My 3 Rockstar Bosses

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, stretching out, a little bit dazed. Thank god my parents didn’t come home when Boobfest was raging in the kitchen. Holy shit that would have

been a different kind of shitshow.

And speaking of parents, what kind of parents tell a kid how much they’ve missed her and then just go about their empty-nester-business like said kid isn’t even home? Marsha and Jim were out late last night and I suspect they’ve left again, off to bridge club or country club or golf or whatever it is people do when they’re early retirees. If you ask me, they were just waiting until I flew the nest because “real life” started then.

But I guess it works. Because yesterday was crazy, beyond incredible, and thank god Jim and Marsha didn’t bust in. What would they have thought?

Sweet daughter, getting licked by four men.

Opening her legs, begging for it.

Pushing her boobies into the mouths of four ravenous alphas.

Yep, that’s me.

It would have been disastrous, to say the least.

So I sit up, determined to put a stop to the constant loop of images in my mind. There’s real life, and yesterday was a dream.

Suddenly, a loud, rumbling noise sounds outside, making my head pound. Talk about adding insult to injury! What could be going on so early in the morning?

Squinting, I haul myself to my feet, pulling off my dress and pulling on a threadbare t-shirt that my mom likes to call my “blankie,” since I often wear it when I’m feeling out of sorts. It’s been a part of my life since seventh grade and has a very faded picture of a younger Nick Jonas on the front.

That hiccuping, rumbling sound fills the air again, so I haul myself to the window, still squinting against the bright sunlight. And oh lordy, but my breath catches then. Because there’s brother number five, working on a motorcycle in the Morgans’ driveway. The bike is oversized, chrome-covered, and built like a beast. Just like the man bent beside it.

A brick wall, the dude has bulging biceps glistening with sweat as he works shirtless in the late-morning sun. His hair is longer than the other brothers I’ve met, but still richly dark and wavy. And I bet there are sky-blue eyes under his slick, black sunglasses.

What is it with the Morgan boys? How can they all look like cover models? But all I know is how they make me feel, because as I watch the Adonis outside, my hand moves almost unconsciously, stroking ever so lightly at my clit as my pussy juices flow, soaking my panties.

These Morgan guys can’t be real. They have to be a figment of my inexperienced and therefore sexually crazed brain.

But it’s real, oh yeah, it’s real. The man bends toward his bike, head low, almost breathing onto the chrome, and I just about come. Is he going to kiss it? Lick the metal? But as I lean forward, squinting to see, the man howls and jerks back, cradling his hand.

Shit, what happened?

A discarded piece of metal lies on the floor now, jagged and rough, covered with blood.

Oh my god.

If I can see blood from my second-story window, then he must have really hurt himself. He could be bleeding out.

Instinctively, I dash for the door, hurtling myself down the stairs and outside. It doesn’t occur to me until I stop that I’m only wearing a flimsy, see-through t-shirt, complete with Joe Jonas’ face on the front.

And seeing this guy up close does nothing to stop what’s happening between my legs. He’s bronzed and tattooed, hair shaggy around his ears and neck. But yeah, it’s that same coal-black hair, the same penetrating blue eyes.

Stop ogling! the voice inside screams. Someone’s injured, he needs your help! So I force myself to focus on the hand he’s cradling. A torrent of swear words is filling the air like a hillbilly symphony. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t hear me when I murmur, “Can I help?”

So louder, I say it again.

“Hey, can I help? You okay?”

This time the pained Adonis nods and I hurry over.

“Keep pressure on it. You got a first-aid kit in your house?”

Growling like a dog, the man nods and starts walking, heading into the house and up the stairs to a small bathroom. As he cradles his hand, still howling, I dig through the cabinets furiously, throwing things left and right. Oh god, oh god, he’s so close. This bathroom is tiny, and between my curves and his bulky mass, we’re practically touching. In fact, I can feel the steam from his skin, radiating like a star on fire.

But no, this is wrong. He’s bleeding, for god’s sake, and needs help. What the hell is wrong with me?