Wicked Secret Read online

  Wicked Secret

  (The Wicked Horse Vegas Series)

  By

  Sawyer Bennett

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2020 by Sawyer Bennett

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Big Dog Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  August

  I’d like to say this experience becomes boring after a while, but that would be a lie. Three men sharing one woman is always fucking exhilarating.

  The Wicked Horse in Las Vegas, Nevada is sort of my home away from home. It’s a decadent sex club with a never-ending supply of eroticism, ripe for the taking.

  Up on a raised dais, we’re displayed on a mattress covered in black silk. Behind the glass wall in front of us, a dozen or more people are avidly watching me get my cock sucked.

  That’s part of the thrill, of course.

  Having people’s eyes on me.

  A blonde takes me deep, her lips stretched wide. Her throat tightly massages my length, and it feels so fucking good.

  Beneath her is a dude I just met tonight… Rick Something-or-Other. While he’s flat on his back, I’m kneeling over his head. I can’t see his face, but I can hear his groans as the woman rides him.

  Alicia and I have fucked several times before. She loves taking three men at once, something few women here can do. Hell, I’ve seen Alicia take two cocks in her ass at the same time—an experienced porn-star type of trick.

  She enjoys sex—like every other patron in this establishment—and I admire the hell out of her. Over my time here, I’ve gotten to know Alicia well. A sharp lady with a brilliant mind, she’s a corporate attorney who isn’t interested in relationships or having children. She spends her days working hard, leaving her evenings free for unlimited orgasms.

  As I drive my hips deeper, I test how much Alicia can take. When she extends her neck to peer up, I slide farther into her throat. Expertly, she accommodates me without even a hint of a gag reflex. She’s practically perfect.

  From underneath, Rick steadily pumps into her. It has to be damn near impossible for Alicia to find a rhythm while three men try to claim her, so she holds herself still and lets us have our way.

  Trailing my gaze along her slender back, which is arched in pleasure, to her upturned ass, I eye my buddy, Declan Blackwood, who slowly fucks her. He’s barely two feet from me, Alicia sandwiched in between us. I have her mouth filled while he’s plundering her ass. From prior experience, I know she’s extremely tight, but she can handle more than he’s giving her.

  He grins. “This is the life, right, August?”

  Sliding his hands down for a firmer grip on her hips, he slams into her. Alicia groans against my cock and my balls contract, then start to tingle.

  “Sure the fuck is,” I mutter right before I shoot my load down her throat.

  ♦

  When Declan holds his glass of bourbon up, I tip the edge of mine to it. We’re taking a break at the bar in the Social Room, but we’re by no means done for the evening.

  Above the Onyx Casino in Vegas, The Wicked Horse is spread out over multiple rooms. The Social Room is exactly what it sounds like—a place to mingle and meet potential hookups. Declan and I stand at the bar, which is a position we find ourselves in a few times a week. We met several months ago and we’ve become fast friends, despite the fact we have little in common outside the club.

  I’m a former Vegas cop now employed by Jameson Force Security, a company that provides high-end security. Our services are not only for private individuals, but also for our government. I make good money—more than enough for a lovely home in an upper-class neighborhood and a Range Rover. But Declan Blackwood is insanely wealthy. Heir to the Blackwood hotel fortune, he’s as close to American royalty as one can get.

  Still, we’ve become tight over our months of hanging together in the Wicked Horse.

  Sometimes, we simply enjoy a drink and shoot the shit. After, he’ll go fuck whomever he wants in whichever room, and I’ll do the same.

  Other times… like tonight… we’ll share a woman.

  And still others… one will fuck a woman while the other watches.

  There are no limits—except personal ones—in The Wicked Horse. Because I tend to live in a world where I have to play by strict rules, it’s incredibly liberating to have a place to go where there aren’t any.

  “Got any cool missions coming up?” Declan asks me, but his eyes are on a woman at the end of the bar. With milky-white skin and jet-black hair cut severely over her dark eyes, she has a real Morticia Addams vibe going on. I bet she’s into some freaky shit.

  “Nothing right now,” I reply, swirling the amber liquid in my glass before taking a sip. My job might require me to spend weeks in a place like Somalia only to send me home to Vegas for several weeks off. It’s definitely an up-and-down business, and it makes planning for the long-term difficult.

  “I’m thinking about taking a fishing trip to Wyoming,” Declan says, moving his gaze from the dark beauty to me. “You should come. We wouldn’t be far from the original Wicked Horse club.”

  “Original club?” I ask, my eyebrows knitting. I hadn’t known there was more than one.

  “Yeah… Jerico Jameson modeled this club off the original Wyoming one. It’s actually housed inside an old silo, which is where the inspiration for this club’s silo came from,” Declan answers.

