Mr. Pink Read online

  Mr. Pink

  Tessa Layne

  Copyright © 2019 by Tessa Layne

  Paperback Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-07-4

  EPUB Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-06-7

  Cover Art by Melissa Gill Designs

  Published by Shady Layne Media

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any form or in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of copious amounts of wine, long walks, and the author’s overactive imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  She was only supposed to be a one-night stand...

  * * *

  You know why banned books are bestsellers? Because everyone wants what they can’t have. And I want Macey McCaslin. I want her sassy mouth driving me wild, and her luscious curves under my hands. In a barn, in a bed, on a table. Whenever. Wherever.

  * * *

  But Macey’s off-limits. So far off-limits, my brother Jason might kill me if he found out about us. He thinks I’m nothing more than a skirt-chasing manwhore not worthy to lick the dirt off her sexy little feet. And I’m definitely that, but ask me if I care? Because one taste of Macey was all it took to make me an addict. This may cost me everything, but I’m not staying away.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Tessa’s Newsletter

  Also by Tessa Layne

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  No amount of highway driving can erase the taste of Macey McCaslin’s pussy 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 fuck-you to this whole fucked-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.

  Of course.

  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 ‘fuck 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 fucking 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 fucked 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 fucking 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 ass 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 drug 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 fuck of my life, with a pussy 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 torture 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 pussy 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 p
roperty 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 fucking 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 ass 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 cock 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 ass. 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 cock. “What are you doing here?” she sputters. “You promised.”

  Chapter Two

  Nine Weeks Earlier

  * * *

  “Stop drinking beer for fuck’s sake. Do you want dad to have a stroke?” Nico tosses a set of keys my direction.

  Without glancing up from my favorite movie, I grab the keys out of the air like a ninja. I can tell by the feel of the fob he’s hunted down the keys to my Pagani. “Shh. It’s the best part.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Nico tense, folding his arms across his chest with the scowl I know only too well. But I don’t stop Reservoir Dogs for just anyone - especially Nico.

  What’s special, take you in the back and suck your dick?

  I stifle a laugh. That line gets me every time. The scene ends and I pause the movie. “Where you going all dressed up?”

  “Same place as you.” Nico scowls like Keanu Reeves.

  “Fuck that. I’m finishing my movie, then heading down to the club for a round of racquetball. Then maybe a drive along the 101.” Code for picking up a deb at the country club and finding a secluded spot for some early spring fucking al fresco.

  Nico stalks across the rec room and snatches the remote.

  “Hey.” I glare. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  “Did you read Wine Country Weekly?”

  I snort. “Since when did you start taking an interest in the family business?”

  “Since dad’s been riding my ass about his legacy.” Nico looks like he’s about to chuck the remote across the room. “Do you pay attention to anything?”

  You bet. Tits, ass. The next pussy I’m going to conquer. “My next lay,” I say fighting to keep a smirk from my mouth. It’s so much funnier when I deadpan.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter for five seconds and listen up.”

  Nico was a lot more fun when we were teenagers. Before he married Ronnie and shackled himself to a social climbing honey badger dressed in Versace. But I can see he’s not going to let this go, so in the name of brotherly love, I sit back, prepared to listen. “Talk to me.”

  Nico clears his throat, looking the tiniest bit uncomfortable.

  Interesting. He might only be thirteen minutes older than me, but he wears his firstborn title like a badge, which means he hates asking for shit. And thanks to that little tell, I’m ready to pounce the second I see my opening.

  “Ronnie’s been on this kick about boutique wineries lately.”

  I swallow back the acid that rises. “I thought this was about Dad.”

  “It is.”

  I open my hands. “Then why are you talking about Ronnie?”

  “Because Dad’s pissed as hell that she’s the only one taking an active interest in the business. He thinks she wants to take over.”

  “So?” Who cares if she does? She and Nico are bound to produce progeny one of these days and their son, because they will have a son - with triplet boys in the genes, how could he not- will inherit a billion dollar wine conglomerate. I suppose it ought to piss me off, but to be honest. I give no shits. My trust fund is secure. I’ll be fully vested in two more years, and then I can retire from a life of leisure to dabble in whatever the fuck I feel like. Bikini inspection, maybe.

  Nico shakes his head with a look of disappointment, as if he can see my thought process playing out on my face. “Dad doesn’t want Ronnie running things, he wants us.”

  I shrug. “I’m a beer drinker, dude. And whiskey on Saturdays.”

