Brazen

An
Ellora’s
Cave
Romantica
Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Brazen

ISBN 9781419926716

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Brazen Copyright © 2010 Cara McKenna

Edited by
Jaynie
Ritchie

Cover art by
Syneca

Electronic book publication February
2010

The terms
Romantica
®
and Quickies® are registered trademarks of
Ellora’s
Cave Publishing.

With the exception of quotes used in
reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any
means existing without written permission from the publisher,
Ellora’s
Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH
44310-3502.

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This book is a work of fiction and
any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is
purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination
and used fictitiously.

Brazen

Cara McKenna

Acknowledgements

I would like
to thank the economy for collapsing and giving me the chance to do what I love,
full-time. Thanks also to my husband, for everything; to my folks for their
enthusiasm and support; and to Amy for her tireless dedication to trashy books.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following
wordmarks
mentioned in this work of fiction:

Jacuzzi:
Jacuzzi, Inc.

He was
trouble the moment Will hired him.

Now to his
credit, Will never once batted an eye in the four years he’s been my assistant.
And that includes the day I said, “Will, I need you to screen men for me.
For a harem.”

“A
harem?
Where are we
going to fit a harem?” he asked, as if we were discussing the logistics of a
dinner party.

“Right here
in the brownstone,” I said. “It’s getting lonely around here.”

That was a
couple years ago and two years after my divorce. One year after I suspected I
should be ready to start dating again but found the idea left me nauseous. And
now this old house, for many months too empty to contemplate without risking
self-pity, has come alive again, with the smells and the energy of eager young
men. Not the sounds, however—silence is one of the requirements of the job.

Over coffee
that morning I explained to Will—who enthusiastically shares my love of eager
young men, in case you were curious—what exactly I envisioned. It was one of
those idyllic, Boston spring days. I believe it was Easter, actually.
A day for vibrant rebirth, for the resurrection of my sexuality.

“So,” he
said, tapping his pencil eraser on the tile of the breakfast bar. “We need a
bunch of young men. Give me details. Give me specs.” I should mention that Will
is also my interior designer.

“Not
too
young,” I said.
“How about…twenty to twenty-eight.
Tall, five-ten to six-two or thereabouts.
Gorgeous, muscular
but not too beefy—”

“What’s too
beefy? Is Hugh
Jackman
too beefy?”

“I wouldn’t
kick him out of bed,” I said. “But that’s as beefy as I’d prefer.”

“Who’s your
ideal body then?” Will’s manicured hand hovered, poised to record my every
whim. Bless him.

“Ideally,” I
said, thinking. “David Beckham?”

Will jotted
this down. “So trim but built.”

“Precisely.
But not too
slender.
I’m thinking surfer-type bodies.
Swimmers.
Dancers but masculine, obviously.
No wrestlers or
linebackers.” I had given myself permission to be choosy. If my husband taught
me nothing else in our twelve mutually miserable years of marriage, he did
drive home the importance of only paying for the best.

“Beckham
body,” Will
said
, making notes.
“Whose
face, Madam Photographer?”

“I’m actually
not too picky there,” I said, picturing poor Will holding a photo of
Jakob
Dylan up beside each of the candidates before shaking
his head and turning them away. “If the vision’s
too
ideal we’ll never
find anyone.
Just nice-looking men.
Dark hair is
best.”

“Right.
So, Caroline…” Will trailed off,
eyes rolling thoughtfully up to stare at the ceiling.

“Yes?”

His gaze fell
to mine.
“What about…you know.
Downstairs?”

“Sizeable,” I
said.

“Cut?”

“I won’t
discriminate,” I said, feeling gracious. “But they’ll all need clean bills of
health from within a week of the day they start, and they should be able to
perform on command. This is a fantasy after all.”

“Any
shaving requirements?”
Will asked studiously, scribbling.

“Down
below?
No.
Just not messy.
And no elaborate topiaries. And no one
completely shaved,” I added. “That’s creepy.
Ditto
piercings.”

“What about
tattoos?”

“Use your
discretion. Chest hair’s fine, either way, but no back hair please. Facial
hair’s probably okay. Sideburns are a plus,” I added. “Take headshots of
everyone for me to approve.”

“Good
thinking,” Will
said
. “Now how many, do you think?” He
offered me the face he makes when we’re both torn between the same two fabric
swatches.

“I don’t
think I want more than four or five in the house at a time,” I said.
“And not twenty-four/seven, obviously.
This is a hobby, not
a lifestyle. I’ll make up a calendar and we can fill it in each week. You’re
great with schedules, darling. I’m sure you can work it out.”

“Right.”
He scanned his notes. “And what
will they have to do for you?
Or to you?”

“Actually,
not that much.”
I’d been thinking about that, about what I desired from these young men. “I
want them to sit around quietly, looking pretty, with their shirts off,” I
concluded. “And when I feel like it, I’ll wave one over and do what I like to
him.”

“Do they need
staying power?” Will asked, and his businesslike calm made me wonder if he’d
ever worked as a casting agent in the adult movie industry.

“Actually,
no.
I don’t plan
on sleeping with any of them.”

His eyebrows
finally rose with surprise.
Or disappointment.
“No?”

I shook my
head. “No. I think I just want to take advantage of them. I don’t want a dozen
feral young men manhandling me. Although if any of
them
are willing to manhandle each other for my entertainment, I’ll pay them a
little extra.”

“Right.
Anything else?”

“Yes, Will.
Please fetch me another coffee.”

* * * * *

And so that
is how I came to this moment, sitting primly on my overstuffed leather sofa, a
glass of decent pinot on the coffee table and a fine young man in his briefs
beside me, letting me fondle him. I don’t know this man’s name, or any of the
others’. This young man, who’s probably twenty-four or so, tall-
ish
and built-
ish
, with brown
hair and eyes whose color I haven’t bothered to notice yet, he’s not the one I
called “trouble” earlier. This one, whimpering softly as I stroke his erection
through the cotton, is exemplary.
Quiet, obedient, responsive
and passive.
I’m half watching
Cool Hand Luke
on the television
and half molesting him.

It’s five in
the afternoon on a rainy Thursday in September. Inside my old four-story
townhouse on Beacon Street (with a fantastic view of Boston Common—what a legal
coup
that
was) it is cozy and comforting and I am content. If my
neighbors have the time to notice how many attractive young men come and go
from my home in a given week, I think my excuse is solid; I’ve been a
professional photographer for years. And even if they suspect the truth, I
honestly couldn’t care any less.

It’s
difficult to worry yourself about other people’s opinions when a gorgeous man
is sprawled beside you, thighs spread, dick rock-hard, face straining to try to
hide how close he is to coming.

“You may
moan,” I say magnanimously when I know he’s on the brink.

He takes me
up on the offer and soon enough his grunts and groans drown out the movie.

“Push your
shorts down,” I say.

His fists are
clenched beside his legs where they won’t get in my way, and now he shoves his
briefs impatiently down his thighs. The cock I’ve been stroking lazily for at
least twenty minutes doesn’t disappoint.
Long and thick and
dark.

Across the
room, seated in my favorite reading chair, is the man I called “trouble”. He is
trouble because it’s his first day here and he’s already flouting my rules. One
rule is that my boys don’t wear shirts. It’s a kind of anti-uniform. Jeans are
fine or just underwear—although no billowy boxers, thank you—and bare feet.
Pajama pants, after nine p.m., are also permissible.
But no
shirts.
This trouble-man, he’s wearing a gray tee shirt. He looks good
in it but he’s a rule-breaker, nonetheless. I would say it’s a first-timer’s
mistake, but something in his eyes tells me he doesn’t make mistakes.