Red Flag Bull (Spice in the Mountains Book 4)

1. Jason

Ilean my forehead to the glass and watch all the tiny people below, scurrying through the streets like they’re in a desperate hurry to flee their lives.

The rat race.

I joined it with a mission, made it my bitch, and thought I’d risen above it, but there’s no real escape from the eternal pressure to hustle.

When I was younger, I believed being rich would get me everything, but now I’m older and wise enough to hate the things I once wanted to play with. Pathetic distractions.

I want to go back to the peace of the mountains.

Fresh air. Freedom. Family.

Family?Where the fuck did that come from?

I shudder and press my palm to the glass. A few discussions with my bros about breeding, and I’m contemplating the whole find a girl, settle down, and spawn some offspring thing?

I shake my head.

Babies are out of the question when I can’t bring myself to love or trust women anymore, and I have no desire to be saddled with one. The way I see it, babies are cute and all, but they’re a lifelong commitment. Women are not. They’re fun to stick your cock into, but they’re fickle. Interactions are only a temporary fix when I’m involved, but children are a permanent connection. I can’t make that math add up, and I refuse to bring a kid into an unstable equation.

My gaze travels to the edge of the city, where I can just make out the tall, elegant building that’s home to my least-hated sex club for kink enthusiasts. I haven’t been for a while, and I’m feeling it.

But there are rules at such an exclusive establishment.

Proof of current sexual health and always use condomsare the most fundamental and stringent of their membership policies. No amount of clearance or health checks are ever enough to forgo visible protection under their roof, but that’s exactly what I want.

A wet, dirty fuck.

I hadn’t had one in years, before my friends and I took turns helping Ben and Maggie conceive a few months ago, and now I can’t get it out of my head. I’m craving a night of pleasure I can draw out, until I’ve sated the fucking sex-crazed demon that’s been set loose inside me — breedy son of a bitch.

Sure, I’ve taken my fair share of enthusiastic club-subs home for a private discipline session, but I’ve never wanted to fuck one bare or grow a life inside her. That’s not an arrangement I care to negotiate, considering my stomach turns at the thought.

Normally, I lust for vengeance, and a sub gives me an outlet. But that’s not a healthy emotional platform to build a happy family on. I won’t do it. It’s delivering punishment that’ll bring me relief…

The seductive pleasure of controlled dungeon-play quickly fades to the background, overshadowed again by this pressing new drive to procreate.

Damn it.

Maybe it’s an age thing. The older a man gets, the greater the pressure he feels to breed? Like a desperate salmon, flaying himself in the fight to get upstream and spawn before death claims him? Time waits for no man, and even a broken biological clock strikes true twice in a lifetime, or some shit like that?

I indulge in the thought of a beautiful woman eager to bear my fruit, and a shiver runs through me. There’s a pull there. A magnetism.

God. I go raw for the first time in two decades to help my buddy breed his girl, and this is my reward?

My mind wanders back to what the five of us did to Ben’s wife that day. Ben will be her baby’s daddy, but any one of us could be the biological father. Even me.

My heartbeat picks up speed, and my cock twitches in my dress slacks. I don’t know why I get fucking excited by the fact it could be my sperm that succeeded over all the rest. There’s no prize for it, and it’s not like I want, or would be entitled to, Maggie or her baby. They’re Ben’s.

But I’m hooked on the idea of conquering, the primal nature, and the freedom of it.

Fucking a woman like an animal, with the sole mission of claiming her inside and out. All natural. No protection. No dulling of sensation. I want to feel everything I’m doing to my woman — because that’s what she’ll be if I’m taking her bare. Mine.

Fingers of pleasure run down my spine and spread a pleasurable thrill through my cock, until it flares to a full salute.

Fucking hell. Mine?

Like, a one-and-only, stay with me and I’ll take care of you thing?

I had that once, and it left me wary for nearly twenty fucking years.

Is that when the statute of limitations runs out, in regards to broken hearts? Because I swore off giving a fuck about commitment after that experience, and it’s served me well over the years. Since when do I want a fucking girlfriend, let alone a life partner or wife?

Never. The voice in my head is adamant.

Once bit, twice shy.

My fingers gravitate to my chest, stroking the uneven skin of the scars below my shirt, before I press my hand to my agitated heart.

Focus on your work. That’s what you’re good at.

Work, work, work. Like those people in the street. Keep busy. Stay distracted from all the shit that’s too hard to deal with.

There’s a knock on my door, and Stuart enters with hot coffee, cold water, and a stack of messages I don’t have time to catch up on — which is why he reads them aloud.

He’s only halfway through the first, when I start zoning out. I can barely hear him over the blood thumping in my ears.

I stare out the window, trying to catch my breath, but the rushing river of people down on the sidewalk never stops churning, and the thunder in my ears intensifies. I rub at the warning ache in my chest. My lifestyle is catching up with me, and the feeling of wrongness has been building for a while, but I don’t have time for a fucking heart attack today.

