No amount of highway driving can erase the taste of Macey McCaslin’s p***y from my mind. Not the 101, and not the two days of winding roads that carry me closer and closer to the middle of bumfuck nowhere Kansas and the next ninety days that will be my Purgatory. My indentured servitude to release my trust fund from lockdown.
My Pagani eats roads like this for breakfast, or a shark gobbling up harbor seals. Something I relish as I fly by the speed limit signs, erect in their warning, demanding I slow as I approach Prairie, population 5,672. I accelerate instead, pushing my speed around a particularly sharp curve. I love this car. She may have a fickle Italian engine, but she’s a thing of beauty. Curves and lines as luscious and alive as if she’s been carved out of Carrara marble instead of metal, leather and fiberglass. She hums beneath me as I press on the gas, purring like a woman begging for more as I fly into the curves. The Flint Hills don’t hold a candle to the Pacific Coast Highway, but they’ll do for as long as I’m stuck here. I swerve into the oncoming lane and juice the gas to avoid a tractor pulling onto the road.
By the time the speed-limit reads twenty-five, my speedometer reads one-oh-two. A cluster of buildings fly by in a blur, and running the town’s only red light gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction. A f**k-you to this whole f****d-up situation. Flashing lights speed toward me in the rearview, and I slow, then pull to the side when I realize I’ve been tagged.
Because my first day in Prairie should read like a Dukes of Hazard rerun. Only the guy walking toward the car looks a lot more menacing than Roscoe P. Coltrane. Funny thing is, I’m not even pissed. I’m bound to find someone as luscious as Daisy Duke hanging around, and I mean to take advantage when I do. Anything to purge Macey from my mind.
I remove my sunglasses and pull my papers from the glove box, holding them out the window with my license. Scary Roscoe takes my papers. “I assume you know you were speeding,” he says dryly.
He didn’t phrase it as a question, so I remain silent. I catch a glimpse of his nametag: Chief Weston Tucker.
He studies my license, then looks back at me. “I was told to look out for you,” he says, handing me back my license and the papers. “I’ll let you go with a warning because you’re Jason’s brother.” The way he holds himself makes me think he must be ex-military. There’s something about his demeanor that says ‘f**k with me and I will kill you.’ He loops his thumbs over his belt. “But I clock you going anywhere near that speed again and I’ll yank your license and impound your car. Got it?”
I give him a salute and replace my sunglasses. “Yes, sir.”
Motherfucker. What a f*****g day. I pull back onto the road, crawling at what feels like a snail’s pace. Ten minutes later, I pull into the dirt drive that’s my brother’s new home. I shake my head at the somewhat familiar surroundings. They look different with the mid-afternoon sun blazing down. It’s been exactly a week since his wedding and I still can’t figure out why in the hell he’d give up the easy life to live in this bug-ridden backwater. Clearly his time in the service f****d him up.
I check the dashboard clock. Ten minutes to four. I’m damn well not going to show up early for this meeting. Especially when it’s a million degrees outside. I recline my seat and shut my eyes, letting the AC blast over me. The temperature reads ninety-three in the shade. Too f*****g hot.
At exactly four o’clock, I shut off the engine and leave my cool haven in search of the tasting room where I’m supposed to ‘have a lesson’ with Jason’s newly hired sommelier. Only this feels more like I’ve been sent to the headmaster’s office for disciplinary action. I might not have the taste buds of a somm, but I was born with a wine-flavored spoon in my mouth, and I sure as hell don’t need a ‘lesson’ from a pretentious asshole with a stick jammed so far up his a*s he walks on his tiptoes. I know wine just fine.
Do you? The husky voice that haunts my dreams taunts me.
Yes, I snap back in my head. Somms serve one purpose, and one purpose only, and that’s to push wine. They may brag about how refined their palate is, or pontificate about terroir and the fermentation process, and use way too many big words that most people don’t understand, but at the end of the day, they’re pushers. And if your d**g is high-priced wine, then the somm’s your supplier.
And the only reason my brother has hired a somm to run his tasting room way out in the middle of east podunk, is to push wine. Case family wine.
Cougar juice, her voice taunts for the millionth time.
I shake my head, pushing her voice back to the dark recesses of my memory. Macey McCaslin may have been the best f**k of my life, with a p***y that tasted like unicorns and magic, but that ship has sailed.
It’s for the best, I tell myself for the umpteenth time. Jason would kill me. Strike that - he’d t*****e me first, using his super-secret military moves. I like to think he’d start at my toes and work his way up, but I’ve seen him when he’s mad. He’d go straight for my balls and I’d be singing soprano before he cut out my tongue. So yeah, forgetting Macey is the best thing for the family jewels. There’s p***y to be had, even in a backwater place like Prairie, and I mean to sample it. Although I may never look at the barreling room on this property the same way again.
My shoes crunch on the gravel, and it’s just dusty enough, I know they’ll need a polish when I check into the hunting lodge across the road. It’s the closest thing to first-class accommodations out here. I push open the door to the tasting room and I’m greeted with a refreshing blast of cool air. Hallefuckinglujah. At least I can get my lesson without drenching my f*****g suit.
I pull off my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust to the interior. Half the lights are off, and while I can see a couple of wine bottles and a pair of glasses out, the somm is nowhere in sight. But then I see her. She’s on the other side of the counter, bent over, but I’d recognize that a*s anywhere - whether it’s covered in black lace, denim - the way it is now, or my favorite way, bare, creamy, and waiting for my hands. My c**k recognizes her too, stiffening at the sight of her, knowing what tight, sweet, heat resides inside her panties.
Then it hits me. She’s the somm. I want to smack my forehead. Then her a*s. It all makes sense now - all her comments, her connections to the Four Seasons, why she was in San Francisco in the first place. I’m a goddamned fool for not seeing it sooner. But none of that matters. At least right now. I step into the room. My luck today has just changed for the better. “Hello, Gorgeous.”
Macey turns with a gasp at the sound of my voice. Whatever words she had formed, die on her perfect bow lips. Her face flickers with a series of emotions - surprise, confusion, raw hunger - before her brows knit together and she settles on anger. Her full lower lip juts out as she shoots me a glare. But all I can think of is how lovely those sweet pink lips looked when they were wrapped around my c**k. “What are you doing here?” she sputters. “You promised.”