1
Bolt
My grip tightens around the black tinted glass as I pour my favorite whiskey. The scent hits me hard, and damn—do I love the way it wakes me up. It’s sharp and bold, hitting all the right senses to jar my eyes wide open.
It’s five o’clock somewhere.
Saluting the air, I take a small sip and start to gaze around the room. This is my house, my domain, mine to own when the time comes.
The sun is shining through the huge windows that reach from floor to ceiling, hitting the chandelier, and causing a million tiny rainbows to explode in every direction.
I fucking love this place. Ever since I was kid this place was magic to me, it’s really something to be proud of. My great-grandfather took his small liquor hobby and turned it into an empire.
A huge oak bar runs the length of the back wall, making it the first thing you see when you step through the doors. Huge pictures hang on the walls showcasing some of the steps we use to go from grain mash to the liquid that burns the back of your throat in a way only our whiskey can.
The darkness of the cherry wood floor compliments the white oak barrels we have on display to show how our whiskey is aged. Beautiful bottles, filled to the brim with honey colored liquor, sit on glass shelves, making them look like they were floating against the mirror backdrop.
Every detail was crafted to not only enhance the drinker’s experience, but to make you feel like you were in on a little secret we decided to share with you. It’s stunning, eye catching, and one day, it will all be mine.
I can feel the cool liquor in my glass as droplets of condensation pool around my fingers, slowly trickling down to my knuckles. The air is warmer than usual as I try to smell the liquor again before I take another sip.
Fuck, is the A/C broken?
Glancing at the wall beside the bar, the thermostat is set to a steamy seventy-five degrees. Tapping the button, I lower it to sixty, and wipe the outside of my glass.
“Who messed with the air conditioning?” I ask out loud, not looking at any one person directly. My voice booms through the wide open space, bouncing back to me from the sky high ceilings.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sheckler, it just felt so cold in here,” Gina, an employee that has been less than subtle about wanting a taste of my cock, says as she walks into the room.
Flicking my eyes over my shoulder, she’s smirking slightly as she looks down at her tits, forcing me to follow her eyes. Her nipples are rock hard, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s wearing a bra. Because it definitely doesn’t look like it from my angle.
Raindrop shaped breasts fill her shirt as thick nipples threaten to cut through the fabric. Her smile thins, pleased that she got what she wanted; me looking at her chest.
Valerie steps up beside her and giggles. She’s tugging on her bottom lip, plucking it with her fingers like she’s imagining what my dick tastes like, wondering if she’d be able to fit it all in her mouth.
Valerie and Gina both work the front bar, using anything they can to make a sale. Tits and ass, with a flirty smile and lots of cleavage, can sell a whole lot of liquor if it’s done right.
Gina has that typical girl next door look; blonde hair, big tits, tight little ass. Val is a little more exotic, with jet black hair and soft curves. A little bump sits dead center in the bridge of her nose, and her eyes are a bright green. She’s a pretty girl, with that foreign feel.
Both girls are staring at me with this look in their eyes, a look that says they’d both fuck me right then and there if I made a move.
Temptation claws through me, and it’s a brutal, raw temptation that is trying to take over. I can feel it, the sensation spreads through my body like a wave of electricity. My fingertips are tingling, my body is getting warmer, and my cock is starting to throb.
Licking my lips, I nibble the inside of my cheek. “No one touches the thermostat, understood?” I’m not the type of man to mix business with pleasure. I love a good fuck just as much as the next guy, but that shit doesn’t matter, because I have to see these girls every day.
What’s that saying? You don’t shit where you eat. . .
That’s something I live by. These girls are going to have to deal with the rejection, because I’m not going to touch either of them.
“Excuse me?” a man asks, reaching his arm out to touch my shoulder as if we know each other.