  The silo is the circular-shaped room we were in earlier. It has glass-walled rooms along the perimeter to allow for unparalleled voyeurism. It’s my favorite place in the Wicked Horse. I spend most of my time in there.

  “When are you leaving?” I ask. Until I get the call for a specific job with Jameson, my time is my own, so a trip is doable.

  Declan shrugs. “I can go whenever, but I was thinking next week.”

  Hesitating for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to have his wealth. It’s the type that can fund entire countries.

  Billions and billions.

  I have no clue what Declan does for his family’s hotel business. He’s third generation or some shit, but he spends a lot of evenings here at the club, same as I do. Doesn’t mean he’s not a hard worker, though. Just like me, he has a day job. I’m just not sure what that entails in relatio
n to him. In the hierarchy of domestic and international hoteliers, the Blackwood Hotels and Resorts are considered top tier.

  Still… most would never know he comes from that kind of wealth. He doesn’t flash it around, even dresses more casually than most patrons. It was a few months of shared fucking and bourbon before I even found out about his background, and he was pretty blasé about it. I wouldn’t say he’s exactly humble, but he’s definitely not flashy.

  “I’m interested,” I continue, referring to the fishing trip in Wyoming, but more interested in a visit to the original Wicked Horse. Sounds like way too much fun, but I have to say, “Assuming nothing comes up at work before then, anyway.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he drawls. “And if you want to invite anyone, feel free. I might invite a few other guys.”

  “Appreciate it,” I reply. Truthfully, though, there’s not anyone I’d invite. The guys I was closest to at Jameson aren’t around anymore. Several up and moved to the Pittsburgh office, and one of my closest mates, Sal Mezzina, was recently killed in a mission gone very bad in Syria.

  While Jameson gets a lot of bread-and-butter work doing mainstream security services, we’re often hired for high-speed, black-ops shit that even our own government doesn’t want to associate itself with. One day, I could be protecting a pop star on tour and the very next, I could be headed to some Middle Eastern country to combat terrorism. One of the things I love best about working at Jameson is it’s never boring. It’s definitely more of an adrenaline rush than I experienced as a Vegas cop where I spent the last few years of my career in special weapons and tactics. Moving from SWAT to Jameson was pretty seamless since they share many of the same skillsets.

  Declan tips his head, draining the rest of his bourbon. Setting the empty glass down, he shakes his head when the bartender starts to move our way. He swivels his gaze to me. “Ready to go again?”

  “Same thing?” I ask, taking a moderate sip of my bourbon. I enjoy the taste too much to slam it.

  Declan scans the interior of The Silo room, which is now clean, rearranged neatly, and occupied by some bulked-out beefy dude topping a skinny guy who seems to be enjoying it. It was one of the things that startled me when I first started coming here… the guy-on-guy action, since I hadn’t ever had an opportunity to witness it firsthand.

  Now it doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, some of it interests me. But not what I’m watching now. Both are clearly gay, but more power to them. The big dude obviously knows how to fuck with finesse.

  But I have been in situations—with Declan as a matter of fact—where I was in a group setting with a lot of touching between men and women alike. Sometimes I can barely make it out of The Orgy Room without having had some other dude fondle my balls or lick my cock. It didn’t take long to realize shit feels good no matter who’s doing it, so I’ve become much more open to new experiences over my months in the club.

  It’s about hedonism.

  Pushing boundaries.

  Testing limits.

  Draining every bit of pleasure out of a situation like sucking the last bit of juice out of a ripe strawberry.

  It’s what The Wicked Horse is meant for.

  “How about The Orgy Room?” I suggest.

  “Let’s do it,” he replies. Because I’d much rather be fucking than drinking, I go ahead and shoot the remainder of my bourbon down my throat.

  CHAPTER 2

  Leighton

  Life shouldn’t be this hard. I don’t want to be whiny and ask God what I did to deserve this, but I sometimes feel that way. I’ve tried to lead a good life. I’m kind to others, and I give of myself generously.

  Which is why I’m a little bent out of shape over my current situation. Driving the streets of Vegas, I peer over my shoulder for danger that may or may not be there. I don’t know what to expect anymore.

  I can’t afford to be sloppy, though, so even though I have a good idea of where I’m going thanks to the miracle technology of Google Maps, I make myself circle around and double back. It’s the only way to be sure I don’t have a tail.

  After twenty minutes of what probably appears to be aimless driving, I get on track and start making my way through the upscale suburban neighborhood about twenty minutes outside of the city limits. The ranch bungalows aren’t modest by any means, but sprawl over large lots. Most are stucco, ranging from bright white to deep brown, all with red tiled roofs. It’s like the building code demands it in this area.

