But the minute I walk into the kitchen my mom has me in a bear hug.
“There you are!” Marsha coos, dancing side to side, not letting go. “We missed you!”
“Um, you just saw me at breakfast,” comes my mumble.
Mom lets go and puts a finger on my nose.
“Boop!” she chirps, doing this dumb thing she’s done ever since I was a little kid. “You can’t blame me for being excited. You’re my only daughter! I was so lonely without you all year.”
I stand stiffly. This is just a show by Marsha. She loves making like she’s an adoring mother, but really, the situation’s a lot more complicated. But this isn’t the time to fight. A quick peek down confirms that half of my breast is pushing its way out of my bathing suit top after all that hugging. I subtly try to squeeze everything back in and say, “I need a new swim suit, Mom. This one is too tight.”
Marsha frowns for a moment.
“Maybe a little,” she acknowledges, “But it’s because you’re a big girl. Big girls have big assets, and it just means that they’re feeding you well at school,” she announces.
My face goes red. Trust Mom to proclaim to the world that I’m a size extra large. But oh well, there’s nothing to be done about it. Marsha will always be Marsha, and no matter how often I tell her not to do something, she’ll always do what she wants.
So I sigh. And just for show, she swoops me into another hug, announcing again how happy she is that I’m home. When I offer to help with food, she clucks, shaking her head.
“You go on outside,” she says, shooing me towards the backyard. “Besides, I expect the Morgans to arrive anytime now. You remember the Morgans, honey? They have seven sons. Seven boys! If I were Maddy Morgan, I’d probably be in a mental facility by now, run ragged with no space to breathe. But Maddy is fantastic, so calm all the time.”
I nod. I do, in fact, remember the Morgans. Somewhat. Vaguely. We never interacted because the boys were so much older than me. But it was always a joke around the house because what family has seven sons? The level of testosterone over there must have been enough to kill an elephant.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember much more than a couple lanky teenage boys zooming around the neighborhood on skateboards. So I shrug nonchalantly.
“Sure,” is my comment. “Let me know when they arrive.”
And fortunately, my bikini manages to stay put as I arrange myself on a lounge chair, stretching out in the sun. Maybe I can just greet people from here, like a queen. I’ll say I have an ankle injury. It’s for the better because if I move, there’s definitely going to be an accident. This is all for the public interest, I tell myself, lying back, sunglasses on top of my head.
But then I hear my mom’s voice again.
“Hello there!” Marsha squeals, throwing her arms around a tall, fit blonde. Even though they’re about the same age, the two women look completely different. My mom is short and pudgy. She hides it well behind professional clothes, but there’s no doubt that Marsha’s wider than she is tall.
By contrast, this woman is long and lean with toned arms and legs, perky breasts, and a great tan. She’s got a short, blonde bob and wears designer sunglasses and a bright blue beach cover-up. She could be a tennis instructor at a fancy country club, or a professional golf player.
“Macy,” my mom calls, gesturing to me. “Come and meet Mrs. Morgan. You remember Mrs. Morgan from next door?”
Slowly, I get up and make my way over. Up close, the blonde is even more tanned and athletic, bursting with health. This is Mrs. Morgan? How in the world does she have seven kids? There’s no hint of pooch on her belly, her abs tight and firm. Damn, I’m always fighting my gut, and I haven’t even been pregnant once.
But Mrs. Morgan smiles widely.
“Hi there Macy,” she says. “Long time no see.”
“Hi,” I say, head down, holding out my hand. “Nice to see you again.”
I figure we’ll shake, but instead Mrs. Morgan takes my hand and pulls me in for a hug. Then she holds me away, her hands on my shoulders, giving me the once over.
“Look at you,” she burbles. “Looking healthy after your first year away.”
What? How come these middle aged ladies get to say whatever they want about my appearance? First my mom, and now this?
“I, um,” I start to say, glancing down and flushing.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she interrupts. “The boys like a little meat on a woman’s bones. You’re just gorgeous. I’ll probably have to cage my boys to keep them from bothering you all summer.”
