A Harem of One [The Moreland Brothers 3] (Siren Publishing Allure) (2 page)

His humor was vaunted as droll, but what others mistook for jokes was the truth. He didn’t really give a fuck what anyone else thought and let them laugh. That was fine with him, as he really didn’t have the time to soothe anyone when he gave the cut direct. Aside from that, his free time was monopolized with computers and home movies with bad plots and campy wardrobes, but it was more fun than anything his peers like to do, which mainly meant drink and smoke weed or cut class. He had smoked before, his mother was a big fan of marijuana, and she grew her own in the greenhouse behind the main wing of the mansion. So it was there if he wanted it, but he didn’t find the same pleasure that most of his peers did in it.

He liked to work with his hands, and no computer was safe within fifty feet of him. He’d already received contact from a couple of colleges about early admission in the last three years. But he wasn’t ready for that yet. He had enjoyed being a high school student, and at the time he had a date for the prom already. Ergo, he determined he may as well wait until graduation before he went to college. The only problem was his father wanted him to give the early acceptance a trial run or at least accept some of the classes being offered to him. But he didn’t need them, not really. At the rate he was going, any professor would be irritated with him as he already knew more than they could teach. He had enough of that now, and there was no need to be a small prepubescent fry on campus and annoy his teachers like he had done already. He only went to three classes for the last couple of years. The rest were on paper only as he could pass those in a coma and the teachers were sick of dealing with a know-it-all. So the afternoons were spent in the AV room, and he did the school a favor each afternoon as the unofficial IT guy on campus, while he bided his time.

As he dug in the belly of a Mac PC and started the process to create a hybrid computer for his room, he wondered if he would ever fit in anywhere or with anyone. He’d met girls he liked, but none of them rang any bells. Not like his parents did for one another. The ladies he met so far were of the appropriate background, equally attractive, and knew what fork to start their meals with, but they all seemed…vapid. It was as if they were blank disk drives without programs and their parents filled the memory banks of their blank slates with unimportant garbage files versus anything of real importance. The girls could have conversations about world topics, but the words spoken were opinions provided to them from dinners with politicians and they had no inspired thoughts of their own on any subject.

It was a hard thing to want to belong to another person in that way when he didn’t understand what he wanted exactly. Or even an inkling of what she would be like. But then again, he thought to himself, I’m a bit young to meet Mrs. Right when Ms. Right Now is happy to have hot teenage car sex with me. Even if the thought niggled and tugged at some small part of him, but he dismissed the urge as he didn’t understand quite what he felt at the moment.

The Rice Paper Yogi

Current Day

Marq felt a vague sense of irritation. Here he was the only single man left in his family. He’d just watched Charyn fall for Makenzie last year, and now this? Deven, too? Those uncharitable thoughts plagued him as said eldest brother waded through piles of fabric, peering at his soon-to-be bride. They were currently in the boudoir of the family manse, hiding in the shared master and mistress’s suite closet. The closet spanned both rooms with one side the master’s bed chamber, and the other was for the mistress of the house. For whatever reason, Deven had to get a peek of his future wife’s gown, and Charli thus far refused to let him see hide or hair of the dress. As Deven knew the final fitting was taking place, he’d practically dragged Marq along.

Marques had barely arrived this morning to the family home, just outside of Hartford, Connecticut. He had spent most of the night on the road, and he was rank and raggedy. Not his best look. But there were a few loose ends in the wording of a contract, and Marq wanted to pin down the fine points before leaving work last night. He didn’t get out of the office until after eight and, combined with the long drive, it left him exhausted and lank. His Oxford tee had seen better days, grayed with age and worn at the seams. The cargo shorts were just as limp as he felt, and the olive green fabric carried a multitude of wrinkles from the confines of his car. His feet were the only thing refreshed as he wore a pair of leather flip-flops to keep them cool.

“Marq, if you ever loved our mother, you’ll come with me.”

“What the deuce?” Marq mocked a convincing British affectation, sounding similar to his favorite cartoon. He even had the Stewie boxers on right now to prove it.

“Our rat-faced fink of a mother told Charli it was bad luck to see the gown.”

