Seven Brothers of Sin: A Reverse Harem Romance Read online

  Seven Brothers of Sin

  ~A Reverse Harem Romance~

  © 2017

  By Cassandra Dee

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  © 2017 Cassandra Dee

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author's imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters are represented as 18 or over.

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  ALSO BY CASSANDRA DEE

  Standalones

  His Captive

  Buck Me Cowboy

  The Billionaire’s Kitten

  Beg Me: Sold To My Dad’s Boss

  Daddy’s Pretty Baby

  Loving the Babysitter

  The Billionaires Club

  Sold at the Auction

  Virgin for Sale

  Serving Him

  Buy Me

  Anonymous Encounters

  MMF Romance

  Double Dare

  Double Exposure

  The Falling Series

  Falling for My Dad’s Best Friend

  Falling for My Boyfriend’s Dad

  Falling for My Son’s Best Friend

  The Virgin Series

  The Naughty Virgin

  The Wicked Virgin

  The Dirty Virgin

  The Trashy Virgin

  Delivering the Virgin

  The Princes Series

  Double Princes

  Triple Princes

  DEDICATION

  To all the dirty girls who want their own harem.

  This book’s for you!

  NOTE FROM CASSIE

  Hi! Thanks so much for reading Seven Brothers of Sin: A Reverse Harem Romance. I hope you enjoy the steam between Macy and the Morgan brothers!

  Love,

  Cassie

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  SEVEN BROTHERS OF SIN: A REVERSE HAREM ROMANCE

  Why pick one when you can have seven?

  I grew up next to the Morgans.

  All boys, and we played doctor sometimes.

  But now it’s ten years later.

  I’m back from college.

  And the Morgans … well, they make me shiver, everything going hot.

  Because the men are gorgeous.

  Matt on Monday.

  Tim on Tuesday.

  Will on Wednesday.

  Trent on Thursday.

  Ford on Friday.

  Sam on Saturday.

  And Smith … oh god, Smith’s perfect for Sundays.

  Because Sunday’s meant for penance.

  Doing right and thinking good thoughts.

  Going to church and acting godly.

  But I can’t be good.

  I can’t possibly choose, they’re too gorgeous.

  So I don’t.

  Is that wrong?

  Or is seven my lucky number?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Seven Brothers of Sin

  NOTE FROM CASSIE

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Macy

  Nothing like the “freshman fifteen” to take a girl down a peg.

  Or maybe the freshman twenty.

  Or even thirty.

  Because I haven’t put a swimsuit on all year and damn, this is tight. When I bought this bikini, it was for an epic post-graduation trip with my girlfriends. We took tons of selfies, giggling and splashing one another, and then the suit went in my drawer and I headed off to my freshman year of college.

  But holy curves, Batman! Because since then, I’ve got a little more in the midsection, a little more on the thighs, and a lot more on top. My tits and ass are ready to wage war on these tiny bits of red fabric.

  But I can’t just sit up here all day. My parents are throwing a big pool party to celebrate my homecoming. Who will come to such a party, one might ask? Well, that remains to be seen but I’d be willing to guess several middle-aged neighbors and maybe a few old people. People who definitely wouldn’t appreciate a nip slip Janet Jackson-style.

  Taking a deep breath, I assess the situation in the full-length for a moment longer. The hair is good, at least. A quick fluff and my long, thick brunette locks fall sexily down my near-naked back. The eyes are good, too, I suppose – big and brown against creamy skin and full, pink lips. Grimacing, I stick a tongue out at my reflection in the mirror. Why is my skin so pale and pasty? It’s probably the library doing that to me, hours spent in my carrel hitting the books.

  But there’s nothing to be done about that now. No amount of self-tanner will make me a goddess from Baywatch, so might as well own it. Sticking my tongue out one last time, I pad down the stairs, taking a deep breath. Oh no! My breasts bounce like two balls on a playground, jiggling up and down joyfully. God only knows what my ass is doing back there. Probably wobbling like a bowl full of fraternity-spiked Jello.

  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.

  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.