She’s always been kind, but it doesn’t make me feel better as I consider that she’s probably double my age, but half my weight. God.
But Mrs. Morgan is real nice, and there’s nothing scary about the woman. So I manage a reply.
“Oh thanks,” I say, trying to appear confident. “Where are your boys?”
I feel weird saying boys because by my count, they’re not boys at all. I think the youngest is probably nearing thirty and the oldest is probably in his forties. Not boys at all, nope.
“All on their way home, actually,” she says, stepping over to claim a lounge chair. She tosses her towel and bag down and slips fancy sandals off. “Unfortunately, Ted had a stroke recently.”
Oh no. Immediately, I feel terrible. Here I was worrying about inconsequential stuff while her husband’s gravely ill?
“I’m sorry,” is my sincere reply, sitting next to her on the deck. “I think my mom did tell me that. How’s he doing?”
But instead of replying right away, the blonde turns to my mom, arranging platters of food along a table near the house, and yells, “Marsha, do you need any help, honey?”
My mom waves a dismissive hand at her. “No, dear, you and Macy go ahead and catch up.”
Mrs. Morgan turns back to me. “Sorry, sweetie, what were we talking about?”
“Mr. Morgan’s stroke,” I say slowly.
That brings her back to reality.
“Oh yes,” she says, eyes shimmering with tears suddenly. “The stroke was so scary. And surprising. Ted is such an active man. We cycle together twice a week and run together three times a week. Just shows that you can’t outwit Mother Nature.”
“But,” she continues, taking a deep breath. “Some good has come out of it because the boys have all agreed to come home for a bit of the summer. Their dad needs extra help and it sounded like the right time to have everyone under one roof. I wish it were under easier circumstances,” she says reflectively. “But when crisis strikes, my boys band together.”
Wow. They definitely must be a close-knit family, which is so unlike my relationship with my parents.
“That’s awesome,” I say sincerely. “I’m so glad to hear you’ll have your sons’ support.” And at that moment, I see a guy fiddling with the pool gate. Mrs. Morgan hears the scrape of the metal as well, and turns, clapping her hands.
“You’re gonna get a chance to meet one of them now,” she says to me with a smile. “Mattie,” she calls. “Come say hi to Macy.”
Mattie? What kind of name is that? I had a boy Cabbage Patch doll way back when, and his name was Mattie. It’s cute, in a spunky, go-getter type of way.
But no way is the guy walking towards us a Cabbage Patch. The opposite in fact. Because the man’s a god, all strong thighs and washboard abs. Holy smokes. My lady parts are all in a twist just looking at the alpha’s jet-black hair, sparkling blue eyes and five-o’clock shadow.
And that smile. Oh god, that smile. Mattie or Matt, whatever his name is, reaches out a hand, smirking as his eyes travel the length of my body. I get goosebumps at just this tiny interaction. My nipples go rock hard, chafing against my bathing suit top. His eyes stop there, knowing and teasing.
But he doesn’t give anything away.
“Hi there, Macy,” comes a growl, that voice a sexy, husky sound that makes me ache between my legs.
“Um, hi?” I say, more of a question than a statement.<
br />
He grins, teeth sparkling, white and straight, and strides over to my mom, who’s fussing at the grill.
“How in the world?” she asks, frustrated.
But Matt’s got it under control. In two seconds, he’s got the barbecue going, gas hissing evenly as the flames flicker.
I can barely take my eyes off him, but that wouldn’t work. So seeing nothing, I turn away blindly, nodding as Mrs. Morgan chats away. Oh god, Matt is so hot. Unbelievably arousing, with muscles and a bronzed body that makes my insides warm.
More guests arrive and I feel more and more uncomfortable in my tiny bikini. There’s my slipping suit, for sure. The horny old bastard who lives three houses down keeps dropping things and asking me to pick them up. I oblige the first few times, but after that, no way. I’m not giving him any more peeks.
But even more, it’s an awareness of Matt Morgan. I can sense where he is, even without looking, like there’s a live wire running between us. So to cool down, I jump into the pool and manage to doggy paddle a little, splashing water here and there.
