that. But it’s not wrong to have sex with someone you love, right? It’s not wrong to have a baby, even if you’re young? But tell that to Marsha. She went on a tirade about how women should keep their legs closed until they finish college and get started on their careers. She’s very big on women having their own income and legacy. I get that, but I also don’t think that’s for me.
God, Marsha is so weird. At this point, I even wonder if my dad ever gets laid. Not that I need that image in my head. It just seems to me my mom has very specific ideas about sex and they probably aren’t that creative or fun.
I mean, making a baby could be a fun process…
With the Morgans especially ...
Those tall, dark-haired, muscular men are all I can think about lately. I’m in a constant state of arousal, it seems, thanks to them.
Who would have guessed that alphas like that – successful, gorgeous, smart – would be into a curvy girl like me? But they are. I know they are by the way their dicks harden when they turn my way, and by the way they look at me like hungry animals ready to pounce on their prey. They like my sinuous S-shape, my full breasts, round belly, and wide ass. They like the way I look, but even more, they like how my body’s so receptive.
Because it’s like I’m a doll, doing whatever they say, opening myself, touching wherever for their pleasure. I’ve been around plenty of pretty boys, even some that seemed kind of interested in me. But never has my curvy form been such a magnet.
Call me a slut, but it feels good. And I’m ready for more. I’ve already gone so far with them, further than I’ve ever gone before, allowing them to lave at my breasts and lick at my pussy. I let them see between my ass cheeks, practically inviting them to fill that darkest of places.
My head shakes, still confused.
Is this really who I am?
Maybe it is.
Oh god, maybe it’s the real me.
But if so, what do I do when this ends? This is summer, and they’re just home to help their father. When they leave, will I ever see them again? They’re all so gorgeous, intense, and commanding. I couldn’t ask for more. So what happens after they this is all over? Sayonara, see ya later, wham bam, thank you ma’am?
Summer or not, I want them. If I asked ten people, at least nine would tell me that dabbling with a bevy of brothers is wrong. More than wrong. Gross. Sinful. Slutty.
But maybe I see men like food. I want to touch and taste and smell. I want to savor and explore. And these magnificent males are willing to allow me to do that. No judgment.
Plus, imagine the babies they could create, with those perfect faces – cheekbones that could cut glass, coal-black hair, dazzling blue eyes, and bodies that can’t be real. And I just need one. Just one seed to plant in my womb.
The thought makes me ache inside, the crease of my jeans now soaked with juice as my hips gyrate mindlessly. I can’t get enough of these men. Some breast play, a shower show, and a few strokes of a man’s hand are not enough for me.
Not anymore, at least.
I want more. And I want it now.
They say I’m a pushover, a teen girl who’s shy and sweet.
And I am that.
But it’s not enough.
Not anymore.
I need more.
More of everything.
And I’m gonna get it … some way, somehow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sam
Being the first of seven sons means you’re expected to be the responsible one. Which means I feel like a total fucking asshole for being the last of my brothers to get home.
Shit. Our dad is really sick and I’ve been in New York, unable to get away from the trading floor long enough to check on the man whose sperm helped create my handsome ass.
He’s a devil, too, my father. Charming and fit, Ted Morgan made all the ladies swoon back in the day. And we know where we got our mile-high libidos, too. I’ve caught him and my mom in the act a couple times over the years.
It’s fucking gross, but yo, go Dad! Fuck, I remember being like six the first time it happened. Ted had Maddy tied to the bed, spread eagle, big bush on full display. He was blowing his wad all over her chest, talking about giving her the pearl necklace she’d always wanted.
Of course, I was too little to understand the scenario before me, but as I grew up, it became apparent how they made seven babies. They went at it like rabbits, day in and day out. My dad, my hero.
Because in my family we work hard and play harder. Maddy stayed home to raise us, which was entirely her choice. And I get it. With seven kids, the cost of sending us all to daycare would have been prohibitive. So yeah, Maddy was a real champ, raising seven high-energy boys while keeping our home nice, the fridge stocked, and servicing my dad’s raging sexual needs.
Of course, she was curvier when we were younger. Back then, she had a few extra pounds around the waist and my dad was the first to point out that a well-fed woman with some meat on her bones was the sign of a woman whose focus was on family, rather than herself.
But Maddy got skinny after we all left the house for college. She got real fit and slim, saying she was finally gonna lose that baby weight with the help of some weird pills, combined with the South Beach diet and Tae Bo. It’s fine I guess. I mean, it’s not for me to say what works a
nd what doesn’t. Billy Banks has sold millions of videos, who am I to question his method?
So it’s fine. My mom’s weight is none of my business. And I guess Ted’s okay with it too. After all, this is the woman who bore him seven sons, let her lead life the way she sees fit. He still bangs her silly, though, I have no doubt. Well, maybe not so much with the stroke and all, but you get what I mean. Mr. Senior Stallion is finding some way, I’m sure.
A text blips on my phone, letting me know where the market finished. I pull double duty, working for a hedge fund and also serving as Chairman for my brothers’ company. It sounds fancy, but it’s not. The titles don’t mean shit because we all do some of everything. It was my connections that got the twins the funding they needed to get off the ground. I got VC investors in the door and sold them on the deal, dazzling the dudes with numbers and spreadsheets, comps and predictions. Hey, that’s my specialty.
But there’s no outside money anymore. We paid off those fuckers early and took back a hundred percent ownership. Then I put some of our assets into the markets, and my golden touch was verified as the cash grew into a monstrous pile.
So yeah, my little bros’ kernel of an idea back in college is now a massive behemoth, with a shit-ton of asset in diversified investments, minting the green stuff like we own Fort Knox. I’m a wheeler-dealer, with only one motive – to win, and win big.
But you wouldn’t know we’re filthy rich. I mean, my mom likes a Louis Vuitton handbag now and then, but what woman doesn’t? And my bros have vices, for sure. For Smith, it’s cars. He’s got a designer ride for every day of the week. That fucker’s dark blue Maserati is in the driveway right now, next to Ford’s custom Harley.
But don’t be fooled. Sure, Ford looks like a grease monkey, always wearing those dirty t-shirts while fiddling around with his bikes. But that asshole graduated from the best law school in the country, and serves as chief attorney at our outfit. Yeah, that’s right, when we do battle in the courtroom, it’s Ford who gets dressed up, making our case to the judge.
So yeah, we all have a role at the company. Smith as CEO. Me as Chairman. Ford as general counsel. Matt as our marketing dude, and the twins running ops. Even Trent’s got a place. Sure he’s a doctor, but soon he’ll be the company doctor, in charge of the health and well-being of a thousand employees. Mark my words. We’ll turn him to the dark side, it’s just a matter of time.
The President and the Starlet: A Forbidden Romance Page 47
