DominatedByBrothersBlankEditionHTML

DOMINATED
BY BROTHERS: HOT HARD MENAGE #1

by

Erika
Masten

Copyright © 2011 Erika Masten.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Erika Masten

[email protected]

http://erikamasten.com

Published
by Sticky Sweet Books.
 
This book
contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and
Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of
both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This
is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely
coincidental.

Warning:
Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted
herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual
nature.

This
is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your
lover by always practicing safe sex.

TABLE
OF CONTENTS

Dominated
By Brothers: Hot Hard Menage #1

Excerpt
From

Taken:
Dominated #1

Excerpt
From

A
Firm Hand: Dominated #4

DOMINATED
BY BROTHERS: HOT HARD MENAGE #1

When it rains, it pours.

I can’t remember ever seeing
the parking lot of the office complex so full, just when I was counting on
finding a close parking spot and dashing in out of the rain. Fine day to forget
my umbrella.
 
Nice going, Faith. An hour
at the salon yesterday for the cut, color, and blow-out, and I’m going to look
like a drowned blond rat after scurrying through this downpour. Then, when I
dry out and frizz up, I can work the poodle look.

Normally, I might not be so
vain about this, but today’s meeting is with Garret Sievers. He and his
man-about-town older brother, Blake, run a nonprofit to raise awareness and
funding for research into women’s health issues. They named it the Caroline
Foundation, after their mother, when they lost her several years ago. I handle
the arrangements—the right venue, the right entertainment, the right guest
list—for fundraising galas on behalf of quite a few different kinds of
charities, but I have an extra-soft spot for this one, having lost my favorite
aunt when I was a teenager. So, as if I needed a reason to be attracted to
Garret
besides
his dark-haired,
dark-eyed good looks and toned body, I can add the fact that he’s a passionate
humanitarian working on a cause that’s dear to me. Normally, I wouldn’t even
consider risking my professional reputation by dating a client, but Garret and
Blake Sievers are the kind of men who override a woman’s good sense.

I use the mirror in the car
visor to check my mascara and red lipstick, hoping the sprint through the
downpour doesn’t leave my face a streaky mess. Inwardly, I cringe at the
undertones of anxiety I’m feeling. It’s just that it seems like I’ve been
waiting forever for Garret to make his move. All the signs are there, the warm
smiles and lingering glances, the subtle questions about a boyfriend.

When I put a small private
dinner together for existing foundation supporters last month, when Garret
stayed late seeing guests off and then walked me to my car, he almost kissed
me. He was towering over me, his deep brown eyes focused intently on my face,
my lips. My heart was in my throat as I agonized…will he, won’t he? With a
gentle hand, he was kneading one side of my waist, then began to push me back
against the side of my car. The languid warmth I felt from his attentions
flared with excitement and even a twinge of uncertainty and fear, as he suddenly
took charge and pinned me against the cold metal door with his warm body. At
the time, I was almost relieved that his brother interrupted us to ask about
family plans over the weekend.

But on the drive home, I
found myself wildly aroused, my pussy soaking my silk panties. Since then, I’ve
been waiting for Garret to call me, ask me to dinner, anything. My fantasies
about him are completely unlike those I’ve had about other men. Thoughts of
sweet, slow kisses and romantic getaways have turned to rough, half-dressed sex
against Garret’s car in the parking lot of a nice restaurant or him pulling my
hair and bending me over the huge wooden desk in his ultra-modern glass and
wood office. I’ve never been so distressed at my own reaction to a man, or so
enticed. Now, in my car, my imagination has me pressing my thighs together. A
quick look in the vanity mirror finds my pale cheeks flushed.

The knock on the window makes
me gasp, and I look up to find the devil himself. Garret is leaning down,
smiling, sheltered from the rain by a small black umbrella. It’s not quite
enough protection from this storm; he’s slightly damp, his dark brown wavy hair
windblown and curling over his forehead and into his eyes in an adorable,
messy-little-boy kind of way.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to
scare you,” he says through the window. That smooth, friendly voice sends
shivers down my back, straight to my wet pussy. “Do you have an umbrella? Do
you want me to walk you inside?”

I grab my purse and
portfolios and open the door just a crack, to avoid hitting him. Garret stands
aside, holding the umbrella over me, so I can get out of my car. Hoping I’m not
blushing, I unfold my long legs, giving him a second to check out the sheer
black stockings and short black skirt. It’s an acceptable business length, but
I scoot along the seat getting out, so the skirt will ride up a few extra
inches on my thighs. Bending my back a little more than necessary gives him the
opportunity to look down my black coat, blazer, and silky white blouse. I
chance an upward glance and catch him appreciating the view, the barest trace
of a smile on his soft, plump lips. When his gaze drifts up to mine, brown on
green, there’s a knowing glint in his eyes that instantly brings on the bright
flush I dreaded. Transparent, Faith. He knows exactly what I’m doing.

As we hurry across the wet
parking lot, Garret slides one arm around my shoulders and holds me tight to
his side, under his gray wool overcoat. He is so warm, like that night at my
car. My arm is coiled around his waist, over his tailored blue suit coat. I
can’t help but imagine unbuttoning it, then going after the crisp pale blue
business shirt underneath it. I’ve seen Garret before with his suit jacket
discarded, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. He looks a lot more muscular
than I’d expect of an executive with a desk job. I’d love to confirm that with
my hands, among other methods.

