by Megyn Ward
It’s the freckles that do me in.
Up close, I can see a light scattering of them across her nose beneath the carefully applied make up. They’re faint, but one look and I’m fighting the urge to adjust the sudden erection that pushes against the front of my jeans.
“The gentlemen at the end of the bar would like to buy you a drink,” I tell her, forcing the words out as I incline my head toward the gaggle of pretentious ass clowns, watching our exchange with rapt attention. Her gaze trails down the bar and lands on them, her brow slightly furrowed.
“Are they regulars?” she says, her tone saying she’s considering their offer.
“Yup,” I say, whipping my bar towel off my shoulder. “They’re in here every Thursday night.” I lift her half empty glass and give the bar in front of her a wipe.
“Thursday…” she says, taking the glass from me, her long, slim fingers trailing lightly across the back of my hand. “Why Thursday?” She takes a swallow of whatever she’s drinking, waiting for my answer.
“Ladies night,” I say, my gaze nailed to the line of her throat. The way it moved, shifting the triple strand of creamy white pearls around her throat. More freckles dappled her collarbone, dipping into the demure swell of her breasts. My cock is throbbing so hard I can feel it knocking against the bar. “Best odds of getting laid.”
The corner of her mouth lifts while she trails a shell pink nail around the rim of her glass. “So, they’re not then?”
“Not what?” I say, watching her finger, imagining it was her tongue circling the head of my cock. Which is weird because I don’t let women go down on me. Ever.
“Gentlemen.”
The word jerks my gaze back to her face. She’s watching me, waiting for an answer. “Well,” I say casting them a look over my shoulder. They’re all watching us, waiting for me to pour her drink so they can descend like a pack of Armani-wearing jackals. “They look the part.”
She smiles into her glass, like we just shared a secret, before setting it down. “Is that why you work Thursday nights?”
I open my mouth to deny it even though it’s exactly why, but before I can lie to her, she continues. “If I accept,” she says, tilting her head before catching her lush bottom lip between perfect white teeth. “Which one of them do you think will come over here and try to pick me up?”
The thought of any of them trying to take her home makes me feel rabid. Like some wild animal defending its territory. Which, again—seriously nuts. Women aren’t territory to me. I don’t feel the need to stake claim or plant my flag or whatever. I’m strictly fuck and run.
I shoot them another quick glance over my shoulder, sizing up the competition. These guys are more her speed. Expensive suits and unlimited expense accounts. The kind of guys who come to a place like Gilroy’s because for them, picking up a wide-eyed college co-ed is considered a sport.
I look at her again. “The one on the end—gray pinstripe, red tie,” I say, giving her my quick assessment. I’d seen him in action before. He scores almost as much as I do. “They’re all bark, but he’s the only one with any real bite.”
She does it again, catches her bottom lip between her teeth, this time touching a hand to her throat to toy with the pearls draped around her slim, creamy neck. “He’s not what I’m looking for,” she says, dismissing him without even giving him a second look. A smile plays at the corner of her lush mouth, lifting it in a way that can only be described as sinful. “To be perfectly honest—none of them are.”
The way she’s looking at me feels like someone just hit my cock with a cattle prod. I know what she’s thinking. What she wants but I say it just to make sure. “Yeah?” My gaze falls to her mouth so I can watch her say the words. “What kind of guy are you looking for?”
The tip of her tongue peeks out from behind her teeth, running along her bottom lip for just a moment. I get the brief impression that she’s nervous, like she’s on the verge of bolting but then it’s gone, the hand at her throat moving lower to slip her fingers between silk and skin, running the tip of them along the swell of her breast, giving me a glimpse of expensive black lace.
“A guy like you.”
Before I can answer her, she slides off her stool and gathers her purse, smoothing a slim hand over the generous swell of her hip, settling her skirt in place. “Are you coming?” she says, cocking her head before turning on the stacked heel of her peep-toe Louboutin to weave her way through the usual Thursday night crowd.
Like she knows where she’s going, she heads straight for the short hallway that houses the bathrooms and storeroom that doubles as an office. Just before she breaches the hallway, she shoots me a look over her shoulder, giving me another sexy half smile. I can read her expression from across the bar, as loud as a shout.
What are you waiting for?
Sixteen
Conner
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Declan’s hand falls heavily on my shoulder, holding me in place. I’d made it halfway across the bar before he stopped me.
“We’re out of vodka,” I say automatically. It’s what I always say when I’m about to get laid in the Ladies’ room.
“God damn it, Con—” Declan takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, shaking his head. “That chick reeks of money. Money means trouble.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’m a big boy,” I say, shrugging out from under his grip. “I can handle myself.”
