Brazen Read Online Free PDF

I
watch his eyes in the mirror, studying my shoulder-length hair as he runs the
bristles through it, and I wonder if he’s making an inventory of the grays. He
looks melancholy tonight. Or guilty. And with good cause.
    I push my
stool back roughly and catch him in the knees. He takes it in stride and sets
down the brush.
    “I have to
get dressed,” I tell him, and then his arms are holding me. They snake around
my waist from behind, enveloping me, pulling me against his wet shirt, his firm
chest.
    “I missed
you,” he says. His hands slide up over my ribs and cup me. I feel his cock
right through his jeans, pressing at the small of my back. He pulls the lapels
of the robe open and palms my bare breasts, the pads of the fingers on the left
scratchy, the right side less so. His hands are big and my breasts are small,
but I feel more full and feminine and worthy of my sex than I have in twenty
years. He pinches my nipples gently between his fingers and broad thumbs,
arousing them with tiny pulls. He teases until I’m aching, until my face and
chest are flushed and my attempts to appear cold are laughable.
    “I told you
not to come here again,” I say, and I sound husky.
    “You opened
the window,” he parries, and his voice is right at my ear. It’s deep, a
baritone, forever tarnished with that working man’s accent. It’s like a shot of
lousy house whiskey, cheap and strong, and it goes down stinging, upsets my
stomach and swims in my blood.
    “The others
will be here soon,” I tell him. I twist my arm around so I can cup the front of
his pants behind me and feel his excitement.
    “Good,” he
says. “They can watch.”
    I imagine
such a thing for a moment—four or five young men standing in a circle around
us, pleasuring themselves as they watch me get fucked
by Sean. Watching me suck him off, on my knees as he barks
orders, his hand on the back of my head. Watching what they’re denied.
    “No,” I say.
A fine fantasy, but no one can know about this. If Sean gets his way, it’ll be
our secret. And he shouldn’t get his way. He’s brought me nothing but trouble.
I step out of his embrace and rewrap myself.
    I turn to
study the length of his torso plastered in translucent white cotton. “You have
a hell of a nerve showing up here.”
    “So punish
me.”
    I squint an eye at him and nod. I grab the brush off the
vanity and motion for him to go to the bed. “All fours,” I say. “Hold the
headboard.”
    He kneels and
lowers down to his elbows, grabbing the slats. I settle in behind him and reach
around, unbuckling his belt, tugging open his damp jeans, sliding them and his
briefs down to expose that perfect, firm ass. I hold each cheek for moment, my
fingers curled into claws. He cranes his neck to meet my eyes and anger flashes
in my chest.
    I pick up the
hairbrush. It’s a paddle brush, pine with a wide, flat back. As it strikes him
it makes a sound so fierce I almost feel guilty. I go in slow, uneven intervals
and his body bucks with fresh surprise at each spank and his breathing grows
labored and raw. I toss the brush aside and scrape my nails over his reddened
skin. He flinches, muscles tensing.
    “Up,” I say,
getting off the bed.
    He hikes his
jeans up with a wince and stands dutifully before me.
    “Go upstairs
and wait. Leave your shirt.”
    He slips each
button free with a torturous slowness. He lets it drop to the floor before he
exits, making me watch the muscles of his back writhe with each graceful step.
    I dress in a
cashmere turtleneck and a layered crepe skirt and flats, and I wander upstairs
at my leisure. I pour two glasses of wine and find him in the den, the
television droning softly, reading lamps glowing. He’s watching an old movie on
TV, probably just the last channel I left it tuned to. I hand him the glass.
    “Join me,” he
says, as if this were his home.
    I glare at
him again but I sit and we drink, and we watch the movie for a few minutes. I
know what’s going to happen