Blaine, Destiny - Domination Plantation [Southern Plantation 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More)

Southern Plantation 1

DESTINY BLAINE

Copyright © 2012

Prologue

“Hey there, handsome.” Only one person possessed such a twang in her Southern drawl, and with the simple statement, the night looked much brighter.

Brogan Evans turned around to find Marcy Mahoney’s devious little smile and scantily covered body. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Oh yeah, the gods pulled all sorts of strings when Marcy decided to show up for one of their parties.

Marcy Mahoney.
The name by itself spelled trouble, but her arrival also guaranteed one very important fact. Brogan wasn’t going to bed alone. Oh no, when Marcy attended one of their shindigs, life improved and the outstanding benefits began immediately. Marcy and foreplay didn’t go hand in hand. She was a woman who liked to tend to business once she found her target. Apparently, Brogan was her mark, at least tonight.

He didn’t object.

Marcy’s deeply set eyes always held a certain twinkle. She enjoyed toying with her men, and most of those in town were considered
her men
, or thought of themselves as such at least once in their lifetime. She walked around in those candy-apple, spiked heels all the fellows liked to talk about, and she wore—thank God—a really short plaid skirt. Oh, yes, Marcy came there to play, and Brogan seldom turned away a little one-on-one fun.

In high school, the guys around the field house had a running joke.
Marcy Mahoney loves baloney
. That she did. She could suck a man from here to yonder and make him forget his own name, but even with a few beers and a few more women in between them, Brogan would never forget her.

The woman possessed a certain stay factor, the kind of memory that etched its way into a cowboy’s mind and resided there all the days of his natural life. Everything about the gal screamed enjoyment. If she hadn’t been so easy, Brogan might have married her. Jules, his brother, most likely felt the same way.

Marcy was the type of woman a man wanted to set right, maybe even reform. She had splendid skin, entrancing emerald eyes, a mouth worth kissing, and trained lips just perfect for sucking a man straight into paradise.

A redheaded spitfire, Marcy seemed untroubled by her reputation. In fact, she often tried to engage others in a conversation bound to stir a fiery feud. If a man had spent time in Marcy’s bed, then she made sure everyone knew about their rendezvous, including wives and girlfriends. She must’ve really hated her own kind, or at least, enjoyed deviling some of the women around town.

Bisexual, Marcy appreciated raw sex. She didn’t have a preference when it came to choosing partners, and she upped her game when she showed up at a party with a bed buddy in tow. A package deal with Marcy usually meant a good time for several partygoers. Marcy and her friends often put on a show and, boy o’ howdy, they knew how to draw a man’s attention.

“You not speaking to me tonight, cowboy?” She fluttered her eyelashes and held out her empty beer cup.

Brogan took the plastic tumbler, tapped the keg, and made a quick decision. No, he didn’t have a lot to say on this fine summer evening. Now saying and doing, well, that was another story, and Marcy looked good enough to bend and spread about any minute.

The last time Brogan saw Marcy came to mind. He made the mistake of sharing her with Jules and Jules didn’t return the favor. Once he positioned Marcy where he wanted her, Jules didn’t move aside.

As the older brother, Brogan now reserved the right to drink his beer and harvest a few sour grapes in the meantime. He lost out that early spring night because Jules couldn’t get enough of Marcy’s mouth. Thanks to his brother’s selfish ways, he’d walked around with blue balls for nearly a week.

“Suit yourself,” she said, sashaying away.

That’s when Brogan grabbed her and steered her into one of the nearby stalls. Once there, he pinned her to the concrete wall, slapping one palm next to her head and the other flat against her middle. She dropped her cup to the ground and the crisp sound of ruffled straw announced the soft impact.

“I like it rough, Brogan. That’s why Jules had his way with me and you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said, his jaw twitching right along with his cock. He went from flaccid to rigid in a second and a half, maybe two.

“Oh yes you do. You stick that lip out and pout whenever I don’t give you my undivided attention. How many times do I have to tell ya, Brogan? There’s enough to go around.”

