Wicked Fall by Sawyer Bennett
"Sure thing, boss," Ted says, and I give him a nod before turning to leave. Ted is one of the few employees in the main nightclub area that knows about the fantasy sex club portion of The Wicked Horse. That's because he's one of my "fantasy makers". In addition to pouring a mean drink, he has an eight-inch cock that the women just love. He's the star of the fantasy I've entitled, "My husband's penis is too small and I want to know what it feels like to be with a real man".
I always have to withhold my eye roll when I get these requests because any man worth his fucking salt in the bedroom can make a woman come long and hard, regardless of how big his dick is. While I happen to be blessed with a long, thick cock that makes most women scream upon entry, I do some of my best work with my mouth.
My eyes stray out to the dance floor, which is packed with partiers. Most of the crowd leans young, mid-to-late twenties, and that's more a by-product of tourism. It's early summer and probably fifty percent of the people here tonight are either tourists or part-time residents that migrate here to accommodate the tourists like fishing guides, white-water rafting instructors, and the like. The other half are locals, although local in Wyoming means living within at least an hour's drive to this place. This part of the ranch doesn't sit far off the main highway that heads east out of Jackson, but it's a good forty-minute drive from my house that sits in the middle of Double J property.
"That's right," I hear Angel's sexy, husky voice come over the sound system. I hired our resident DJ over a year ago because of that voice. I swear it has the ability to make men come. "Step right up and get a front-row seat, fellas. Because our nightly wet t-shirt contest is getting ready to start. But let's meet our contestants first."
My eyes give a brief flick at the bar on the back wall of the club. Seven women are standing on top, all wearing tight, white t-shirts that I know from personal experience are super thin because I bought them. Nothing like a wet t-shirt contest to get people in the mood.
As I step back out from behind the bar, a pair of delicate, warm hands grab onto my hips from behind. I angle my head over my shoulder and my lips curve up.
Carlie Payton grins back up at me with full, red lips, long, golden-blonde hair, and a shirt cut so low I'm in danger of falling in and drowning in her cleavage. She steps around my side and comes to my front, keeping one hand on my hip and the other tugging playfully on my belt buckle. Her thumb grazes over the top of the engraved, pewter design, which is unique but not uncommonly so.
Round circle with another circle in the middle. Eight spokes. Seven compartments.
The Silo.
Where all your fantasies will come true.
All members of the sex club part of The Wicked Horse bear this design in some way. It may be a belt buckle, a piece of jewelry, or some of our more devoted members even have the brand tattooed on their bodies. It's a way that members of the club can identify themselves to each other when socializing out here in the nightclub area. It makes for easier hookups if a naughty couple wants to venture back to The Silo or one of the private cabins. Carlie has on a pair of silver earrings with The Silo brand dangling from each ear and she's a very active member, getting fucked or doing some sucking most nights. I first met her over at a sex club I used to visit over in Driggs, Idaho and well... she followed me over to the Wyoming side of the Tetons and has been here ever since. She's a favorite of mine for sure.
"Hey, sugar," she drawls, and then dips the tips of her fingers underneath the edge of my belt. "Want to play?"
Hmmmm. Let's see. My work is done for the night, I haven't been laid in four days because I've been busy as shit between my duties at JennCo and The Wicked Horse, and Carlie sucks cock like a Hoover vacuum cleaner. I start to get hard just thinking about it.
I vaguely hear Angel asking each woman to introduce themselves to the crowd, which is now pressing in on the back bar to get a gander of wet breasts and puckered nipples. My hand comes up to circle Carlie's slender throat, and I press my thumb just under her chin. Her eyes go cloudy with lust because she's into choking. That isn't my cup of tea, but I know someone who can fulfill that fantasy for her.
I nod over her head at Bridger, who is leaning casually up against the far wall. He's so tall I have no problem spotting him even with a crowded dance floor in between us. He's only got about two inches on me but fuck... he still looks like a goddamn giant.
"Want Bridger to play with us?" I ask her, giving a slight squeeze to her neck.