  Glancing at my purse on the passenger seat, I reassure myself my dad’s gun is still on top and within easy reach. I can’t afford to take any chances. When I left Denver for the almost eleven-hour drive, I’d known nothing would be the same again. The bubble of security and protection I’d been living in for almost ten years has been burst, and I’ll never get it back. The minute I chose to leave—just as my dad warned me as he pressed his gun into my hand for protection—I’d realized I was on my own from here on out.

  The house I’m searching for comes into view. The streets are adequately lit, and the house has gorgeous landscape up-lighting around the foundation, making the cream stucco glow in an almost heavenly way.

  The irony of that thought causes me to snicker because I’m banking on August Greenfield to be somewhat of an angel. At least, I’m praying he can help me.

  I drive by his house, circle the block twice, and ensure for the last time no one is following me. Still, I park three houses down on the road and watch for a while. No other cars come down the street. No one moves on the cross streets. It’s super late—or rather early—in the morning. It’s almost two AM, but I cannot wait another moment to figure out my destiny. The drive from Denver was long and brutal. I’d eaten a meal at a local Denny’s about an hour ago, taking a minute to go over the entire speech I’d be unveiling to August soon. I’d even gone into the bathroom to wash my hands and practiced while staring at myself in the mirror.

  My phone indicates a text has arrived—three short bongo drums. It means my dad is checking in. I carefully move the gun aside to reach for my phone.

  I hate guns.

  I honestly do. They scare the shit out of me, yet they are a necessary part of my life. Before leaving Denver, I didn’t have to worry about firearms. I had all the protection I needed, safe in my little suburb nestled at the base of the Rockies.

  But once I left, I was on my own. From that moment forward, I would always be looking over my shoulder. It’s why—despite hating it—I’d accepted Dad’s gun.

  After I pull up the text, I read it. It’s not too late to come back. No one knows you left. Turn the car around and come home.

  Smiling regretfully, I rub my thumb over his words. I know they were sent with an equal mixture of love and fear. But as much as I love my father, there’s even more love and fear driving me forward. Frankly, Dad can’t compete with my need to reach out to August.

  I don’t bother replying, choosing to call him instead. He answers on the first ring, already deep into an argument for me to come home. “Seriously, Leighton… no one is the wiser you’re gone. You’ve taken precautions, right? You weren’t followed?”

  “I’ve been very careful,” I assure him. “No tails whatsoever.”

  “There you go,” he says, and I can envision him nodding for punctuation. “Not a damn soul knows you left Denver. Come back. We’ll figure something else out.”

  “There’s nothing else to figure out,” I say with a long, frustrated sigh. “We’re out of time. This is our last hope.”

  He doesn’t reply because he knows there’s no argument. Asking me to come back was wishful thinking on his part.

  I fill the void, giving a slight cough first. “How’s Sam?”

  “He had a rough day with you being gone.”

  My guilt wells until it threatens to choke me. “Listen… I’m here. I need to get this done.”

  “Good luck,” my father murmurs… sadly, because he doesn’t think this is the right decision.

  But
I know it is.

  “Bye, Dad,” I whisper before disconnecting.

  Returning the phone to my purse, I replace the gun on top and zip it closed. It defeats the purpose of needing quick access, but I’m almost a hundred percent sure no one followed me. Nobody in Vegas knows me or why I’m here. I doubt August is a physical threat, unless he went totally off the rails, and… I can’t show up at his door with my piece showing.

  After I exit the rental car, I sling my purse over my shoulder and make my way down the street to his house. I glance over my shoulder at least ten times before I reach his driveway. There’s a two-car garage, which I assume has a vehicle tucked inside. Hell, maybe two. He could be married or in a relationship for all I know. Suddenly, I realize I might not be getting ready to disturb just him. It could be an entire household for all I know.

  Regardless, I shore up my resolve, take a confident step forward, and continue up the driveway to the tiny concrete walkway connected to the front porch. A yellow-lighted sconce illuminates the area.

  I hesitate, remembering the last time I saw August. We were barely eighteen years old. My dad was on a “business” trip, and we had the house all to ourselves. That was an all-too-common occurrence since my dad traveled a lot, and I didn’t have a mom to watch over me. Add in the fact we were deeply in love—or so we thought—and horny teenagers, it meant we spent a lot of time having sex in my pink-walled bedroom.

  August was still inside me, and I was flush with the completion of an intense orgasm. God, he sure knew his way around a woman’s body, which was impressive given how we were each other’s firsts. We’d started dating our sophomore year in high school, and we’d given it up to each other within just a few months. I once asked him how he knew so much—how he was doing things to me that none of my other sexually active friends were even considering doing—and he just smiled slyly and said, “Porn.”

  I never knew if it was true, but I was thankful either way.

  “Just twenty-nine more days,” he said, eyes on mine. He was still hard inside me. Sometimes, he had the power to go again. I wondered if this was one of those times.