But when I finally catch my breath, hanging onto the cement edge, who’s there but Matt Morgan treading water, looking every bit like a male model with that bronzed chest and penetrating blue eyes.
“Hey there,” he drawls. “Nice doggy paddle you got going.”
I blush. Even with a pool at home, I could never manage anything more advanced. Me and water … well, let’s just say I’ll never be a mermaid.
“Um thanks,” I mumble shyly. “Thanks.”
Why am I so tongue-tied? But those blue eyes gleam at me, his huge body powerful even at ease.
“Yeah, real nice,” he drawls. “But I think you lost something.”
He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head at my chest.
I look down and gasp. Yes, both breasts are bobbing in the water, huge and creamy, giant white buoys. I grab the material and try to rearrange the cloth to cover as much as possible. Meanwhile, Matt just sits there and grins, enjoying the show.
Finally decent again, I look back up at him, flustered. Why oh why does this have to be happening in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever met? Why me, God? Why?
But Matt shows no mercy.
“Please, please dive off the diving board so I can see your bottoms fall off as well,” he drawls then.
Oh my god! He’s got to be kidding!
“I’m sorry?” comes my stammer.
That grin grows even wider, flashing even white teeth.
“Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with admiring a gorgeous view,” he drawls once more, pushing off from the wall, a tide of water swelling my way. “Nothin’ wrong with appreciating god-given beauty.”
I goggle, unable to say a word, staring as he swims away like a fish. But in a flash, the man’s back, now only inches away, taking up my field of vision.
“Feel my dick if you don’t believe me,” he rasps so that only I can hear. Matt’s breath is hot and exciting, warm waves emanating from that huge form. “I’m hard as a rock.”
I should be offended right? Guys shouldn’t talk to me that way, it’s over the top and lewd. But for some reason, I’m excited. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been with a man before, much less touched any male anatomy. Maybe it’s because this particular alpha is incredibly magnetic, those blue eyes boring into mine.
And as if in a dream, he reaches through the aquamarine water and grabs my hand, guiding it over. I don’t even look down, unable to move. But my fingers feel, and sure enough, there’s a large, stiff rod beneath his shorts, burning my hand. Oh my god, oh my god. I gasp aloud, breasts heaving.
The air’s coming out of my lungs in pants now, cheeks flushed despite the cool water. My pussy aches with arousal and I don’t know what to say, completely tongue-tied. I should get out of the pool. I should go hide out. I should scream, at the very least.
But instead, I just look back at Matt, brown eyes wide, boobs bobbing in the liquid between us. And then my fingers move on their own. They slowly squeeze his dick, testing that hardness, before letting go. He grunts, eyes flaring, hips jerking involuntarily, growing even stiffer under my hand.
And a moment passes as we stare at one another, hotly aroused, the air sizzling. My fingers squeeze him again, eliciting another low growl.
And then the moment snaps. Like nothing’s wrong, I swim to the ladder and lever myself out of the pool. It’s not easy. I’m a big girl who’s now wildly turned on, and body parts fly this way and that.
But finally, I’m standing on the concrete, wrapping a towel around myself. Dripping wet, I walk over to the glass door head held high, hoping no one’s looking. Now would not be a good time.
But before going back in the house, my body turns of its own volition to look one more time.
And whaddya know, but Matt’s still in the pool, staring at me with a knowing smile on his face. Those blue eyes are hot, trailing over my curves, like they can see through the thick terrycloth.
Oh god, oh god! What did I just do? I behaved like a slut in front of him, squeezing his dick when he asked, showing him my nipples. I didn’t act outraged, I didn’t act like I was offended. Instead, I wanted it, thick and demanding.
And I want it even now.
Taking a deep breath, I break the eye contact, and step into the house. Fortunately, the A/C’s on full blast, cooling my heated skin. Hurriedly, I take the stairs to my room two at a time, eager for privacy.
Because did that really just happen? Out in front of everyone? Sure, we were partially shaded by the bushes next to the pool, but still, the water’s clear. Anyone could have seen.
