My Dad’s Business Partner: A Forbidden Romance Page 10

  I snap my curtain closed in frustration. A part of me wishes I was there, enjoying the party at Delta Tau Tau. At least if I were having fun, I wouldn’t be so mad about being kept up.

  Okay, I’d probably still be kind of mad, because I have to get up super early no matter what. It’s part of the perils of having an actual job, but I bet the men next door wouldn’t know anything about that. They’re probably all here on their parents’ money and able to let it run through their fingers like water. I wish I could afford to pay for a school I barely attend. As it is, if I don’t do well in my classes, I’ll lose my scholarship, so I can’t afford to screw off like the rich kids next door.

  It’s not that big of a deal though because I’m used to feeling like this. I’ve been poor my whole life. My parents gave me as much as they could for school, but they don’t have a ton of money themselves. Everything they make goes to bills, and even now, they sometimes struggle to make ends meet. I send home money whenever I can because it’s the least I can do. I may not have had much growing up, but I always had my parents’ love.

  I grab my phone from the bedside table and check to make sure my alarm is set. I have to be at work by five, so I need to wake up by four-thirty at the latest. God, I am not getting enough sleep. I shoot daggers at the frat house through my curtains. They can’t see, but it makes me feel better at least.

  Next door, a girl squeals with excitement. She just asked for a tour of the fraternity, and a man with a low voice is telling her that he’ll show her around. I’m guessing the only thing he’ll be showing her is the inside of his room, and how soft his mattress is.

  There are also distinct grunts and groans coming from both the third and fourth stories of the house. This is why I haven’t been able to sleep. I think if it was just random conversations, I’d have no trouble, but listening to other people have sex can be a turn-on sometimes.

  Then, another long, melodious moan fills the air. The girl’s gasp mixes with the cacophony of a headboard banging, and then a man’s murmur as he growls in his lover’s ear. I have no idea how many guys live in that house, but they’re all doing well in the sex arena, that’s for sure.

  I wonder if they know I can hear them. The people living in the other bedrooms of my house are college students too, but I never hear any of them having sex. Then again, the frat boys probably don’t even care. They’re probably proud of the debauchery that goes on over there.

  I pull my pillow over my ears but it doesn’t help. How long can these people go at it? This has been happening since I moved in, so I know from experience these noises are going to drive me nuts all night. These men have crazy stamina, I guess in part because they’re young, virile, and healthy. Then again, I wouldn’t know because I haven’t been with even one guy in my entire life. God, I’m going to die alone, tormented in my spinster’s bed.

  Then I bolt upright in a rage. What the hell! I’m half tempted to go over there and give them a piece of my mind. But then, I slump back down again. Who am I kidding? I don’t have the courage. I’m just a coward.

  I squeeze my eyes shut to try and sleep but all I can picture are the bodies to go along with the moans I’m hearing. Hard, naked bodies, filled with testosterone. Bronzed skin, with six pack abs and enormous tools between those muscular thighs. I squirm in my bed. Oh my god, this is so wrong!

  But I’ve seen the guys from Delta Tau Tau, and what I envision in my head is true. The frat is known for its athletic and good-looking members. I don’t think they can legally have an attractiveness requirement during recruiting, but somehow, they ended up with all the tall, hot men at Remington College.

  Then again, I’ve never spoken to a single guy in DTT. Well, aside from the casual “hi” in passing if we see each other on the sidewalk. If I tried to say anything more, I just know it’d come out as gibberish because I’ve never been good at talking to hot guys. I always end up sweaty and red-faced, with my armpits feeling damp.

  A tall figure forms in my mind. There’s this guy in the frat, Mike, who I’ve seen a couple times. He’s got to be about six foot four and his hair is black and swept off his forehead. His piercing blue eyes stop me in my tracks every time I see him, and he’s got the most amazing body. I wonder if he’s a varsity athlete. It would explain the sports bag I see him carrying sometimes.