  “Keep saying shit like that around here and he’s gonna cut you off,” Nico snaps.

  “Mom wouldn’t let him.”

  Nico raises a brow. Now he has my attention. What does he know that I don’t? “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  I stand. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Nico looks triumphant, and he should, because somehow, he’s gained the upper hand. Again. And now he knows I’ll do whatever the fuck he asks because I crave information. “There’s a blind tasting happening downtown tonight for small, up-and-coming wineries. Ronnie’s been researching the trends and thinks we should be stepping up our game. She wants to taste the competition.”

  “We have no competition,” I snort. “We own more than a million acres of vines. A twenty-acre mom and pop winery is no threat to us. And hell, if for some reason they are, we can Duvel them.”

  Nico shoots me a questioning look.

  “Duvel?” I stare back like he’s a third grader asking how to spell mommy. “Only the biggest beer conglomerate in the world? They’re gobbling up microbreweries like they’re starving.”

  “Point is, Mom has decided Ronnie’s got a point and has started pestering Dad.”

  Subtext: Ronnie doesn’t like me, and now Mom’s on the warpath and my trust fund may be on wobbly ground. Fuck that. Fuck them. My mind immediately starts spinning. I’ve made some decent investments over the years - not quite enough to keep me in the manner I’ve become accustomed, but bring it. Let them try and bring me down. I’ll Tarantino their asses and beat them at their own game. “So what you’re saying is I need to put on a fucking monkey suit and go pretend like I give a shit about a bunch of baby vineyards we could crush like that?” I snap my fingers.

  Nico flashes me a grin. “Something like that.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I sit back down and turn Reservoir Dogs back on.

  “You’re a fucking piece of work, Austin,” he grits.

  I wave a hand. “Shh. I said I’d think about it.”

  “Don’t be a douchebag. Dec’s already on board. Tasting starts at seven at the Four Seasons.” He spins and leaves without giving me a chance to get in the last word. Asshole.

  And I do think about it, only paying half-attention to the screen. Option one: Blow them off. It would be easy, and I know how to avoid Mom’s wrath. At least for a few weeks. But I like my life, and the basic lack of conflict that comes with it. And I won’t lie. I fucking love my trust fund, even though I chafe at the strings attached. Which leads me to Option two: Putting on a monkey suit and pretending like I give a shit about wine. As much as I hate the idea of changing my plans, Option two will keep my life relatively headache-free, which is a plus. And the bar in the Four Seasons is as good a place as any to find a sexy piece of tail to enjoy tonight. I drain the last of my beer and shut off the movie, reaching for my p
hone as I stand. If I hoof it, I can be on the road in forty-five and beat Nico and Declan to the hotel. They’ll stop for cocktails on the veranda with Mom and Dad before taking the limo in, which means if I play my cards right, I can have my evening plans set before they make it to the lobby.

  Chapter Three

  The Four Seasons bar is one of my favorites in San Francisco. Dark panels, leather, and marble compliment a view of downtown. It’s sexy and masculine all at once, and I love that Miles, the maître d’, greets me by name, ushering me to my usual spot by the fireplace. “Beer or bourbon tonight?”

  I also love that Miles knows what I like. “Bourbon.”

  I settle into the wingback and scan the bar. It’s early yet, and mostly empty, but it will start filling up in the next hour. Miles arrives with a tumblerful of my latest favorite, Van Winkle 25, neat. You don’t pollute a spirit this gorgeous with water of any kind. A tumbler costs more than what most people make in a month, but it goes down smooth, warming my belly. I lean my head back and shut my eyes, savoring the flavors still lingering in my mouth. Caramel, vanilla, and a heat so pleasant it could almost be considered foreplay.

  When I open my eyes, they land on the most exquisite specimen of femininity I think I’ve ever seen. I straighten in my chair, instantly aware. She sits at the bar, angled toward the fireplace. My first scan registers flame red waves, cascading past her shoulders, the kind of hair that begs to be fisted and tugged. Creamy skin spotted with golden freckles, and legs for days that bow into delicate ankles and black stilettos. The second scan back up her shapely curves shows black lace, modestly falling just above her knees, no wedding ring, and an ivory column of neck begging to be tasted. Her eyes flash suspiciously when I meet hers. I offer her an unashamed smile. She’s caught me staring, but who wouldn’t stare? She’s fucking gorgeous. A burst of protective energy spikes through me. Every man on the prowl will be pissing on her lamppost inside of an hour, and I want to make damned sure they know I got here first.