No, I don’t want to nibble at life. I want to take a big fucking bite, suck down its juiciness, and swallow it hard with a moan. And in my experience, the best way to do that is through sex. There is nothing more gratifying… nothing that feels as good. It’s intimate, carnal, and liberating. It’s the ultimate high.

Add in some kink.

Let people explore their fantasies.

Indulge in your nastiest desire.

Yeah, that’s the shit that turns the ultimate high into infinite euphoria.

And I’m going to give people the ability to achieve that.

Bridger whistles low as he looks at the beauty laying before us. “So we’re really going to do this?”

“We’re really going to do this,” I murmur.

I get a fucking hard-on just thinking about it.

Chapter 1

Woolf

One year later…

The minute I open my office door, the sounds and smells assault me.

Luke Bryan’s Country Girl is blaring, and dozens of boots hitting the wooden floor in a line dance reverberate.

Drunken laughs and voices rise from those trying to talk above the loud music. I smell spilled beer and sawdust on the floor with a tinge of cheap cologne in the air. Ahhhh. It’s exactly as I imagined The Wicked Horse would be.

Pulling my office door shut behind me, I turn around and set the alarm panel in the wall beside it. Only Bridger and I know the password to get in. Walking up to the main bar, I lift the pass-through bridge and step past several bartenders trying to appease the clamoring crowd. I sidestep past my female bartenders, who are wearing tight black t-shirts with The Wicked Horse brand on the front and denim shorts that show the rounded curve of their ass just peeking out at the bottom. I’ve actually seen a lot more than just the hint of some of these girls’ asses. The male bartenders also wear tight black t-shirts and yes, most of them are hired for their bodies rather than their brains. This is because I know women appreciate ogling as much as men do, so I aim to please. Everyone behind the bar wears a pair of custom-made black cowboy boots with the signature neon-blue reflective spurs on the back. When they all get up on the bar to dance—and yes, I got that from Coyote Ugly—it makes quite the spectacle.

I walk up to Ted, my senior bartender, and hand him the stapled sheaf of documents in my hand. “Here’s the new price list from our beer distributor. Toss out the old one. You’ll see there’s a price drop once we order more than ten cases of any brand, so go ahead and make sure we order at least ten for every inventory restock.”

“But we don’t have the room here to hold that much beer,” he says as he takes the documents.

“I know,” I respond as I pull my Stetson off and sift my fingers through my hair briefly before putting it back on. “Use The Silo’s storage room for the excess.”

“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.