  Then, there’s another DTT brother, Brent. Last winter, I saw him outside chopping wood and I thought I was going to die. I get it: this is Vermont, so people actually chop wood, but still, Brent looked like a Viking come to life. It helps that Brent also has a fantastic six-pack that I’ve been lucky enough to see a few times. The DTT guys love to walk around half-naked with gym shorts hanging about their hips. Not that I’m complaining. My only substitutes are the male models on the covers of my romance novels, so seeing these guys in 3-D is a treat.

  A few of the DTT guys I’ve seen float around before my eyes as I lie in my mattress. They’re tall and muscular, with charming smiles and knowing gleams in their eyes. Sighing a bit, my hand dips into the front of my pajama shorts. I’m soaking wet, and my slit is puffy already. The men’s images, coupled with the sounds coming from next door, are enough for me to begin stroking my clit.

  I start off gentle, teasing myself. This is one of my favorite things to do. I like to imagine a guy kissing me and grinning slowly as he trails his thumb over my nub.

  Tonight, it’s Mike whose massive bulk is between my thighs. I easily imagine his hands in place of mine. I bet they’re rough and calloused, not to mention big. He’d feel so good entering me with one finger, stretching me out and preparing me for his cock.

  I moan gently, my eyes falling shut, as I slide into myself. It’s nowhere near as good as it would be with Mike, but it’s good enough for now. I bite my lip and moan out Mike’s name as I plunge my fingers deep in my pussy with a wet sucking sound.

  “Fuck, that feels good, Mike,” I whisper. I can’t be too loud or someone in my house might hear. I’d never live it down if someone overheard me masturbating because the people in this house are very square and very ordinary.

  My eyes close again and my back arches as I reach deep.

  “Oooh,” I breathe, tingles going through my pussy. “Mmmm.”

  I stroke my clit with my thumb as I penetrate myself with more fingers. The pleasure builds and builds but I can’t quite bring myself over the edge. I try again, reaching deeper while spreading my legs. My thumb is rapidly strumming my clit now, and I’m so close, and yet I can’t get there. My body strains again, praying for climax, but it just won’t come. I collapse, sweaty and flushed on the mattress, unhappy and desperately frustrated.

  This happens sometimes. No matter how turned on I am, I can’t make myself finish.

  I try touching my nipples as I work on my pussy, thinking furiously of the men next door. If anything, the sex sounds outside my window crescendo, and I can hear a man groaning with exertion. But nothing helps. My body can’t get over the edge I so desperately want to reach.

  I snatch my hands from my shorts and huff. I’m so horny that I’m tempted to run next door and throw myself at one of the DTT brothers. There has to be someone willing to sleep with a virgin like me, right?

  But I force myself to stay in bed. First of all, sex with random strangers isn’t me. Second of all, I have to work in five hours. The last thing I need is a hookup keeping me awake all night. I’d fall asleep at the espresso maker and end up fired, which would have serious consequences. Getting laid is not worth being kicked out of school, no matter how desperate I am.

  I lay back and curse myself for dreaming of the men next door. Am I being creepy? I hope not. Don’t people imagine celebrities and porn stars all the time when they masturbate? What’s the difference between that, and picturing guys I’ve seen in real life?

  I close my eyes tighter and hope that I can rid my mind of these dirty fantasies, but it’s no use. If anything, it gets even worse because instead of one man, now I fantasize being surrounded by a
group of them. Yes, I’m taking off my clothes for a bevy of alpha males, who look my curves up and down with appreciation before satisfying me the way I need.

  Holy fuck! What am I thinking? Group sex? A gang bang? Now, things are really getting out of hand. But I’m so far down the road that I can’t stop. My hands shift over my curves, pulling at my nipples before stroking my little bud. I imagine satisfying each man in turn, even as they satisfy me. The pleasure is immense, and this time, I reach my peak. With a delirious scream, my back arches almost painfully as my toes curl and lightning bolts shoot through my pussy.

  “Mike!” I scream. “Brent! Justin! Peter!”

