Ten men, a beach house, and a question to answer: Does size really matter?
When my boss asks me to write an article on the age-old question of the importance of D-size, I stifle an eye-roll. This isn’t what I imagined I’d be doing after years of journalism classes.
But when she presents me with the keys to an exclusive beach house, and the personal details of the ten men she’s lined up for me to interview, my eyes practically bug out of my head.
It isn’t only because they’re hotter than the surface of the sun, or tall and broad enough to form a Great-Wall-of-Man. It isn’t because between them, they have more ink than a bookstore. It isn’t even because each of them is packing ten inches or more, although that does raise a perfectly arched eyebrow.
It’s the way my boss winks when she says the word interview, as though her expectation of the depth of my investigation is way beyond standard reporting.
I’m a flustered mess when they all arrive at the beach house.
Carson and Clay are tattoo artists who can’t stop staring at my virgin skin.
Russell and Tom are ex-military men looking for adventure on home soil.
Jimmy and Jonas are personal trainers with a very personal touch.
Oliver and Stefan are senior executives at two prestigious advertising agencies, making them as rich as they are sexy.
And Theron and Gabe build houses for a living with their bare hands!
They’re a veritable buffet of delicious manly goodness.
They tantalize me with what it would be like to experience ten men and ten times ten inches until I’m achy and needy and more desperate to know the answer to the size question than I’ve ever been about anything, ever!
And when they find out how innocent I am, they decide I need to be taught many, many mind blowing lessons about how to handle so much man.
Ten men, seven days and one intriguing question. Will I find the answer?
10 INCHES is a Reverse Harem Romance with a happy ever after ending. It’s book 8 in the Multiple Love Series of standalone romances with characters who continue to make appearances!
READ AN EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 1
1
ALLIE
“Allie, I have a new assignment for you. Take a seat.” Kirsty, my boss, peers at me over her computer screen. As I opt for the chair nearest the window, she continues to type so furiously I worry about the health of her keyboard. I stare out at the world outside the Fine Line Magazine office building, desperate to escape into the sunshine. My best friend Dawn is enjoying her new life in Australia, and I can’t help but feel a bucketful of slick green envy.
“Right.” Kirsty pushes back from her desk and shoves her sexy librarian glasses up her perfectly straight nose like she means business. She fixes me with her piercing blue eyes, making no attempt to hide her assessment of my colorful outfit and yellow stilettos. A flare of her nostrils and a purse of her lips tells me all I need to know. I allow my notebook to flop open and press the top of my pen in readiness to take notes, even though the thought of writing another article about sex fills me with dread.
“Hit me.” I try to sound excited, even adding a grin which feels tight on my face. Thankfully, Kirsty seems convinced.
“Does size matter?” Her arms spread wide as though she’s trying to illustrate the point.
“I’ve heard it matters a lot,” I mumble.
“You’ve heard?” Kirsty raises a perfectly arched eyebrow above the rim of her glasses and fluffs her platinum blonde bob with one hand.
“Yes. You know. The girl version of locker room talk.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Kirsty says. “Men are so open about what they want in a woman. Any woman could put together an ideal version of women according to men. I mean, it’s blonde hair, blue eyes, big breasts, narrow waist, curvy hips and ass.” She lists attributes, folding down her fingers as she goes, seemingly unaware that she’s describing herself. Of course, she’s very aware that I’m missing many of the required attributes. “But women don’t generally talk about what they need and want from men. It’s all a big mystery.”
“And you want to get to the bottom of the size question?”
“It’s a four-page spread,” she says. “Front cover feature. I want interviews from both sides, and it needs a personal feel. This isn’t an article where you can just provide observations. I want to hear from you too, Allie.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I mean, you’re young, free, and single. You must have a whole lot to say about this topic?”
My jaw drops open as Kirsty stares at me, waiting for a response that I can’t find the words to provide. She’s suggesting I’m very sexually active, and if I was a man, that wouldn’t be a problem. But I’m a woman, and her suggestion feels like a negative accusation. Does she really think I’m promiscuous? There are other words for women who sleep around that I don’t even want to think about, let alone say out loud. The unfair double standard around sex fills me with rage, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been implanted in my head just a little.
“I don’t know what kind of personal element I can add,” I say slowly, bringing my pen to my lips and biting down on the warm plastic.
“Don’t be coy, Allie. It doesn’t suit you.” Kirsty reaches into her drawer and pulls out an envelope. She slides a bunch of keys from the top and spins them on her manicured finger. “These are the keys to a gorgeous beach house. And here are the details of the men you’re going to interview. You have seven days to research.”
