CHAPTER FIVE
COLT
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Do you have a complete lack of compassion for women in business, or does the idea of a woman’s anatomy bother you?
I almost snort aged Macallan whiskey out of my nose when I see Riley Scott’s message.
Oh, the irony as I glance across the room at a woman bent over and sucking a guy's cock. Her skirt is so short I can see...everything.
She glances over her shoulder, giving me a welcoming glance. An invitation.
I ignore her and go back to reading the message.
I honestly can’t say what made me read it or why Riley Scott’s message didn’t go into my spam folder.
I cough a few times, the golden liquid having gone down the wrong hole, and read the message again.
Do you have a complete lack of compassion for women in business, or does the idea of a woman’s anatomy bother you?
On the contrary, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest, Ms. Scott. The idea of a woman attaching the Wee Wee contraption to her pussy to relieve herself makes my cock want to roll itself up and hide inside my pelvis.
Because I figure this is in response to the brief clip from The Venture Vault. I shared it on my social media accounts because that’s what I agreed to do when going on the show.
It’s not like I’m running for president and I’m concerned about my reputation. I’m not. Nor will I ever be.
Watch the show. Don’t watch the show.
I don’t care.
The reality is, the clip has attracted tens of thousands of comments and grown my following. I’m not sad.
However, it is triggering, which is why the show’s marketing department clipped it and shared.
Without question, millions of people are going to tune in. And it’s why Todd keeps messaging me reading The Final Rose.
He knows I’m intrigued and is like a dog with a bone.
I toss back another sip of my drink, glance at the message again. Something about it is irritating me. I think it’s her comment about supporting women in business.
I fucking do.
I have a bunch of money tied up with female entrepreneurs. But they aren’t making stupid contraptions that lock onto a woman’s clit.
Jesus.
Now I’m triggered.
I click on Riley Scott’s profile.
Lover of plants (tree emoji), the beach (along with seven billion other humans) and a cool beer.
My brows lift.
She likes beer?
I click the link which reads Garden of Riley.
Expecting a webpage full of flowers, I’m greeted with a professional landscaping company. Images of work she’s done, which is very impressive, greet me along with her photo.
She’s fucking pretty.
As I look at her with her hair up and a pair of overalls with a tight—very tight—white top underneath, I feel my cock twitch.
“Settle down, boy.” I chuckle quietly to myself. “She’s in... Fuck, Melbourne, Australia.”
I keep flicking through her site, and by the time I’m done, it’s clear why she was triggered. She’s a female working in a historically male trade and has her own business.
I can’t look away from her photo. Her fire red curls look like they’re fighting to escape the hair-tie, and one is spiraling down her long neck.
Christ.
Her lean, creamy and soft young neck.
I return to her social media and start scrolling. She’s young, but not that young. I’m guessing twenty-six or seven. Her images range from social events to selfies to gardens.
I am about to click away, but one photo in particular catches my attention. As it has many men, I’m sure.
She’s standing with two of her friends, sipping from the neck of a beer. Her skin is tanned, cheeks flushed, and the T-shirt she’s wearing has tugged down to reveal yellow lace.
I smile.
My pants tighten further, and now I’m very fucking intrigued.
“She drinks beer, wears overalls and boots, and I bet she thinks she’s one of the boys.” I twist my lips and feel my eyes sparkle at my discovery. “But I can see your little secret, Riley Scott.”
I bet she likes wearing naughty underwear.
Fuck, I’d like to see her spread her legs and slide my fingers along her crotchless yellow lace panties.
The desire to play is growing by the minute.
She’s in Australia so fucking her is out of the question but that doesn’t seem to be stopping my finger which is currently clicking on reply and typing.
Because despite her images grabbing my cock’s attention, her comment is misplaced and I have a few things to say to her. Jane’s product is not going to end up on Walmart shelves, nor will it make her a millionaire. Mark my words.
And as for the female anatomy, sweetheart, I’d love to show you how comfortable I am with a dripping wet cunt.
Personally.
But as that’s not an option, I choose my words carefully and toss back the rest of my drink.
I’m a huge fan of the female anatomy. Just not sure I want to see women crouching in public taking a WeeWee.
I watch the screen.
Riley reads it.
I smile and imagine her complete surprise that I replied. I never do. I don’t read more than about one percent and then delete them all.
Occasionally, if some dude challenges my opinion on the markets, I might. But I learned my lesson. They usually fucking screen grab it and tag all their friends and colleagues for the past twenty years.
People are so predictable.
It’s boring.
I wonder if Riley blushes when she comes. I bet she does with all that red hair.
I run my hand over my shaft and squeeze, letting out a groan. No one can hear me over the music inside the club, nor would they care about me touching myself. It’s not like I’m in a damn library.
Dots start to appear.
Then stop.
Is this Colt Winters?
Yes.
I grin, enjoying the fact that I’m toying with her.
I catch my bartender’s eye and he nods. As I await the delivery of my whiskey, I stretch out a Prada clad leg, making room for my hard on.
More dots.
Well...maybe women can use the product however they like. Just because men can pee wherever. You are very sexist!
She’s so triggered.
I bet she’s a fucking firecracker in bed.
Can they? I can’t walk down Fifth Avenue and take a leak on the sidewalk. Do they do that in Australia?
Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. This isn’t the colonies, as you Americans think!
I let out a laugh. I am having way too much fun with this.
Maybe there’s a market for a WeeWee with Australian women.
What are you implying?
Australian female gardeners.
....
....
....
Riley Scott doesn’t reply, and I find myself disappointed. I was enjoying the banter and thought she might have a good comeback.
Looks like I offended her.
Closing my phone, I decide I should go home. It’s almost four in the morning, and I need to focus on making a decision about The Final Rose.
First, I need to decide if I want help with my hard cock. I glance around for a redhead.