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Dean’s Dare (Boys & Toys #3)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Daryl Banner

Book Information:

Four best friends. One big city full of boys and toys.
What could possibly go wrong?

“Boys & Toys” is a sexy and playful new series of M/M novellas from Daryl Banner, author of Bromosexual, Hard For My Boss, Football Sundae, and the Brazen Boys series.

Books in Series:

Boys & Toys Series by Daryl Banner

Books by Author:

Daryl Banner Books

[ 1 ]

Dean and Sam’s townhouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

It’s 7:27 PM, and Sam should be home any minute. He’s returning from a five-day business trip, which is the longest he’s been gone in a while.

And Dean has a plan.


There’s nothing like those last few minutes before your sexy bear of a husband comes home from a long business trip, pent-up and ready to go.

And he’s always ready to go.

Something about being stuck in hotel rooms makes him horny for me the moment he comes home—and I’m counting on it.

I take everything off and put on a pair of tiny black bikini briefs that expose every inch of me. The material cups my privates and my cheeks with exquisite detail, showing off everything I’ve got. And that’s exactly what I want to do, considering the several days a week I go to Caysen’s gym for bun-tightening squats and light cardio.

Of course, he’s also come to expect this whole thing, since this is my usual “greeting” for him each time he comes home from a trip. So it’s not exactly a surprise—yet it always feels like one.

Who knows? Maybe I’ve trained this behavior of his; it’s like Pavlov’s gay, horny dog.

So to make this time just a bit more special, I add some pizazz by putting a sexy black bowtie around my neck, then fuss up my dark blond hair with a little product. I look like an exotic dancer at the end of his act with just one thing left to lose.

Finally, I place myself right under the archway coming in from the foyer to the living room. All the lights are off on all three floors save the one over my head, casting an appealing light down my body, highlighting the muscles I have and making my hair glow. Then I give the back of the front door my best smolder, and wait.

I cross my arms, then I wait some more.

Ten minutes turns into fifteen. Twenty. Thirty.

I scratch at something on my arm, inspect my fingernail, yawn, then wait some more.

Is my bowtie too tight? I check it in the mirror hanging in the hallway. Then I hear something at the door, rush back to my place, pose, smolder the door, and … false alarm, no one’s home.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Fast forward an hour and twenty-two minutes.

Now I’m in the kitchen, a different and far less sexy light cast over my head, with a bottle of wine opened, half a glass poured (it’s my third), and I’m nursing a cramp in my hamstring from all the posing under the archway. I check my phone for a twentieth time, then push it away with a sigh and fold my arms on the counter, resting my chin on it.

In ten more minutes, I’m sitting on the kitchen island, legs dangling off, the bottle of wine now half empty, and playing Candy Crush on my phone one-handed, humming to myself. Every time I hear a noise, I just assume it’s the wind and shrug it off. Every time, I’m right.

And then quite suddenly I’m not.

I look up at the sound of the door opening, my eyes wide. I set my phone down at once, hop off the island, and hurry to the archway.

Sam, my handsome bear of a husband, enters in a black tie and a sharp blue dress shirt. A rolling suitcase trails behind him.

I’m in my sexy pose right away. “Mmm, hey, babe,” I groan as a greeting, my voice deep with need as I lean against the archway. “You horny?”

Sam looks up. His eyes flash.

And that’s when I notice the two other figures who’ve followed him inside. Business associates. Two middle-aged men wearing suits, black ties, and really fucking shiny shoes.

Their eyes fall on me as mine fall on them.

Those same eyes drop to my tiny bikini briefs.

“Hi, honey,” greets my husband flatly.

I cover my crotch with one hand and a single nipple with the other (for some reason), rasp out the words, “Fuck me,” and dart out of my spotlight under the archway, racing off.

The pads of my bare naked feet can’t take me fast enough to the downstairs guest room, where I promptly lock the door behind me, then stare at myself in the body-length mirror hanging from the back of the door, breathing heavily.

I stare at my figure long and hard.

These tiny black things I picked out to wear.

My ridiculous bowtie.

I imagine all the things my husband might’ve just told them before they crossed that threshold. Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet my husband. He’s such a great guy. Totally not just a trophy husband with no purpose in life but to stay at home like a precious toy on a shelf and sex me all day long.

Well, I hope I lived up to their expectations, because that’s the first and last time they’ll see my beet-red, humiliated face, that’s for fucking sure.