“…told her she’ll need to make an appointment that fits your schedule, because the Tokyo market won’t even be open for another twenty minutes, and you’re far from being done.” Stuart nods with a sense of completion, before he puts the pile of read Post-it notes on my desk. “Was there anything else you needed, sir?” He knows I prefer to work alone, and he’s already backing out of my office.

I call him back.

“Sir?”

“I’ll be leaving in the morning to take some time at Mountain Lake Falls, Stu. Call ahead. Make sure everything is set up and ready for a week-long stay, and reschedule my month to accommodate the disruption. You can redistribute my urgent load to Paterson. Asshole’s been hoping for an opportunity to prove himself, so let’s give him a chance to sink or swim.”

Stuart looks me over and worry lines are etched into his brow. He knows better than to question me about my motives, though, so with another nod, he leaves to do as I’ve asked.

As soon as the door closes, I take a huge gasp, stagger to my chair, and collapse into it.

It takes a full minute of deep-breathing exercises to regain control of myself, and then I glance at the stack of messages. I can’t remember a single thing Stu said. Did Melders Q call about their trade offers? I’ve been waiting for their decision all week, and if they haven’t come up with a bonus they can trade to their Japanese investors tonight, the multi-million-dollar window I found open for them to sneak through is going to close.

I reach for the Post-it notes and squint at Stu’s tidy handwriting. The words come into focus as I move the note further away. “Fucking eyes failing me now?”

It was easy to read his notes last month, but lately, it’s been an effort. Apparently, I need to get fucking glasses now. Forty-three. Isn’t that too young for this bullshit? Damned computer screens. That must be the reason. Some eye strain is to be expected over the years, but I wasn’t expecting it yet. When people tell you about getting older, they don’t tell you it happens all of a sudden. Too busy bitching about their aching bodies, I suppose. I keep mine in prime condition, but it’s been aching since I was a teenager, so there’ll be no surprises there, at least.

The first of Stu’s messages is the daily update from my mother’s rest home. She’s fine. Blah, blah, blah.

She hasn’t been fine since Candice was killed by the same drunk driver who fucked my chances of a football career, but whatever. Good to know she’s being fed and cared for, while she stares vacantly out the window and ages. I’m only glad Dad’s not around to watch it, anymore.

I make a note in my calendar to swing by and extend the garden in her view when I’m back from Mountain Lake. Flowers are the only thing that seems to put any light in her eyes anymore, and I’ve almost got the plantings right to have something in bloom at all times.

I throw that message in the trash and reach for another.

My breath hitches.

The intense red of rage fills my vision, and I blink it away so I can read the note again.

Amanda Warren requested your time.

Entry denied.

Had no appointment.

Declined to make one.

Also declined to leave a number.

I turn the note over, but there’s no further information.

I read it again.

Amanda Warren?What the fuck does she want?

Ten feral lashes and a fat fucking cock in her striped-red ass? Because anger is all I have for that woman, after the way she left things.

Amanda fucking Warren.

She probably found out I’m rich now. Had a change of heart and decided maybe I am good enough for her, after all? The fucking nerve.

I throw the note in the trash, where Mandi Warren belongs, and reach for the next.

It’s about Melders Q. They’ve come to the party. I check the wall clocks and pull my laptop closer. There’s work to do, and I’ve never been happier to have a new task to occupy myself with.

I manage to focus for all of three minutes, before my attention falls to the crumpled note in the wastepaper basket. I stare at it until I’m no longer seeing the screwed-up ball of pale yellow, but the face of the only woman I was ever stupid enough to love. The broken little bird, who was mine for one summer at the end of her senior year, before she spread her wings and flew as far away as she could get.

My beautiful, twisted girl.

What she’d let me do to her…

I return my gaze to the screen, doing my best to ignore the needy ache in my balls and the readiness in my cock.

It’s no use. The numbers begin to blur, and I brush the perspiration from my brow.

I grab the Post-it note from the trash and smooth it out, so I can read it again.

She came back.

She needs me. Needs my unpolished charm. My firm hand and close, brutal attention that give her pain an outlet. If she’s finally sought me out, she’s ready for the punishment I’ll give her. Wants it.

“What have you done, Mandi?” I rumble at the piece of paper, as I yank my belt free and wrench my zipper down.

My hard cock fills my palm completely, and I moan as I soothe its stretched-taut skin with gentle strokes. I only ever get this thick for Mandi. She could split me right open if she wanted to, damn her tortured fucking soul.

I collect the bead of pre-cum swelling at my slit and smear it over her name on the note. “You want to be mine again, Princess?”

A bolt of pleasure courses through me, and I grip my straining cock, as I recall the day I first wanted to claim her. Her throat had felt so delicate beneath my hand…