Taming Mr Winters (The Obsidian #3)

CHAPTER ONE

COLT

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“Ready, Mr. Winters?” the producer asks from the doorway.

The makeup person whips off the cape, brushes the fine fabric on my Tom Ford blazer shoulders, glances at me one more time in the mirror and nods at me.

“Yes.” I swivel in my chair and stand while smoothing my pants.

Claire, the producer, smiles, her cheeks warming—a sign of attraction—but I ignore it. I own the Obsidian Club, New York’s most exclusive sex club, so it takes more than a woman blushing in my presence to get my cock hard.

A lot more.

Everything works fine downstairs, for the record. I just see a lot of tits and pussy.

“Follow me.” Claire flicks her hair, gives me a coy smile and walks out into the hallway, swaying her hips, and I follow her towards the studio.

The studio where the show is being filmed.

I haven’t told the guys about this, but when they hear they’ll have a field day. The guys being Zander, Drew, Sebastian, and Mason. My best friends since college. Harvard. We’re all enormously successful and have net worths in the billions, so it’s not unusual for us to be quoted by the media.

This is different.

This is a reality TV show.

Today I’m a guest judge on The Venture Vault and have had makeup applied to my face. That makes me a prime target for their ribbing.

They can try.

So the fuckers can find out like everyone else when I post the teaser on my social media.

The Venture Vault is a show where five judges sit on a panel while young entrepreneurs present their business plans and ask for investment—aka money—from the judges.

I had to front a few mil when I was invited. It was a last-minute request after one of their regular judges fell sick and couldn’t drag his rich ass into the studio.

Something about being contagious.

What’s in it for me, you wonder?

Handing out a few million just because I have it isn’t something I do often. That’s bad business. Occasionally, I mentor individuals, and this show is something I enjoy watching.

So, I said yes.

It seemed fun. And fun is one of my core principles. Ask my stuck-up father who paid for Harvard and is still devastated I left and opened a bar. Then... insert gasp... a fucking sex club.

Although he’s somewhat ignorant of the latter.

The fact I demand six-figure membership fees didn’t impress him either.

Then again, both he and Mom are anesthesiologists.

“No offense, Daddio, but I think people have more fun at my workplace than yours.” I popped a cherry tomato into my mouth and grinned the night I told him a little about what I’d created.

The other investments in my portfolio are no one’s business.

“Chew with your mouth closed,” my mother replied, shaking her head. “And stop calling him that. You’re a grown man now.”

“Only in shoe size.”

And my cock, but yeah, I wasn’t saying that out loud. I might be cheeky, but I’m not stupid. In fact, I have above average intelligence. I think that’s why I like doing things off the beaten track. I get bored.

Life is so...predictable.

Anyway, I was twenty-five at the time that conversation took place. Now I don’t indulge them. My business is my business.

That doesn’t mean the old man keeps his mouth shut about his investment in my future and how I could have done more.

“I have nine figures in the bank, pops. Think I’ll be fine.”

“It’s about more than just money, Colt.”

Exactly.

I enjoyed investing funds, mentoring other people, owning a bar and restaurant...and sex club. It offered fun, variety and...a lot of pussy.

“Mr. Winters, we’ll have you come over here.” Claire guides me past the cameras, and my smile widens when I see a familiar face.

“Colt.” George stands and shakes my hand. “Good to see you.”

George was one of the top real estate agents in the country before starting his own company and disrupting the market. Now he holds the top spot with a TV show and an enormous merchandise line.

I bought my penthouse from him eight years ago, and we occasionally see each other at events.

“Ready to give my team another sale?”

No.

I love my penthouse. I might never move.

“Do you ever stop selling?” I laugh, then get introduced to Hank, the creator of the show and another judge.

He was a hedge fund investor, blah, blah. Pitched the idea to the network, and it’s been running for three years.

Glancing to my left, I wink at Daniella Dell, the beautiful brunette who is seated in one of the five plush leather seats we’ll be filmed in. She owns a Forbes 500 company that sells luxury goods and is a regular judge.

We slept together once, and without question, I know she’d drop her thousand-dollar panties and let me fuck her right now—cameras running—if I gave her the word.

“Colt.” She smiles demurely.

George glances between us, giving me one of those almost imperceptible looks which says bro, you’ve had your face between her legs, haven’t you.

Then I spot Zade, surprised to see him.

“I didn’t know you were on the show.”

“I’m a guest judge tonight, also.” Zade clasps my shoulder, despite me having a couple of inches on him. “How ya been?”

“Great. Haven’t seen you at the club lately.” My words are spoken low after glancing around. One thing Obsidian Club offers is complete discretion.

He lifts his hand displaying a gold band and I almost, almost, roll my fucking eyes.

“Married.”

Jesus.