She moans in response, but I can't hear it over the music. Rather, I feel it rumble through her against my palm circling her throat. I take that as assent.
Bridger just seems to know he's being talked about because his eyes slide over to mine. His gaze flicks briefly to Carlie standing in front of me, and his smile curves wickedly. I knew he'd be all in.
As Bridger pushes off the wall and starts to wind his way through the throng of dancers, I lean down to place my lips near Carlie's ear. "Bridger had it last time. I'm getting your ass tonight."
She fucking shudders over the thought. Carlie loves her some DP, but then again... so do I.
I'm wicked that way.
When Bridger reaches us, he walks right up behind Carlie and presses into her. I know my friend well enough to know that he's already getting hard thinking about us taking her at the same time. I couldn't begin to count the number of times since college we've done that with a woman and I can honestly say, it never gets old.
Carlie is much shorter so Bridger and I can stare eye to eye as we iron out the details.
"Silo?" he asks.
"Nah. Let's just go to our office," I say simply.
Because that's closer and besides... a few weeks ago, Bridger and I tag teamed the new waitress, Stephanie, in there. Bridger just sat his naked ass on the edge of our desk, his long, powerful legs easily supporting himself. I did nothing more than place Stephanie in a straddle on his lap and stepped in behind. It was the perfect fucking angle.
No pun intended.
Bridger nods and grabs Carlie's hand, pulling her from me and toward the short hall that leads to our office. Carlie, in turn, takes my hand and I start to follow the train back.
"And how about you, honey?" Angel's smoky voice reverberates over the speakers, and I can just imagine her standing up on the bar with her fiery red hair that comes down to her ass, microphone pressed under the contestant's mouth. I've often thought about fucking Angel, but she's a dominatrix and I'm sorry... but I have to be the one in control. I don't submit to anyone, so it's never happened. I've sure enjoyed watching her play over at The Silo though.
Just as Bridger enters the hallway, the hair rises up on the back of my head when I hear the sweetest voice I've never been able to forget and that still intermittently haunts my dreams.
"Hi. My name's Callie. I just turned twenty-nine and oh, gosh... I'm nervous as hell, but I'm drunk enough to overcome it. Let's do this!"
I hear the resounding chorus of a hundred drunken men shout in agreement.
I drop Carlie's hand and whirl around, my gaze lasering onto the woman standing next to Angel on the bar.
Tall and willowy with chocolate-brown hair that appears to be braided down her back. It used to be really long, but I can't tell much about it right now. Even in the darkened atmosphere of the bar, I can still see the radiance of her light green eyes as she looks out over the crowd with her hands tucked nervously in the pockets of a tiny, denim skirt. I can't see them, but I can imagine the dusting of freckles I know graces that perfectly shaped nose and her high cheekbones.
It's been forever since I've seen her and I didn't think it would be possible, but fuck... she's even more gorgeous than I remembered.
I don't even think. Instead, I start barreling toward Callie, cutting straight across the dance floor toward the back bar. It's easy enough to make my way through the dancers, but I have to get a little rougher as I push my way past the thick wall of men all staring up expectantly.
And that exact minute, Calli
When I hit the edge of the bar, I hold my hand up, glaring at her... demanding she get down. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
I'm surprised when her hand comes out of her pocket and tentatively reaches toward me. But then she reconsiders, a hard glint in her eye. Instead, she reaches up and takes the bottom of the t-shirt in her hands, pulling it up in between her breasts, looping it into the collar, and then reaching underneath to pull it down, effectively creating a halter-like top. It plumps up her breasts and showcases a breathtakingly gorgeous view of her flat stomach and gently curved hips to where the denim of her skirt hangs dangerously low.
My fury rages at the same time the blood in my groin does, causing me to get shockingly hard. Christ... I don't think I've reacted that way to a woman since I was in my teens. She smirks down at me at the same time I hear Angel say, "Alright, men. Let those girls have it."