“Why the need to see the gown? I’m fairly sure that she’ll be in the thing on August nineteenth.” Damn the man had it bad. The auspicious moment was only a day and night away.

“I refuse to wait that long.” Deven’s face showed he meant business. Although Marq had no idea why it was so important. That aspect of the event seemed trivial. As long as she showed up for the ceremony, it shouldn’t matter if she was in a burlap sack.

Apparently, the pair of them weren’t as quiet as they needed to be to get Deven the coveted look. Marq was wedged toward the back half of the master’s closet when he felt a quick tap on the left shoulder. Angling his head to the side, he saw little, just a flash of golden skin and a skein of soft, fluttering waves.

“I don’t think the two of you should be here.” The mass of hair kept him from seeing the face of the owner of the gentle voice. He wasn’t sure who it was. Maybe she was from the dress shop.

The woman behind him smelled vaguely of spice, a mingling of patchouli and cinnamon. He assumed she came in the closet to keep them from an unlucky peek of the gown. A gasp to the front of him forced Marq to look forward and revealed Charli standing at the other closet door, arms akimbo, lips pursed. They were in trouble.

“Deven, you know that you can’t see me in the gown! Why are you hiding in the closet?” Her face spoke to her mood, stormy and itching for a spat. Deven was putty in the minute woman’s hand. It was written all over his stance. Marq shook his head. Poor schmuck, balls in hand by a woman the size of a twelve-year-old. But Deven’s next words showed Marq he had her whipped just as badly.

“Pixie, if I end up seeing the dress for the first time at our wedding, the guests will get a public consummation.” Marq saw Charli shiver visibly as she opened the closet door wider. Marq watched his brother’s stance change from defense to offense in a split second, and decided to leave them alone.

His quick decision to back away was confirmed as the correct one moment later.

“Take it off, or you’ll walk down the aisle naked.” Deven’s voice was near a rumble.

Marq turned away as a zipper was lowered, he didn’t know whose, and it didn’t matter either. Once the master’s door was closed, he walked out the room altogether. But even the walls and closed doors failed to keep the sounds of the affianced lovers at bay. That Charli had to be a tough one, or she would be wheeled down the aisle after his brother got done with her.

When Marq reached the east wing, he stopped by his usual bedroom when he was at the family home. His mother had gone off on some East-meets-West kick, and now the room was filled with delicate Japanese Tansu chests and embroidered silk Shantung draperies. He found the room annoying, as it was bordello red and gaudy in the extreme. The last few years found him in Japan more than stateside, and it looked as if his mother took every item he’d sent her over the years and tossed them in the same space. It was so bad he still thought in Japanese at times. They had a way with phrasing. But he did need to get his tux and set it out for the next day’s ceremony. The yacht would be ready to disembark at ten and head for the first docking off the Carolina coast. When he finally reached the newly redesigned red room and opened the door, he heard a shuffling noise.

It took a moment for his eyes to begin adjusting to the light, and when they did, Marq saw a figure behind the modesty screen across the room. The person behind the rice paper and fabric didn’t realize it, but the early morning light showed every curve of her body. The unknown woman moved sensually, each motion lithe and fluid. He knew he was staring, a raunchy voyeur with debauched vision. Even though he was getting his thrills from an innocently initiated faux burlesque show, Marq felt no guilt. He watched her strip off each garment, from toed off socks to shirt and everything between the two. Her mass of hair was whipped swiftly into a ponytail, and Marq watched the shadowed feminine form gracefully stretch and a small moan emerge from the smooth column of throat bared to the early dawn. His cock grew turgid and semihard. He rubbed the front of his worn jeans. He wondered who the shadow siren was. She called his name with her innate grace and fluidity of movement. The bared breasts were a generous handful, probably a small D cup. The siren had thick hips and ass, and when combined with the hourglass shape of her profile, made for a sensual mix of seduction with a dash of earthiness.

