Chapter 4

“Lindsay. You’re early.”

At that deep, masculine voice, her eyes flashed up and made contact with Colt for the first time.

Holy fuck!

A truly delicious specimen greeted her, purple dress shirt straining over a barrel chest, tribal tattoos across biceps snaking out from beneath rolled-up sleeves. At six-foot-two, Colt McCarron exuded an air of control and assertiveness that crackled like electricity and embodied Lindsay’s ideal of an older man to a T and then some: stylish, windblown brown hair; brooding eyes that threatened to consume her; a prominent jawline peppered with scruff; and a tanned, ripped physique that spoke of dedication and discipline.

Wow, just ... wow. Feminine instincts took over – breasts jutted out, hips shimmied. Using her sexuality to obtain what she wanted wasn’t her preferred method, but gosh dang it, because it always worked so well, what better option did Lindsay have? Hello, it’s a whorehouse...

“I’m Colt McCarron, the general manager of Happy Ending Ranch.”

Wait, what? Lindsay did a double take. Did you say general manager?

“Such a pleasure to meet you. Been a long time coming, hasn’t it? Please, sit down.”

“I thought ... you were the ... the ... the... owner?” Lindsay squeaked out those words as heat blazed across her face. No. No, no, no, no. Get it together. Don’t screw this up.

“I am, but prefer not to use that term. Not in the workplace, at least. Others may take offense or perceive it the wrong way. I prefer general manager.”

“Oh.” He had the kind of voice, Lindsay theorized, that made people apologize before they knew what they’d done wrong.

“Please excuse my mess. I’ve been doing some summer cleaning this morning.”

Mess? What mess? Lindsay surveyed his office, struck by its organization. Perfectly arranged and gleaming, the fragrance of leather, wood, and orange furniture polish surrounded her. Wish my room back home was this tidy. Mom wouldn’t have nagged me to clean it day after day.

Opposite her, a plush seating area beckoned, bathed in soft light filtering through a large window that framed the desert panorama. Lindsay imagined sinking into those deep cushions, the worries of the world melting away. A sleek desk sat beside the window. To one side, a compact kitchenette sparkled with stainless steel appliances, promising a haven for late-night snacks and early morning coffee. The ceiling featured a painted summer sky, soft blue with wispy clouds. Such a different vibe than out front.

“How are you? I trust you had an okay trip?”

Lindsay’s eyes dropped, unable to hold his gaze. Her breath caught in her throat, heart pounding so loudly she felt certain he could hear it. What’s happening to meeeee?

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her lips felt dry, her tongue heavy. She hovered in place, torn between the urge to step closer and the instinct to flee.

“California girl, huh?” He retreated a step, assessing. “So pure, so innocent. Yeah, you’ll definitely do well here, especially with the older crowd. They’ll eat you alive.”

Colt’s unflinching appraisal incinerated Lindsay right down into the carpet itself. His mannerisms were blatant and unapologetic as he inspected her body as if it were a piece of property to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. The difference in their heights was just as pronounced as the difference in their ages.

Lindsay’s hand dove into her backpack, punching through lip gloss and Victoria’s Secret tags, and – No! Don’t go for the rosary! She blinked then kept her lids shut while recalling Sunday mornings, confession boxes, and her father’s passionate sermons.

I’m really here, really doing this. Her eyes opened, a world away from Citronelle and the suffocating morality of her upbringing. Lindsay caught her reflection in a mirror – the preacher’s daughter, the restless dreamer, the pretty pretender – but something was different. Very different.

Would she one day be like those trashy girls on the daytime talk shows her mom would scoff at? Or, worse yet, would she and her mother both be guests on a “Save My Daughter” episode? Mom would cry and pray on camera. Her face contorted at the thought. But by that point, I’d probably be so turnt up that I’d roll my eyes and laugh it off.

Her heart pounded like the churning wheels of a locomotive gathering speed. The tracks of her past lay behind her, and ahead, the uncharted journey of her own making. Lindsay drew a deep breath, her lips curling into a confident smirk. This damnation express wasn’t something to flee from.

It was hers to command.

“Bring on that older crowd.” Thorns spread behind her smile. “Bring ‘em all on.”

And yet, just like that, her spine went liquid.

Pamela crept a hand across Lindsay’s back and massaged it. Not accustomed to such a gentle touch, it threw Lindsay for a loop. Packard would paw and grope, but Pamela’s fingertips delivered a soothing, tender caress, a whisper in the wind. “I love that confidence, honey. I just love it.” She edged closer, slid her thumb along the shell of Lindsay’s ear. “Hmm, your hair smells... so good.”