Champagne and beer starts spraying up at the girls, and given my position at the edge of the bar, I get a hefty dosing too. My fucking hat is going to be ruined, but I never take my eyes off Callie as she gets sprayed right in the chest. Instantly it seems like the thin, white fabric disappears, and all I can focus on is her perfectly rounded breasts with pebbled nipples. I tear my eyes off her chest and look up to see her looking out over the crowd and grinning. She looks to her right at the other girls, who are now dancing to Miranda Lambert's Somethin' Bad, and she fucking starts to do the same. Those amazing tits are now bouncing around, and I swear a thin, red film of rage filters over my sight.
When a man--clearly a tourist--next to me reaches up to grasp Callie's cowgirl boot, I give him a rough shove away. He looks like he wants to come barreling back at me, but one look at the thunderous look of murder on my face and he holds his hands up in supplication.
I slide my eyes up to see Callie staring down at me. For just a moment, she looks at me the same exact way she did all those years ago when she offered up her innocence to me.
"Fuck," I mutter, and my hands go up to clasp her behind her knees. I give a hard pull, and her body flies forward. My hand goes up, steadying her fall with a grip to her ass, and I have her resting in a fireman's hold over my shoulder. I turn fast and I think her boots catch someone in the head, but I don't give a shit.
I march right back through the dance floor, people scurrying to get out of my way. Callie makes feeble attempts to hammer her fists against my back, so I answer her with a resounding slap to her ass. That gets her to calm down, and by the time I reach my office door and I'm punching in the password, she's gone still over my shoulder.
Pushing the door open, I step in and immediately see Bridger getting his cock sucked by Carlie. He shoots me a surprised look when he sees I'm carrying a woman, but I'm already backing out and pulling the door closed.
Fuck. What a mess.
I bend over and gently lower Callie to the floor. When her boots hit the wood, she tips her face up at me, her eyes blazing with anger. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, Woolf Jennings?"
Grabbing her hand, I don't respond. I merely pull her behind me through the club toward the front doors. She makes the mistake of trying to pull free of my grasp, but I just clamp down on her harder.
When we hit the gravel parking lot, I turn to the right and head toward my Range Rover that's parked in one of two reserved spots on the side of the building. The other one is reserved for Bridger and his shiny, red Corvette. My strides are long, and Callie is running to keep up with me.
"Let. Me. Go," Callie all but screams and she pulls on her hand so hard, she rips free of my hold.
I turn around to face her, and she has both hands on her hips. "Just why do you think you have the right to pull me off that bar?" she demands.
God, she's so fucking beautiful. My eyes drop lazily down to her breasts that are for all intents and purposes naked under the wet material that leaves nothing to the imagination. Licking my lower lip in appreciation, I imagine what it would be like to suck one of those nipples gently into my mouth right now. I make sure she sees this move on my part, and I hope she takes good stock of the lecherous glint in my gaze as I look back up at her.
She's definitely not mistaking my look if the way her lips are parted slightly and her eyelids a bit heavy are any indication.
"Because," I tell her slowly as I step forward, "I don't think that Governor Hayes' daughter should be showing her naked tits to the entire state of Wyoming."
Chapter 2
Callie
My hands immediately come up to cover my breasts. I can feel how hard my nipples are against my palms, and my skin feels prickly with awareness at the way Woolf is watching me.
He's like a real wolf.
Predatory and dangerous.
It's the way he's always been. Or so it's always seemed.
He's a large man, but that's always excited me rather than scared me. And even though he's wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and a dark plaid shirt over it that's casually unbuttoned, he would put any model on the catwalks of Paris to shame.
"You have no say over what I do," I tell him, hoping my voice sounds calm enough.
"That's my bar back there, and I have every right to throw you out," he says darkly as he throws a thumb over his shoulder at the building behind him.
My eyes flick past his shoulder, back to the front of the bar, right to the white neon sign in the shape of an oval with the words "Wicked Horse" written diagonally across in blue. I turn a narrow-eyed gaze back to him. "Your bar?"
