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What? What kind of question is that? Now, of all times?
“No of course not,” comes my sputter, sitting up slightly. “No, definitely not.”
Sam moves on, expression suddenly hot.
“Do you like what my brother is doing to you right now?” he asks quietly, that voice a low rumble. His head is tilted. I’d say he looks like a lion crouched in the grass, focused on its prey. That posture is curiously relaxed, but his gaze follows every move of Matt’s hand, weighing every answer carefully.
And unbidden, a whimper escapes my lips, a precursor to what I suspect will be a four-alarm wail. Because I can’t resist. The sensations are building like a tsunami, magnificent tension pooling in my belly. I don’t want to let go here, with our parents so close. Yet, I do. I want it, and I can feel it rumbling, the steady build like a storm drawing close.
“Yes,” comes my breathy pant, my eyes dazed already. “Yes, I like it.”
“Good,” he says, eyes bright.
For sure, I’m gonna explode now. For sure, it’s gonna happen, Matt’s rubbing my clit smooth and steady, driving me to a peak. But suddenly Maddy Morgan’s voice pierces my dream.
“Dinner’s ready! Boys!” she calls. “Dinner’s ready! Please escort our guests into the dining room.”
Like a startled rabbit, I jump off Matt’s lap. Oh my god! Seven pairs of eyes are still taking me in, appreciating the wetness between my thighs, the big boobies bouncing as I struggle.
Because I need to get dressed. In a rush, I push myself back into the purple wrap, struggling to whip those creamy curves into shape.
And like a gentleman, Sam steps up with my blazer in hand.
“Missing this?” he says, one eyebrow quirked.
“Oh god,” I rush breathlessly, struggling into the fabric. “Oh god.”
And just like that, I’m covered up again, like nothing’s wrong. Nothing except for the fact that the atmosphere in the room is still heavy with lust, the boys smiling lazily, adjusting themselves.
“Come on,” comes my breathless whisper. “We gotta go.”
And those big forms unfurl, stretching long legs to wander into the dining room like nothing’s wrong. Oh my god, oh my god. Did we really come so close? It’s impossible, my parents are right here.
Yet it really did happen, and I try to catch my breath, hoping the flush on my face is mistaken as just being hot, and not aroused.
Fortunately, Mrs. Morgan has made quite a spread, and everyone’s attention turns to the food. Two pans of gooey lasagna on the table along with a huge bowl of salad, a mound of garlic bread, a platter of green bean almondine, and some stuffed mushrooms. Color me impressed that she managed to pull all of this together on her own.
The boys dig in, heaping praise on their mother for always keeping their bellies full.
“Fantastic,” compliments Trent.
“Absolutely incredible,” growls Ford. “You did great, Ma.”
Maddy Morgan beams.
“I love to cook,” she says. “And I love it most when it’s for my boys.”
A blush rises on my cheeks again. Because I would love cooking for these men too, every day of the year. How strange that we get pleasure from the same thing, even though our viewpoints are completely different.
Conversation flows easily, but my nervousness grows because Marsha is all about making connections, and the Morgan boys are an opportunity not to be missed.
“Tell me about your law practice,” she coos, turning towards Ford.
I look at the big man, shocked. Really? Turns out that Ford, Mr. Motorcycle, is also an attorney. Who would’ve thought that this Harley-riding, barrel-chested alpha with the devil-may-care attitude would be a successful business lawyer?
But Marsha’s not done yet.
“Ford, maybe you could help Macy find an internship,” she hints, not so subtly. “Or you, Smith. Or you Sam. Do you think you could help?