Colt stepped forward and offered his hand.

So sexy. Colt had enormous hands, and Lindsay feared he could snap her wrists like twigs if he got the urge. The thought aroused the submissive in her. A man’s hands. Masculine hands that could pin her down, control her, bend her to his will.

“Do you know how really, really, really ridiculously gorgeous you are?” Pamela asked, carefully sweeping Lindsay’s hair to the side, and exposing the back of her neck. “You belong here. I can tell.” She took it in for a moment, that neck, the delicate texture of it. “I’m so thankful you found your way to us.”

OhmiGod! Lindsay could pick her poison here; she opted to again focus on Colt’s hand engulfing hers, calloused palm against moisturized skin. She stared at the exchange for a beat before her eyes drifted over his chest and down his arms. Her mouth watered when she got to that tribal wrapping around his bicep.

A raw, familiar hunger unfurled, the same that once had Gina brand her as bleacher girl and slut before she even had her driver’s license. No wedding ring on Colt’s finger. Well, at least that would be one less thing for Mom to crucify her for once the real reason Lindsay relocated to Nevada finally came out.

Shit! Just wait ‘til Gina hears...

Twenty-six years of working at the brothel had sharpened Colt’s eye to a razor’s edge. Constantly surrounded by women who could crash social media feeds with a single bikini pic, physical assessment had become pure reflex, as instinctive as a surgeon reading X-rays.

“Pamela, stop touching the new girl.”

His initial observation of Lindsay was her luxurious, sunrise-gold hair and how it complemented the healthy glow of her skin. With it styled in a voluminous ponytail, he recognized this girl as a natural blonde – the essence of summer, a goddess of the sun. Good. Simple. Natural. He’d seen too many applicants arrive with elaborate styles such as waterfall braids, complex updos, and desperate attempts at sophistication. Those were invariably the ones who brought drama and demands, who treated this like a modeling gig rather than a legitimate job. No, thank you ... not the type of girls I want associated with my house.

But Lindsay was different. A total vision of loveliness who seemed way too sweet and wholesome to be searching for a job in the skin trade, she possessed no edges, with nothing frayed. A true, quintessential All-American girl, the eighteen-year-old evoked apple pie and warm, quiet nights on the front porch swing.

Green and nervous as hell, but that’s nothing new. We’ll get her past that.

Genuine kindness radiated from her, and Colt could tell she was the sort of girl who sacrificed her happiness for others without a second thought. A little giver. Fresh from the pumpkin patch, indeed.

Colt’s gaze lingered on her lips, ripe and glossy like fresh strawberries. Breath audibly hitched in Lindsay’s throat as her face divided into a nervous grin. Perfect lips for this business. Full and expressive, and absolutely tailor-made for sucking dick.

If he offered her the job and she took it, one thing was certain: that mouth would receive a heavy workload here.

Small, flawless breasts strained against the clingy fabric of Lindsay’s ribbed blouse, begging for freedom. Going braless to an interview. Noted, filed, and irrelevant to whether I hire you. I’ve seen it all, kid. The top also highlighted her flat, narrow waist.

Lindsay had rips in the front of her denim shorts, which fit her style, and wore Chuck Taylor shoes. Classic California Girl look. She may not have boasted long, showgirl-type legs, but hers were toned from a background in athletics and could hold their own alongside any fellow employee in a lineup.

In Colt’s mind, Lindsay Anastacio ranked as one of the most compelling women he had ever invited into his office for an interview. Best candidate I’ve had in over a decade. She ain’t Pamela, no, but then again, no one is. Lindsay’s slender frame carried curves in all the right places. An aroma of fragrant perfume abounded, lush and sultry, like exotic flowers.

Goddamn chick’s gonna be a walking ATM machine...

“So, what do you want next, huh? You just want me to suck this dick the whole time or ... you tell me.”

“Oh, no. Hell, no. We’re gonna fuck.”

“You wanna feel this fuckin’ pussy wrapped around that cock?”

“Yes, please.”

“Yeah? You want me to take it all the way deep inside of me?”

A tattered breath. “Oh fuck, yes.”

“Slide that fuckin’ cock in balls deep in this tight fuckin’ pussy?”

A snicker, barely audible. “Oh, yes.”

“Are you ready?”

“Ohhhhh, oh. Very much.”