* * * *

Jamison was exhausted, and with the rising of the sun, she had been awake the entire night. She looked like crap. Her hair was lank, her skin sallow instead of its usual bright coloring, and she felt like leftovers must when microwaved. It really didn’t matter what she looked like. No one would see her anyway. Nobody ever did. It wasn’t that she was unattractive, but she wasn’t an exceptional beauty and her shy demeanor didn’t win her awards either. Jamie was in dire need of Zen at the moment. After a harrowing hour of helping with last minute fittings and listening to the husky tones of the lovers pounding away, it was no wonder she felt a smidge short-tempered. It had been over two years since she had sex, and solo lovemaking lost its nostalgia long ago.

But she had made some headway with her movie-themed blogs along with added traffic on her website and found herself too busy to make more than a token effort at meeting another lover. Really, was there any point? Most men didn’t give her a second glance, and the ones that would weren’t appealing to her libido one bit. But that was for the best. If she hadn’t broken up with Aiden, then she would be right back at square one right now. She still worked at Southern Wireless, as she had the last two years, but with Aiden in her life, nothing would have been done to fulfill her personal ambitions. Aiden was a good one to make things as hard for her as he could. When she wanted to go on site for a film, he would pitch a fit. When she worked on her scheduled blog, he would obnoxiously turn the volume up on every TV in the house. He liked to call it his surround sound. He denigrated her, told her she was bland and fat. Yeah, she carried a few extra at the hip and breast regions, but she was fairly toned and her yoga kept her flexible. Shoot, he did her a favor by cheating on her with their neighbor. That was why she was so willing to leave their shared apartment and move into Makenzie’s vacated one. There was no way she wanted to have to look at the smug faces and corresponding smirks over awkward meetings in the hallway or at the mailbox.

After stripping her clothes off behind the conveniently placed screen, Jamie found herself finally free. Free of expectations and the trappings of respectability, able to be what anything she imagined. There was much she longed to be brave enough to do, but would never balk convention to try. Either way, the sunrise called to her, and answering Mother Nature with a series of sun salutations would bring a coup de grâce to her long night. Not to mention the start of an even longer day. After she slipped the buds of her MP3, fastened to an armband, in the well of each ear, Jamie let herself go. Hands in prayer carried her to a seamless flow into mountain pose, and from there her body took over. The motions long ingrained as muscle memory allowed her to center her mind. All the worries melted away in the moment angling from plank pose forward, snaking into a cobra next. By the time she hit downward dog, she felt more at peace and let a groan leave her chest. Her favorite mix of music made an exceptional soundtrack to the movements.

Gregorian monks chanted and lent a sense of serenity to the red bedroom, turning the girlish pinks of dawn to blush against the walls and screen shielding her. Being naked gave the sensual slide of postures an even greater depth of erotic weight. Her breasts were freed and bared to revel in warm light. The normally ignored spare flesh was given a chance to brush her in strange places even lovers never bothered to touch. Her nipples pebbled to peaks rimmed with taut areolas as the sun kissed them. The simple exercises never felt this naughty when doing her morning workout at her house.

* * * *

Marques found himself stumped. The beautiful show he watched left him with a hard shaft and eyes in awe. His hands clenched, and he wished that he could film her, right now, and there was no sex needed to spice the tape up. Her movements were innately graceful without pretense or artifice and would show well on the camera. No hesitation, as if the changing screen gave the woman it shielded modesty and allowed her to be more shameless than any exotic dancer. Each sway of limbs brought him closer to breaking her fragile peace by announcing his presence.

He shook his head and backed away for the second time that day. The door snicked closed, and Marq steeled himself against the desires he didn’t have the time or patience to indulge.

Marques was still lost in thought as he wandered the halls of his ancestral home. The east wing was devoted to the Eastern cultures, and priceless tapestries graced the hall at eye level. The one he passed first was owned by a sheik before his father won it in a game of dice years ago. Another was the story of Scheherazade enchanting her husband for a thousand and one nights. That particular piece was actually four separate mats woven by hand. They each told a portion of the tale, complete with characters from the stories the woman used to save her life. It happened to be his favorite, especially the tale from the last hanging. It depicted what happened to Scheherazade after she had no more tales to tell. This version had her husband initially giving the order for her death in anger, a gruesome seating by elephant, a process which had the condemned tied down and an elephant was commanded to sit on the person. But the prince couldn’t watch her die and ordered her to be let go.