Zade might not be in my inner circle, but it feels like everyone around my age is starting to shack up. Guess that happens when you hit thirty-four. Sebastian is marrying Emily, his former PA, in a few weeks, so it’s pretty close to home now.

“Must be something in the New York water.” I chuckle.

“Gentlemen.”

We’re directed to take our seats, and Zade and I promise to catch up soon.

I doubt I’ll be seeing him back at the club unless Mrs. Zade has some kinks. Could happen.

We’re given a list of the contestants and information about their companies, including the entirety of their financials. Which we were also emailed a few days in advance to review. Like any investor, we aren’t going to be handing out cash without knowing all we need to know.

We’ll ask about these during the show, as if we didn’t know a thing, for the audience’s sake.

Most are doing well, or better than well, and a couple are inexperienced...with interesting products.

Like the tone-deaf singers on the music reality shows, this is to add some color and entertainment to The Venture Vault.

It gives the snack-munching-sofa-surfers who think they’re business experts something to engage with.

I love a good snack in front of the screen myself, but you don’t get abs—or keep them—by doing that every night. Plus, it wouldn’t be a good look if the owner of an erotic club was walking around with a beer gut.

I shudder at the thought of no longer being able to see my cock. Not sure it would attract the kind of women I’m after either.

Those who enjoy sucking said cock.

Then leave.

“Everyone ready?” our blushing producer asks, her eyes flicking to me.

I wink at her in answer, and Daniella rolls her eyes. Rubbing my hand over my mouth to stifle my smirk, I get a little stiffy.

This is fun.

The cameras roll, and we’re introduced one by one. A brief but very complimentary bio on each of us shared by the presenter of the show.

My ego triples in size.

I stick with the wink theme I have going on, giving the audience back home one. The media will love it, and it’ll piss Sebastian off.

Because he will watch.

He just won’t ever admit it.

One by one, the contestants present to us and the camera, and I find myself enjoying it even more than I expected. I pass on business tips, offer four-hundred thousand of my million-dollar budget to two of them, then settle in for the next person.

I wasn’t prepared.

I really wasn’t.

Did I mention that those contestants who are here for purely entertainment purposes have not been shared with us in advance.

I’m about to realize why.

Jane walks on stage wearing long striped socks up to her knees, a denim skirt with overall straps, and long mousy blonde hair. She’s not much older than twenty-two at a pinch.

Glancing behind her, I’m confused at what I’m seeing.

A toilet?

“Hi, Jane,” Daniella says. “What do you have for us today?”

With her arms spread wide, as if she’s about to start a Broadway musical, Jane begins. “Meet the WEE-WEE!”

Silence.

It continues until a slight awkwardness sets in.

I consider saving Jane with a joke or even a bunch of money, but she wore those godawful rainbow socks that are assaulting my eyeballs, so she’s on her own.

I also don’t know what we’re looking at here.

The image of a toilet with a big red X crossed over it, along with images of a contraption even the kinkiest at my club would have trouble working out are displayed on large banners.

Zade and I share a baffled look.

Like him, I don’t know whether to laugh or hide behind my chair.

“Tell us about how Wee-Wee works,” Hank says with a straight face, and I realize he’s a better man than me.

“Well,” Jane starts, striding over to the table where she has her packaged products displayed. “Many women today are choosing blue-collar trades as a career choice, and...” she clears her throat. “Unlike men, they can’t just duck into the bushes while on a job.”

That’s why we have porta potties, Jane.

She leans forward and whispers. “For a pee.”

Oh, boy.

Jane pulls the contraption out of the box, and I start to get nervous for her.

Meanwhile Daniella leans forward, her brows bunched. “Is that...?”

Jane nods emphatically. “Yes. A portable female urinal.”

Oh god.

Daniella, always the lady—except that night with me—relaxes back into her seat. “How...interesting.”

It’s not.

It’s horrible.

Also, if I’m going to do this show again, I’m going to need a lip-chap budget. The number of times I’ve rubbed my mouth to cover my smirks and sins is...let’s just say, I need lubricant. Making this job not dissimilar to my other one.

No woman in her right mind would use one of these painful-looking units. I’m almost certain it would require a contortionist to use.

Which has me thinking.

And because my fellow judges and the crew are a little on edge, I decide to up the ante.

“How does it work?”

Zade chokes as he sips his water and it goes spraying out in front of him. Claire shuffles awkwardly on her feet and gives me a dark look.

“Oh, well, I have a video.” Jane chirps.

Of course she does.

I couldn’t be more delighted.

“Did we know this?” Claire asks an octave higher than normal.

“Have we vetted the video?” Hank steps in.

As the production crew pause filming and start bustling around, I cross my legs and tap my feet with glee, shooting a grin at my fellow judges.

This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.

I hope Jane demonstrates it.