Amy Zeitler – Scarlett – withdrew the cock from the recesses of her mouth and, still on her knees, bent all the way over, ass up, face down, her wild mass of burgundy hair fanning across the ottoman below. “Come on, then.” She anchored herself, spine arched, feet spreading wider, stretching more to make her backside an even higher, more available target, and locked a gaze onto the naked client beyond her shoulder. “Give it to me.”

Randy Jarvis blew out his cheeks and dropped to a knee from the chair, then caught Scarlett’s hips and heaved her ass right to the edge of the ottoman. His beer belly was shucked in; his cock, hard as granite. “You are so fucking beautiful, babygirl.” He positioned himself on both knees, cock in hand. “I’m the luckiest sonofabitch in the world to be in this room right now with you.”

“Yes,” she said, red hair falling forward, hiding her face. “Yes, you are.”

Her soft cry as the flared head breached her depths was like music to his ears. Randy loved it when they fucked once a month like this, like clockwork, but his favorite part each encounter was the initial moment he penetrated her fully doggy-style, her ass snug against his pelvis. It was heaven on earth. But the ultimate fantasy was, after dozens of parties over the years, was convincing this pinup beauty queen to finally leave Happy Ending Ranch and start a real life with him.

His wife? His wife could slam into a ditch somewhere and rot to death for all he cared.

“Oh, so good. So good.” Randy began to thrust in small, timed movements. “I fucking love you.”

Scarlett dipped her face farther, eyes numb and rolling in the private cocoon of her hair. But she snapped back up just as quickly, gaze bright and fixated on him, licking her lips as if savoring the moment herself. “Oh, fuck. Yesssss, yes, so good. I’m so fucking wet.”

Randy settled into long, deliberate strokes.

“Oh, fuuuuuck. Oh my God, fuck. That cock feel good inside that little pussy? Yes, fuck me, baby. Fuck me harder. Oh, yeah, just like that.”

His cadence increased. He went deeper, harder, envisioning himself as her savior like he always did. Randy held Scarlett in place, not allowing her to move with him. He controlled sex between them – always had, always will – controlled her pleasure and her orgasms, and expected her to give him everything in return.

“Yeah, fuck that pussy, fuck that pussy. You know what kind of girl I am. You like that? You like that sound, baby? Your balls slapping my pussy? Oh, go harder. That’s it, that’s it. Do it harder.”

Surging forward, Randy drew Scarlett’s torso to him so he could hold her, her back to his chest, overinflated breasts filling his hands. He squeezed, pinched, and rolled thick nipples while his other hand cupped her pussy, again controlling her, a slave to his pleasure. The woman he’d figuratively spent every waking moment for the past three years daydreaming about, the only person in the world who could bring him true happiness.

“Oh, you’re so fucking tight.” Laughter welled up within him and burst loose. “My sweet, sweet babygirl. I’d do anything for you. I ... oh, God ... anything. Give you anything. I ... I love you.”

“Oh God, yes, you know how much I love being with you, too, baby. Every month, every month, you’re my favorite. No one else comes close. My pussy ... my pussy belongs to you.” Scarlett flicked her gaze to the nightstand where her phone was propped up, a countdown timer in motion on its screen. Forty-seven minutes, sixteen seconds. Good Gawd. Her smile twitched and died, if just for a nanosecond, but then returned tenfold. “I want that dick. I want it! Yeah, don’t fuckin’ stop, Randy. Don’t fuckin’ stop...”

“Should I stick around or not?”

“C’mon now, Pamela.” With a professional, steadfast demeanor, Colt’s voice lowered in pitch as he returned to his desk. “You already know the answer to that, don’t you?”

Pamela’s head did a quick bobble as she settled onto the chaise lounge sofa, patting Lindsay’s kneecap. “It’s okay, honey.” While Lindsay straightened her blouse with long, skittish strokes, joy and anticipation pinwheeled across Pamela’s face. “I know being here is nerve-wracking, so try to relax. This isn’t an interview at the neighborhood burger joint. You’re in a brothel, and I remember how scared I was on my first day too. We want you to succeed, but most of all, we want you to be comfortable.”

Lindsay shifted her weight, her legs quivering. Okay, girl, don’t punk out now. Gone were the grease-stained apron and the scent of carnival food from working the corn dog stand that had followed her for years. Here, under this blinding spotlight, real dreams took flight, along with a paycheck that could change everything. You’ve got one chance. Don’t fuck this up.