“Apparently so,” he fired back, thinking truer words had never been spoken. “Jules just earns a few extra privileges.”

“Maybe he deserves them,” she said without missing a beat. “Tell me something, cowboy. Can you take me hard and wild, without worrying about whether or not you’ll break me?”

“You know it, sugar.”

But should he? That was the real question there. Marcy had been a little misinformed if she thought Jules had perfected the kink factor. She’d fingered the wrong brother.

“Why don’t we find out,” she suggested, challenging him as she grabbed his belt.

“You’re an eager vixen. Aren’t ’cha?”

“There’s no effort necessary when the two of us get together.”

“True that,” he said through tight lips. Now, all she had to do was dip her pretty head a little lower, and he’d gladly show her how quickly a man transformed into a stud.

“Brogan! Phone!” Some dumb twit failed to notice he was holding a woman who was ready to swallow him whole.

“Take a mes—”

His zipper dropped. The fly on his boxers opened and why would he even begin to think that a phone call would stop Marcy’s pursuits? Rarely mistaken for a woman with patience, Marcy wasn’t the kind of cowgirl who dallied long after spotting a guy ready for a rip-roaring good time.

She smacked her luscious red lips and sank to her knobby knees.

“Oh, yeah, there you go, baby. That’s right. Go get some.” His head settled against the iron bars lining the stall and he braced for a mouthwatering experience. He supplied the meat and Marcy went at him like she’d awaited the opportunity to sit down and eat.

“You really are sick, man.” He heard Pete before he saw him, but after a few pronounced footsteps, his neighbor appeared. His cute wife trailed behind him.

“Shit!” Brogan exclaimed, stuffing his cock back inside his jeans.

Pete and Melissa had been married for eight years and apparently, Melissa hated Marcy, or at least, she’d expressed her disdain for her lifestyle on more than one occasion. She must’ve loved this.

Catching a flash of lust in Pete’s eyes, Brogan had a feeling the ill will toward the town’s most notorious slut, wasn’t shared. Maybe he’d hook Pete up sometime and then Melissa would learn to take a damned-ass message.

Flipping her white locks and arching a brow, Melissa shot Marcy a golden-girl glare full of undeniable bitterness. Yeah boy, Marcy had already enjoyed a good piece of Pete. Those icy glares between women were well understood among all men.

“How ya doin’, Melissa?” Marcy coolly asked.

“Good, and you?”

“Whenever I’m feeling a hard man, I’m better than the average woman.”

She could say that again.

Marcy’s palm drifted over Brogan’s erection and he almost came in his pants upon contact. Instead, he slapped his hand over hers and scooted by her.

“Ever heard of jotting down a number?” he asked sharply in passing. A few mumbles later, he took the cordless phone dangling from Melissa’s fingers.

Melissa looked smug. “I just wanted to see what all the women around here were talking about when they say you’re hung a little better than most. Maybe you belong in that stall, Brogan Evans.”

Pete turned pale. Good for Melissa.

Pete should’ve kept her away from there if he didn’t want her to observe the illicit activity for which their farm was noted. The Evans boys made it perfectly known to all guests—they’d wanted three things when they’d chosen to remain on the two thousand acres they’d inherited from their parents. Privacy, parties, and lots of pretty women ready to train for submission. They rarely hid those objectives from those who visited there.

Melissa wasn’t a submissive, but she enjoyed rubbing shoulders with Doms and the submissive women they often brought to the plantation. Truth be told, she probably spanked Pete before she tucked him in at night.

He shook his head almost immediately. “That’s insane.”

“What is?” Melissa asked curiously. “Daydreaming are you?”

Brogan narrowed his gaze and almost gave her a little something extra to snarl her nose about. Instead he said, “Hello.” Securing the phone against his ear, he quickly added, “Somebody better be dead or dying. No one in their right mind has the balls to interrupt a night like tonight.”

Through the static on the other end of the phone, Brogan heard his oldest brother’s voice. “It’s Heath. Fiona
is
dying.”