  It doesn’t matter that neither Mike, Brent, Justin or Peter know who I am. I just found ecstasy at the hands of my fantasy men, but the thing is that they’re not quite fantasy because these gorgeous men are real, and they live next door.

  * * *

  To be continued …

  The Frat Boys Next Door is LIVE! Pick up your copy here.

  Sneak Peek: My Boss’s Father

  Megan

  Megan’s on a date with her boss Brian when they’re interrupted by a gorgeous older man.

  * * *

  I’ve heard a lot about the Matterhorn. It’s a well-known spot that’s frequented by professionals of various industries. It’s supposed to be a high-class venue for after work drinks, and has a really different vibe from the dive bars and flashy clubs Mira and I typically seek out. For one, the restaurant is tucked into a quiet corner of the city making it feel like I’ve left New York altogether to arrive somewhere new: somewhere quiet and more peaceful. I bet this place would feel so romantic with the right person. But with Brian, it’s going to be bad, and I’m sure of that fact.

  The building itself looks like a castle. It’s a sturdy deep red brick, intermixed with floor to ceiling windows. A large stone chimney protrudes just before the roof meets to form a point. There is a deck off to the side of the building where a few patrons are sitting, sipping on wine and other cordials of their choice. A pergola makes a faux ceiling over the deck with purple and white flowers hanging daintily from its wooden beams. Fruit trees border it on three sides, granting diners privacy as well as a sense of communing with nature.

  I step inside the dimly lit restaurant and ask the hostess if Brian has arrived yet. He hasn’t, but she mentions that he’s reserved a table for us and invites me to sit down and order a drink while I wait. She walks me past a heavily stocked bar and into the main dining area. I am blown away by what I see. The interior of the restaurant is made from exotic wood, including the walls, ceiling, and the table tops themselves.

  There’s a stage where two young musicians are setting up - a young Asian girl wearing white cloth overalls and sporting a half-shaved head which exposes a gauged ear, her silky black hair hanging to her chin on the other side. Her African-American partner wears a gray fedora to match his suit coat, paired with a casual undershirt and blue jeans. The stage has an array of instruments ready and I wonder if the two of them will be playing that many gizmos in one night.

  We cut through the small dance area in front of the stage, past a game room where people are playing billiards and shuffleboard, to finally reach the table reserved for Brian and me. The hostess tells me he specifically requested this spot because it’s in front of a large window overlooking the river that rushes through the flower gardens out back.

  She lights a candle on the table and tells me she will return with a glass of their finest wine. I start to protest, but she assures me that Brian will be okay with it.

  “The Millers are some of our best customers at the Matterhorn. Mr. Miller always treats his guests to the finest items on the menu, and we deliver the finest service to him and his friends in return. I’ll be back with a decadent Italian Merlot and some French bread for you, Miss. Mr. Miller should be arriving shortly, and if there is anything else I can get you in the meantime, please let me know.”

  I thank the waitress and sit admiring the view out the window. After a little while, the hipster duo begins to play music, drawing a few couples out to the floor to dance. This is definitely not like the dive bars I’m accustomed to because the patrons are quite a bit older, mostly in their thirties and forties from the looks of it. They’re well-dressed, the men in suits and the women in elegant work-appropriate dresses. Yeah, this is really different from the loud music and raucous beats at the places I usually frequent.

  I’m beginning to grow impatient; it’s already ten to eight and still no sign of Brian. I hold off on pouring a second glass of wine. I’ll be damned if I make the same mistake I made two months ago.

  Finally, I see my manager swaggering towards me. He’s dressed nicely, with his black locks brushed back casually. I suppose he looks good at first glance, when that raven hair and tall frame. However, I can’t help but notice how rail-thin he looks tonight. The suit really accentuates his body’s gaunt appearance.

  He’s taking his time making his way back to our table, just as he took his sweet time arriving tonight. He’s stopping at every couple of tables to greet someone, patting them on the back or leaning in for a handshake, like he’s a Mafia don. The problem is that he’s way too young, and even from here, I can see a dot of red cystic acne on his chin.