I must look confused because Kirsty stands and thrusts the envelope towards me. I slide out the sheets of paper inside and my eyes bug out at the photograph of the gorgeous man on the top. Carson, it reads, and then there’s a long description; his job, his appearance, his interests, and at the top, his stats. Ten inches, it reads. Ten. Fucking. Inches.
“They’re all ten inches.” Kirsty’s red lips pinch as though she’s battling a smile. “If I was a little younger, I’d be fighting you to the death for this assignment.”
I flick through the rest of the men, taking in broad white smiles, twinkling eyes, and tattoos. They’re a buffet of hotness. A party platter of deliciousness. A dessert cart of temptation. Jesus.
“So, I’m going to interview them at the beach house?”
“They’re going to stay with you for seven days.”
“Stay?”
“You can thank me next week.” Kirsty’s already turned back to her computer. “I take it you know enough women to gather the female input for the article?”
I nod, my mind spinning through the favor I’m going to ask Dawn. She mentioned the reverse harem ladies club her friend Kyla is a part of. There must be women there who’ll be happy to talk to me about this. I don’t need to feature their names, just their anonymous opinions on the importance of dick size.
As I rise from my chair, my stomach feels like it’s dropped through my intestines. For the one millionth time, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. This isn’t what I went to college to achieve, but I have bills to pay, and monster-sized student loans to clear. Writing articles about genitals and the humans attached to them for Fine Line Magazine is the best paid gig I can find. My parents keep telling me to focus on the money. I’m constantly reminded that I don’t have the means to pick and choose what I write about, but it doesn’t feel good to suppress all the hopes I had about making a difference in the world.
“Clear your diary, Allie,” Kirsty says firmly as I reach the doorway to her office. “I need you on this tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” There’s no way she’s put together all the arrangements today. She must have known what she had planned for me and didn’t share it until the last minute. Ugh. Either she believes I have no life, or she doesn’t care that I have one she’s about to mess up. I mean, what would happen if I had a boyfriend? He wouldn’t exactly be dancing with happiness about this arrangement.
It’s probably a good thing I put the ‘s’ firmly into single.
“Your ten men are arriving at the beach house tomorrow. You need to be there to welcome them.”
My ten men? “Okay.”
She nods curtly. “Enjoy your interviews.” The last word is said with long drawn-out emphasis before she winks. She actually winks. It’s like witnessing a Gorgon crack a smile.
“I’ll try.” Shuddering as I round the corner, I inhale deeply and try to blow out my tension. It’s not that I’m scared of my boss. Not at all. She’s formidable, but not unreasonable. It’s just that every step I take in this job brings me further from the path I want to be on, and the distance between me and my dreams makes my heart thud weirdly and my palms sweat.
At my desk, I place the keys for the beach house next to my water bottle and tip out the contents of the envelope. I find the address of the beach house first. It’s two hours’ drive away and on a stretch of coastline I’ve always wanted to visit. The pictures of where I’m going to be staying for the next week are breathtaking; high ceilings and a modern interior combined with an outdoor pool and entertaining area that are impressive enough to host a bougie wedding party.
Beneath the property description, I find Carson’s profile again. Just looking at his photo makes my cheeks hot. Maybe it’s his shaved head and strong jawline, or his blue eyes that stare into mine with as much intensity as if he was standing before me. Maybe it’s reading about his occupation as a tattoo artist and the way my mind immediately imagines the ink on his skin. But it’s probably the highlighted statement of his dick size that makes my face heat to the shade of a sun ripened tomato.
Ten Inches.
How is that even a physical possibility? There’s a ruler standing in a pot on my desk and the ten-inch marker seems impossibly high. What would that look like, standing straight like a baton or a nightstick? What would Carson look like naked, covered only in tattoos, holding his ten-inch cock like a weapon?
A god of war.
A man who could destroy cities and rebuild them with his own bare hands.
And I’m a ridiculous woman with too much imagination who can’t look at a man naked without bursting into flames.
None of my friends know I’m still a virgin. If Dawn found out, I think her head would explode. She has nine boyfriends. Nine. The amount of sex that girl must be having shouldn’t be legal. I probably won’t achieve a years worth of her sexual exploits in my lifetime.
It’s not that I’m a prude.
Far from it.
It’s just that I’ve been so busy with my studies and work that I’ve never taken the time to lift my head to check out the available men. This office isn’t exactly throbbing with hot prospects. The thing with writing for a women’s magazine is it tends to be women who are interested enough in the subject matter to write it. Brian from the mailroom and Colin from accounting aren’t setting anybody’s loins ablaze. The absence of male eye candy hasn’t done me any favors. Now, just a photo of a hot man is enough to make me flustered. If I can’t even look at Carson’s photo without combusting, how the hell am I going to cope with living with ten men for seven days and interviewing them about their dicks?