We’re only a couple of rows
of cars from the office complex when a roaring gust slams against us, almost
strong enough to push us off our feet on the slippery pavement. We both mutter
curses under our breath and huddle closer. Garret stops and turns his back to
the wind to shield me from it.

I look up at that chiseled
face, warm eyes and sensual lips. Raising my voice over the wind, I say, “Not
very fair of me hiding behind you.” Thank god for all the layers of clothing
between us, or he’d feel my hardening nipples begging for attention.

He gives me one of the
dazzling smiles both he and his playboy brother are known for. “I don’t mind. Good
opportunity to earn gentleman points.”

I chuckle, shivering against
him. “Yeah? What can you redeem those for?”

Garret tilts his face down
close to mine, closer than the wind and storm require for us to hear one
another. “Very ungentlemanly things.”

My lips part, as I do
everything I can to keep from gaping. An electrical charge passes from Garret’s
body, his expression, his words, down my spine and straight to my pussy. It’s
the only opening he needs to take my mouth with his. A feathery brush of his soft
mouth over mine precedes his hot tongue tracing my lower lip, a tickle that
makes me instinctively open my mouth for him. His deep growl and the abrupt,
aggressive surge of his tongue against mine take me unprepared. I whimper and
shift nervously against him, until he uses his free hand to gather my long
blond hair and hold my head still, to hold my mouth to his.

That feeling is back again,
the one from our moment in the dark parking lot that night. Fear and
uncertainty chased by voracious, shameless need. When he pulls my hair and I
moan into his hard kiss, he smiles against my lips and drives his tongue into
my mouth in a blatantly sexual rhythm, coiling around my tongue and tasting me
thoroughly.

My mind is a jumble of
confusion and conflict. What about professionalism, propriety? I’m a
businesswoman standing out in the open in the middle of the afternoon with my
client pulling my hair and tongue-fucking my mouth while I moan and cling to
him. My cunt doesn’t care about appearances, overruling my brain by stirring
flashes of how good and naughty and slutty it would feel to have Garret push me
back against one of the cars, rip off my skirt, unzip his pants.

When I’m afraid I’m going to
beg him to do exactly that, I tear my mouth from his, breathing hard.
“Meeting?” I say in an almost pleading voice.

He’s panting, too, and fuck
if he doesn’t look like seven different, delicious kinds of sin, with his lips
wet from kissing me. “Meeting,” he mutters in agreement, but that wicked glint
is still shining in his eyes.

In Garret’s office, at a
small conference table with his secretary and finance manager, I struggle to
concentrate. It’s not as though Garret is sitting beside me, whispering naughty
things to me or feeling me up under the table. He doesn’t have to. My
imagination is doing the work for him. He takes off his suit jacket, and my
mind proceeds to strip him of his shirt and tie as well, speculating on what
his chest and abs would look like tensed in the ecstasy of a hard climax. My
reactions to him become acute. Every glance from him seems flirtatious, his
tone too intimate, enthralling. Yet the other two people at the table don’t
seem to notice anything amiss.

When Garret tells his manager
and secretary that he can wrap things up with me and dismisses them, I watch
anxiously, breathlessly as they gather their notes and coffee mugs and wander
out while chatting about miscellaneous business. In the sudden quiet, Garret
stands and circles the smooth, light wood table toward me. His steps swish
against the soft cream carpeting, just audible over my fidgeting as I shuffle
through my paperwork unnecessarily. I fight the urge to rise to meet him, to
fling myself into his arms and another kiss like the one outside in the parking
lot.

He leans over me from behind,
one hand on the back of the white leather office chair, one on the arm. I smell
cedar and spices and rainwater, and I can taste his mouth again. The back of my
neck prickles with apprehension and anticipation.

“Who did you have in mind for
the guest list next month?” he asks, his breath warm against my temple.

Quickly, so he won’t see my
hands trembling, I flip open one of the black leather portfolios on the table
in front of me and begin to point out names—businesspeople, politicians,
long-time philanthropists. Garret makes approving sounds, a “yes” or “I see”
thrown in now and again, his lips getting closer and closer to my ear. His hot
sigh against my skin sends an electric ripple of shivers over my shoulders and
back. I want to squirm in my chair, arch my spine, turn my face up for his
kisses.

At last, I turn the final
page in the folder, struggling to swallow and gather a calming breath. My chest
and throat don’t want to cooperate. “That’s it. Those are all the details we
need to settle today.”

“Good,” he says in a deep
groan and moves to action. One hand tugs my hair and my face back for another
possessive, plundering kiss. The other finds my knees, pressed hard together to
quell the quivering in my pussy. Garret draws back from feasting on my mouth
just enough to breathe, “Spread your legs for me, Faith.”

My mind wants me to shriek in
denial—not here, not so soon—but my body responds unconditionally. I part my
legs, and Garret’s hand skims along my inner thigh, until his fingertips find
my wet panties and begin to trace the plump lips of my slit through the silk.
My hands are squeezing the padded arms of the chair, my knuckles turning white.
Deep inside me, my cunt throbs, demanding to be filled. I want to pump my hips.
His lips hover over mine, retreating by fractions of an inch as I arch to meet
him, like we are bound to one another by breath.