"Mine," he growls at me, then he has my elbow and he's propelling me toward a black Range Rover. "And it's now my official policy that the governor's daughter can't come in my bar. You better hope to God this doesn't get back to him."
I dig my boot heels down into the gravel and try to jerk my arm from him again, but he's got a firm hold. That doesn't stop my resistance or my skepticism. "Why in the fuck would a Jennings be wasting his time with a lowly honky tonk in the middle of nowhere?"
Woolf stops abruptly and spins on me. "Since when do you say words like 'fuck,' Callie? You used to slap me if I even said the word 'damn' when we were growing up."
He pulls his Stetson off with his free hand and slaps it against his leg in frustration, and wow. Just wow. I had almost forgotten that Woolf Jennings has a face that can stop reality. My gaze flicks first over that strong jawline with midnight black stubble. I had first recognized him by that jaw alone when he started stalking across the dance floor toward me just a bit ago, the top of his face having been shadowed by his hat. I'd recognize his jaw anywhere, no matter how much time has passed since I've seen him.
And just seeing him stalk toward me in there... knowing he was coming toward me and was probably madder than hell... God help me, but it sort of turned me on.
And now, as he stares at me with bright blue eyes that seem even bluer in the glow of the neon sign, and black eyelashes that are impossibly thick, I feel my pulse hammer hard the way it always did whenever I was around Woolf.
"I'm not the same girl you grew up with," I tell him hotly. Well, at least I don't want to be the same girl he grew up with. That Callie Hayes has spent years of her life being quiet and well mannered, leading a peacefully dull existence up until now.
"So I see," Woolf says as his eyes flick down briefly to my hands covering my breasts. "You put on quite a show back there. What would your fiance think?"
I tilt my chin upward. "Would have been a better show if you hadn't stopped me. And I'm not engaged anymore."
Woolf blinks at me in surprise. "Since when?"
"Since about seventy-two hours ago," I tell him. With a hard jerk of my arm, I'm free again. I spin around, intent on heading back into the bar. "And you just ruined what I'm betting was going to be a very good night."
"You're not going back in there," Woolf says as he
But then I reconsider and stop, turning quickly, and Woolf almost barrels right over me. He catches himself, his hands coming to my shoulders to steady both of us. And damn... his hands on me feel just as solid, and warm, and secure as they did so very long ago.
I swallow hard, take a deep breath, and say, "Look... I'm going to go back in there because my bra and purse are in there, so I'd like to get both and then head home."
Woolf slams his hat back on his head and gives a resigned sigh. Shrugging out of the plaid over shirt he has on, he holds it out and says, "Fine. Put this on though."
I gratefully accept the shirt because even though phase one of the New Callie was having fun on top of that bar, I've sort of lost the thrill of dozens of men staring at my breasts. I'm still just as buzzed, but the lure of enticing men to notice me has lost the appeal at this point.
Placing his hand at the back of my neck, he turns me toward the front door of The Wicked Horse and guides me back to it. "Get your stuff and meet me back at the front door. You've got five minutes. I've got to go find my partner to let him know I'm taking you home."
"You don't need to do that," I tell him hastily. "I've got my own car here."
"You're drunk." His hand tightens on the back of my neck, and for some weird reason, it makes me want to drop to my knees in front of him.
"I'm buzzed," I argue. "Big difference."
"Sorry, babe," he says, and oh, geez... why does Woolf calling me babe make me want to curl into him and purr? "But the Callie Hayes I know needed several drinks to get on top of that bar tonight, so you're not driving home."
Woolf opens the door, and we're greeted with some old-school Dixie Chicks. "Five minutes," he grumbles in warning and releases me. "Don't make me come find you."
I turn to give him a glare, but he's already pushing through the crowd and I lose sight of him fast. I don't waste any time because while I know I couldn't be in safer hands with Woolf Jennings, I don't want to test him. So I cut across the dance floor toward the DJ booth where the red-haired woman who had me sign up for the contest said I could stash my purse. When I approach her, she gives me a smile and nods toward the floor.