  Once he is finally close enough to the table to make direct eye contact with me, he decides to show off by swiveling around on his heels and doing a finger gun motion in my direction.

  “Megan, you look ravishing tonight. Clearly, someone’s trying to impress me,” he says with a wink. I intentionally dressed as professionally as possible, trying to somehow spin this date into a work-related dinner. I should have known better because Brian’s floating in his own fantasy. This boy thinks he is hot shit, but he’s actually acting like a total tool. His navy blue fitted suit brings out the red tint flushing his face, signaling to me that he is already drunk. This explains his late arrival, not to mention his ridiculous demeanor. Unfortunately, pre-gaming is probably pretty standard for Brian.

  “Oh, it’s just what I wore to work today. Thank you though,” I say tightly.

  He sits down and pours us both a glass of wine. He holds his glass up gesturing that he would like to propose a toast.

  “To finally getting back together.”

  I smile politely, and clink my glass to his before taking a big gulp of wine. The alcohol does make me feel better at least.

  The waitress comes back around and chats with Brian for a few minutes as if he is an old friend. He stares at her cleavage the whole time, and she has got to notice this happening. He must tip very well for her to not cover up every time he is seated in her section.

  He orders us an appetizer platter: an assortment of meats, cheeses, crackers, fruit, and a variety of jams and other dipping sauces. I will say, while the date itself is not ideal, the wine and the food are fantastic at least.

  Unfortunately, conversation between us feels forced, but does my date realize? No. Brian is explaining grand ideas to me such as successful business strategies, building diverse stock portfolios, and even the overall meaning and purpose of life, like he’s some kind of wise guru.

  “You see, we must help drive the economy forward. If we aren’t contributing to the monetary flow that keeps our society afloat, what kind of world will we leave behind for our kids, not to mention our grandkids?”

  “What about the environment?” I counter, thinking this an obvious point. He shoots me a pitiful, patronizing glance.

  “Megan, what good is a beautiful backdrop if the people can’t eat?” He pauses for dramatic effect, giving me time to appreciate his grand statement. He continues on with the so-called facts of life.

  “You see, with money, and through business, the problems of the world can be fixed. It’s called inherent capitalism. But, we’ll go nowhere without financial backing.”

  Inherent capitalism? Is that something he just made up? But my date continues to talk with his nose pointed straight up in the air, c
ounseling me as if I am but a simple and delicate woman, blind and lost in this world. Of course, there’s no consideration for the fact that I work in the same industry as him.

  What the hell. What a pompous ass. This guy is twenty-five, the same age as me, and he doesn’t know his asshole from his feet. And from the way he carries himself, it’s safe to infer that he’s been coddled his entire life. I also sense that underneath all the swagger, he’s actually quite insecure. Brian has to spew bullshit and carry himself like a tough guy to make himself feel better about the things he actually lacks: personality, the ability to relate to others, integrity, and likability, just to name a few.

  I smile tightly through the conversation, counting the minutes until this date is over. To be honest, I’m really only half-listening to what he’s saying, just enough to coherently respond here and there. I’m trying to focus on the sound of the jazz music playing in the background, the prickly yet sweet taste of the white wine, and the beautiful visual of water trickling through the garden out back. Basically, I’m grasping at anything that is not Brian right now.

  Suddenly, my date stops mid-sentence. His body seems to lock up. His eyes open wide, hooked on something or someone across the room. The color drains from his face, and his jaw goes slack.

  What in the world just happened?

  I try to follow his gaze, twisting in my seat to see what could have so utterly shocked him. But there’s no obvious answer. There’s a man sitting across the way, but that doesn’t explain Brian’s surprise.

  Come to think of it, the man is ridiculously handsome. He’s quite a bit older, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s not looking at us, but I can see the flash of his gaze as he signals to a waiter. The strange man is well-dressed, with bronzed, tanned features. He’s gorgeous in a way that makes my mouth water; he’s a man’s man with rough-hewn features, and yet an exceptionally mobile mouth.