Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
CHAPTER SIX
Macy
What do I know about the Morgan brothers? Let’s review.
Devastatingly handsome, charismatic, and hungry as hell.
Commanding, sensual, and so damn good at making a woman forget her own name.
My neighbors from childhood, even if I don’t remember much.
But still, what do I really know?
Matt, the youngest, is an aspiring writer. The twins have an internet business. Ford does motorcycles. Trent’s a doctor. And Smith’s the boss, a whiz with numbers.
But that’s about it. All I know is that I’m dazzled whenever they’re around, hardly able to think, my limbs moving as they command. And the way it’s been going so far takes my breath away.
Because why would brothers want to share the same woman? Why are they doing this? There are so many ladies out there who’d love even five minutes with one hard, male body. So why all the attention on me? Is it weird?
And in my heart, the answer’s clear. It’s weird. Really, really weird. A team of hot, huge men, with their cocks out together? With just one woman as the center of attention? Makes no sense at all.
But the impossible just keeps happening again and again. Because I let five men watch me shower. And not just shower, but I gave them a show, pulling apart my cheeks so they could see my holes. I came for them, creaming and spasming hard, crying out their names.
“Trent! Ford! Matt!” were my helpless cries. “Will! Tim!”
Holy shit. Because after that shower, it didn’t stop. I wandered into the hallway to meet Smith for the first time, and let him finger me as his brothers watched.
Legs spread, on the couch, devoured by six pairs of hungry male eyes.
Oh my god.
What’s going on?
How can this be happening?
Smith is probably in his forties, for fuck’s sake. He could be my dad.
Well, maybe I can call him Daddy then …
Maybe I can call all of them Daddy, come to think of it. They’re all at least a decade older than me.
The scene runs through my brain on repeat, again and again. Oh my god. It really happened. I totally just did a show for those men. I bent over and showed my asshole. I rubbed myself to climax. I let them see between my legs while I answered Smith’s questions. And I liked it. The truth is that I loved it.
Because I have a secret. Sure, I’ve been addicted to my vibrator since sophomore year of high school. I’ve seen my fair share of porn, read all the red-hot romances with a hand between my legs.
But real boyfriends? Nada. Zip. Zilch. I’ve never been touched down there, and in fact, even the thought makes me self-conscious. Because I’m a big girl, with protective walls guarding my heart. Maybe guys won’t like me. Maybe they’ll be grossed out when they realizes how much flesh there is.
But the Morgans make me feel the opposite. They make me burst with confidence and positivity, like my curves are a turn-on.
So we all have our secrets.
Yes, this crazy little slut who’s made out with six brothers is a virgin.
A true-to-life, real deal virgin.
Hymen intact.
Everything up there in one piece.
But I don’t want to be. I liked the show I put on. I liked displaying my assets, making them groan and moan and spurt in their jeans. I loved having their hands and mouths on me. The feel of Matt’s talented tongue in my pussy was heavenly, Smith’s fingers brushing my sweet spot, the twins devouring my breasts. I want more, more and more. I want them inside me, on top of me. I want them in my mouth and in my …
My stomach growls unexpectedly then, almost making me giggle at this inopportune time.
Trust my gut to remind me of the important things in life.
Because when was the last time I ate? I’ve been so caught up with everything lately, that even eating’s gone by the wayside. And believe me, that doesn’t happen, not to Macy Jones.
Sighing, I dig up some clothes, a pair of jeans and a deep-V-neck sweater before wandering downstairs. My parents are gone as usual, so I throw myself into cooking. It clears my head when I’m busy at the stove. I don’t know, the creative process helps me feel more centered somehow. It works for me, always has.
And food can be sexy. It’s just that people have all these hang-ups these days, what with veganism, fruitarians, low salt, low calorie, low everything. They don’t let themselves savor and enjoy flavors anymore, the incredible feel of something melting on your tongue. Instead, folks are caught up in counting calories and figuring out fat and sodium content to the tenth of a milligram.
Me? Sometimes I just close my eyes and let the food barely touch the tip of my tongue. Sometimes I just let a morsel sit in my mouth, savoring the taste and texture. It’s a sensual thing, arousing almost.