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)
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.”