My boss really hasn’t chosen the best candidate for this job.
Maybe I should tell her to find someone else. I could nudge Grace or Rihanna in her direction. Both of them would eat this assignment up like a caramel sundae.
I lift Carson’s profile to find Clay’s beneath. I skip over the ten inches part because that’s now become an expectation. Imagine! He’s leaner than Carson, but still muscular, with long wavy blond hair that he’s drawn back into a bun. He has hazel eyes that twinkle and dimples which make him ooze mischief and so many tattoos they all merge into a giant block of color.
Russell is next, a veteran with short cropped dark hair and a strong jaw. His green eyes seem to hold a mix of determination and reflectiveness. I imagine his hands are huge and rough with calluses that would make my toes curl if they caressed the right places on my body.
Tom is also ex-military, but there’s something warm about him, a kindness to his face, and a close-cropped beard that gives him an air of maturity.
Jimmy seems younger. I check out his date of birth to find out that he’s only twenty-four. With sun-kissed skin and ice-blue eyes, the personal trainer exudes health and youth.
Jonas is also a personal trainer, and I suddenly notice a pattern in their jobs. Two men from each occupation. His smile is charismatic, and his crooked nose gives him a rougher, more experienced appearance.
The next two men, Oliver and Stefan, both hold senior positions in ad agencies I’m familiar with. With their white shirts and dark suits, they both seem sophisticated and suave. Oliver is the oldest of the men so far. At forty-one, he already has a dusting of silver in his dark hair, and a straight Romanesque nose that makes him appear serious. In contrast, Stefan has laughter lines etched at the corners of his green eyes, and refined features that perfectly match his charming smile.
Theron and Gabe are the last men and both work in construction. Theron is the taller of the two with a rugged face, dark hair and mesmerizing light eyes that make me feel like I could fall into them. Gabe has a warm smile that instantly puts me at ease and a hint of gentleness in eyes that are almost the same color as mine.
By the time I’ve finished reading all the profiles, my body temperature has increased enough that I use the last one to fan myself cool. My cheeks must be radiating like beacons. This is not a good sign at all.
“What’s wrong with you?” Grace asks as she passes my desk clutching a steaming mug. “You look like my mom in the middle of one of her hot flashes.”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”
“Love sick?” she snickers, peering at my desk and I’m too slow to cover the photos on the profiles that are strewn messily in front of me. “I heard you’re out on a smoking hot assignment for seven days.”
I quickly gather the profiles and she quirks one perfectly plucked eyebrow as she folds her lips between her teeth, biting her smile.
“Who has time for love in this place?” I say, ignoring the mention of where I’m going to be for a week. “There’s barely any point in me paying rent right now, I spend so little time at home.”
“I’m with you there. Maybe we should start one of those arrangements where we apartment-share with someone who works nights. They made a movie with that plot…what was it called?”
“Yeah…maybe not. There’s no way I’d want to share a bed with a stranger.”
“Sounds like most of your Saturday nights.” Rianna breezes past, clutching a bundle of papers. “Awesome assignment. I’m jealous.”
“I’m socializing for all of us,” Grace grins lasciviously. “But I have a feeling that you’re going to be making up for your hermit tendencies next week.”
“I’m interviewing,” I say. “How exciting can it get?”
Grace raises both her brows this time and looks pertinently at the bundle of profiles I’m doing my best to hide. “From the look of those men, it could get to incendiary levels of excitement if you let it.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Kirsty would kill me.”
“What happens at the beach house, stays at the beach house,” Grace says, revealing she knows a whole lot more about my assignment than I assumed.
“If you know so much, how come you’re not the one going?”
“The beefcakes are all yours. I have a wedding. Can’t get out of it!”
“I’m not sure that’s a very PC way of referring to men.”
“Well, I’m not very PC.” She leans in, checking her mug to make sure she’s not about to slosh boiling liquid all over me. “If you don’t make the most of this assignment and come back with at least a phone number and the promise of a date, I’m going to make you buy me lunch for the rest of the year.”
“I guess I’m buying lunch then.”
Grace sways off in the direction of her desk, shaking her head like I’m the world’s biggest disappointment.
But even as I try to deny that the idea that living a little dangerously isn’t something I’ve considered, my eyes drift back to the photo of Theron on top of the pile, and my heart skitters in my chest.
Who am I kidding? Certainly not Grace, and definitely not myself!
(c) Stephanie Brother