But it did happen, it wasn’t a dream. In fact, it was the best thing that ever happened in my life.
Naked and wet, I grab the vibrator in my nightstand, fingers fumbling at the switch. And standing in front of the full-length once more, one hand spreads my pussy lips. Oh yeah, I’m horny. My pink walls pulse, clit big and standing up at salute.
And trembling somewhat, I guide the little toy home. Ah, that feels amazing. I imagine Matt Morgan’s hands on my creamy tits, his mouth on my erect nipples, his fingers in my dripping pussy. The build-up is instantaneous, and oh god, but I come right there. That’s right, standing up. I didn’t even need to be flat on my back, enjoying a long, drawn-out session. The alpha was so magnetic, so incredible, that immediately, ecstasy sweeps me like a tide, pulling me out until I’m jerking and clamping, mewling my pleasure.
Holy cow. Is this really me? Is this really happening? Because if Matt Morgan’s going to be living next door all summer … then I’ve got a lot of sweet dreams ahead.
CHAPTER TWO
Matt
Being the youngest of seven brothers means people often forget your name. I get called Trent-Sam-Ford-Matt-Goddammit a lot. Or sometimes I get called Pete, our dog’s name. It’s all good. With so many of us underfoot, you learn to let things roll off your back.
But none of my bros are home just yet. It’s me and the Morgan parents, together in the kitchen.
My mom has made her delicious and world-famous strawberry crepes this morning, along with bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, and biscuits. When there are seven dudes in a household, you learn to make way more food than the average person might consider ingestible.
“Theesh are sho tastee,” I mumble around the huge wad of goodness stuffed in my mouth.
Maddy smiles and tells me not to talk with my mouth full, like I’m twelve or something. As I swallow, a hand claps me on the back and I nearly choke.
Dammit, they’re here early.
I glare at Tim and Will, my nearest-aged brothers and twins. They’re both a couple of inches shorter than I am, but with the same black hair and blue eyes that we got from our dad. Heartbreakers are what the twins are often called. Or assholes.
They load up their plates and plop into kitchen chairs. Meanwhile, Maddy exits, waving at us.
“Sweethearts, make sure you eat healthy okay? All three of you. I don’t want my bo
ys downing only bacon and pancakes. There’s yogurt and fruit in the fridge,” she calls, stepping outside. “I’ll be back later, after book club!”
And we nod, waving.
“Bye Ma,” I manage through another mouthful of pancake.
“Bye Mom,” chorus the twins as they squirt syrup everywhere. Not just on their pancakes, but on their toast, the berries, and even into their yogurt. Damn, that’s gross, but we’re all grown men. I’m not going to comment.
So instead, I turn to Will and Tim, one eyebrow raised.
“How’s it going?” I ask. It’s kind of a lame question, seeing that I work with them every day, but hey, sometimes you gotta spew niceties just to survive.
“It’s going,” Tim says with a shrug.
“Yeah,” Will agrees, “It’s goin’,” he repeats. “Money’s flowing like water, this shit is amazing.”
I nod. We started the business a couple years ago, and it’s a dream come true. You know how there are fourteen year old boys on your street selling shit on-line to the tune of a million dollars a month? Multiply that by seven, and that’s us. Seriously, cash is popping out of our ears right now.
But there are more important things too. Because any time off from our business is serious. That shit don’t work unless we’re on it.
“How much time are you taking off?” I ask casually.
“We’re not,” answers Tim. “Not really. We’ve got a good office manager and we can do a lot remotely. It’s no big deal.”
I grunt approvingly. Good, because I want to keep the money machine going.
“What’s up with you anyways, baby brother?” Will asks. “Still writing the great American novel?”
I’m supposed to be the creative dude at the office. My job is to sell our product, writing catchy text and designing compelling advertising campaigns. But I also want to do my own thing, therefore the questions about my book.
“Working on it,” I say. “It’s going.”
“Great,” the twins remark. “Look forward to reading it.”
Prison Fling: A Dark Bad Boy Romance Page 38