Dirty Thirty

By Cara McKenna

Despite his scrappy punk packaging, Evan's got a submissive streak in him that's just screaming to be indulged. So on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, Evan's wife Margie arranges for them to ring out his twenties by realizing his darkest fantasy-inviting another man into their bedroom. Margie's found the perfect candidate for Evan's birthday treat. Paul works as a bouncer at their favorite bar, and lucky for Evan and Margie, he's every bit the sexual Dominant his intimidating body suggests. Evan isn't a hundred percent sure he's ready to go to all the places his kinks seem determined to take him, but one thing's for sure-by the time he wakes on his thirtieth birthday, his fantasy will have become reality. (

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094452067

Cara McKenna

Meg Maguire has published nearly forty romances and erotic novels with a variety of publishers, sometimes under the pen name Cara McKenna. Her stories have been acclaimed for their smart, modern voice and defiance of convention. She was a 2015 RITA Award finalist, a 2014 RT Reviewers' Choice Award winner, and a 2010 Golden Heart Award finalist. She lives with her husband and baby son in the Pacific Northwest, though she'll always be a Boston girl at heart.

Book preview

1

Evan Hennessey glanced at the clock on his computer screen for the thousandth time that hour, the day crawling, limping ever more slowly toward five.

He was turning thirty tomorrow, no big deal really…except tonight he was going to get his brains fucked out, one last hurrah before his twenties were officially over.

This evening’s festivities were his wife’s orchestration. Margie had planned the whole thing and done a damn fine job, just as she did with everything else she put her mind to.

Evan grabbed his phone and Margie picked up on the second ring.

You’re not chickening out, right?

He laughed, kept his voice low so his officemates wouldn’t overhear. No way. Just obsessively checking the time. He said eight?

Yup, eight.

And I don’t need to pick anything up on my way home?

Nope. Your gorgeous charming wife has it all under control.

Evan toyed with the tin robot next to his computer, straightened the framed wedding photo beside it—Margie in torn white lace, tattoos, spiky pink hair, Evan in a tuxedo tee shirt, mohawk longer than it was these days and dyed deep red to match his silkscreened bowtie and carnation.

I love you, Margie.

Why wouldn’t you? He heard the smirk in her standard reply.

I love you for doing this.

I love that you asked, she said. Listen, I’ve got to finish something for a six o’clock deadline. See you in an hour-ish?

Yup. See you soon.

He switched his phone off, drummed his fingers on his thighs. Four nineteen. Christ, this day was never going to end. Why did the laws of physics have to pick today to rewrite themselves? Didn’t they understand Evan needed this, the slowest Friday in history, to be over already? Didn’t they know tonight was the night Evan was finally going to get properly and thoroughly fucked by another man?

Five o’clock did eventually arrive, and the second it did Evan was slinging his bag over his back and mounting his bike, his brain three hours ahead of his body. He cycled the twenty minutes from his office at one end of Portland toward his and Margie’s little house on the other. Usually on a Friday as glorious as this one he’d be savoring the June breeze, appreciating the sunshine and the distant white peak of Mount Hood against a rare, nearly cloudless sky…but not tonight.

The events scheduled for this evening were four months in the making. It had started one drunken night in February after a friend’s Valentine’s engagement party. Too much champagne, or perhaps exactly the right amount. At any rate, Evan and Margie had stumbled into the house giggling, kissing, tearing each other’s clothes off as a good husband and wife should. At the height of Evan performing his marital duty, as Margie liked to call it, she’d done that thing that drove him nuts—two fingers teasing his asshole as he drove into her, rough. No new feature, until Evan’s drink-addled self-censorship filters had failed and the words came tumbling out.

God, I want to get fucked by a guy.

She hadn’t missed a beat, hadn’t paused for the thinnest of seconds. Oh yeah?

Yeah.

Her fingers had slowed, pressure building as she penetrated him. For real, do you think?

He’d held his tongue, body lost in the pleasure, brain cloudy. Yeah. Just once. For real.

Fuck, that’s sexy.

And so that little confession grew, the topic making its way into their dirty talk, the thought working as a hit of some exciting new drug. A month after the initial drunken revelation, Margie had brought it up outside the bedroom—outside their house, even—over a picnic lunch.

You know your dirty little secret? she’d asked, spring sunshine lighting up her blue eyes, a chicken salad sandwich in her hands.

Sure.

Do you think you might ever want to go for it? Like, bring in a guy?

Evan stared off toward the river, pondering the offer. His body sure as hell wanted it. His rational brain wasn’t a hundred percent on board yet. Dirty talk was one thing, but this was their relationship she was offering to experiment on.

I dunno. Maybe.

Margie took a big bite of her sandwich, licked mayonnaise off her thumb. I’m down for it, she said, mid-chew.

He shrugged, hiding the hot jolt of curiosity zapping through him. I wouldn’t even know how to go about finding somebody. They ran with an eccentric, liberal crowd, but Evan didn’t know about asking acquaintances for tips on finding some random gay guy to fuck his straight ass. Semi-straight. Heteroflexible.

I think I already did find somebody, Margie said.

What? Who?

Paul. Paul Seeto.

Evan blinked. Paul our bouncer?

She nodded. Paul the Wall.

Evan pictured the doorman who worked at their favorite bar, the tall thug Margie called that hot bitch, often within his earshot. Hot, yes. Bitch…Evan wasn’t so sure.

Is Paul even gay? He doesn’t seem gay.

He’s close enough. She’d know better than Evan. Margie was a writer, covered gigs and events for the local paper, knew just about every bartender and band member in Portland.

"So what do you