“Fuck you—what about me? Da? Patrick? This bar belongs to him. We’ve already dodged one lawsuit.” Declan takes a step back and jams his hands into his pockets while he takes a look around. The place is packed, and with the two of us standing here, there’s no one behind the bar. “You don’t even care, do you?”
He’s wrong. I do care. I care a lot. But I’m reaching critical mass here. I need to take the edge off.
Before I can tell him to fuck off, he yanks his hands out of his pockets to wave me off. “Fifteen minutes. You and that dick of yours better be back to slingin’ drinks before—”
I didn’t even bother to listen to the rest of it. Just turned away from him, heading for the hallway the redhead disappeared down.
Fifteen minutes. I can get it done in ten.
She’s waiting for me, leaning against the wall next to the ladies’ room, like she knows that’s where we’re headed. My reputation must precede me. Probably fucked a friend of hers. Probably came looking for me. Her head’s tipped down, that long fall of dark auburn hair, hiding her expression. She has her cell phone pressed to her ear, and even though I couldn’t see her mouth moving, I can hear the quiet murmur of her voice. I should stop. Wait for her to finish her phone call, but I don’t.
“Yes… yes… okay. I will.” She sighed softly a moment before her head kicks up, sliding the curtain of hair away from her face. “I’ll be fine,” she says, staring up at me with those big doe eyes, the tip of her tongue peeks out to touch her upper lip for just a moment before disappearing again. The erection I’ve been sporting goes from stiff to rock hard the second our eyes connect.
The bathroom is about three feet from where we’re standing, which is entirely too far. I step into her, my hands dropping to her hips, fisting themselves in what feels like silk to yank it up around her hips. I’ve got it halfway up her thighs, my hand coasting up the inside. I can feel the heat of her, the warm push of breath she lets out when my fingers skim along the cleft of her lace covered pussy. From the corner of my eye, I can see the bar crowd beyond the hallway. Hear the clink of glasses. The clack of pool balls. The rise and fall of voices. People can see us. Anyone of them could stumble down the hall at any minute.
Don’t. Fucking. Care.
“I… I love you too.” She looks right at me when she says it, and for a second I think she’s saying it to me.
Then it hits me.
She’s married.
I look at the hand holding the cell to find it bare. No ring. Maybe not married but at the very least involved
with someone else, and I can pretty much guarantee he isn’t a mechanic/bartender who lives over his shop and has to scrub for forty-five minutes just to get the grease from under his fingernails. Whoever he is, he has money. Power. Influence. Declan’s words came back to me.
A lawsuit would ruin all of us.
I can see it play out. Little Miss Moneybags goes slumming for some rough sex and finds exactly what she’s looking for… and then she gets caught. Cue the waterworks and accusations. Fast forward to my Da, brother, and cousin losing everything they’ve worked their entire lives for and me sitting in an 8x8 waiting for a trial date.
I drop my hand and smooth her skirt back into place.
She ends the call and tries to slip the cell back into her purse but her hands are shaking, and she can’t work the clasp of it open. “I’m sorry, that was my—”
I take them both from her and undo the clasp with a quick click. “I don’t care who it was, Daisy,” I say, dropping the phone into its dark interior. There’s a hard edge to my voice that stops her mid-sentence. “Husband. Boyfriend. Favorite grandmother who bakes you cookies and tucks you in at night.” I gave her the Gilroy grin in full force. “None of my business.”
“Does it make a difference?” she says it quietly, taking her purse from me before catching her bottom lip between her teeth.
Making up my mind, I wrap my hand around her wrist, pulling her further down the hall toward the storeroom we use as an office. There’s a surveillance camera in there. Not exactly what my big brother, the Peeping Tom, had in mind when he had it installed but not fucking this chick isn’t an option. Not even a choice, really.
I’m a junkie, and I need my fix.
I could hear the click of her expensive heels as she hurried along beside me. Practically feel her breath, quick and shallow against the side of my face. I have the key dug out of my pocket and shoved into the lock before I can change my mind. Giving it a twist, I open the door. “Last chance to change your mind, Daisy,” I say without bothering to look at her. “You step through this door, I’m gonna fuck you, and I’m not going to be nice about it.”
I feel the uptick in her pulse, the hard slam of it against the hand I have wrapped around her wrist. Her wrist turns in my grip, and I’m sure I was too harsh. Too crass for her delicate sensibilities. She’s decided this walk on the wild side is a little too wild, and I’m glad. I am, because Declan’s right, this chick is too rich for my blood.
Instead of pulling away completely, instead of having the good sense to run for her fucking life, Little Miss Moneybags laces her fingers through mine as she steps closer, pressing her silk-clad breasts against the back of the shirt I did an oil change in a few hours ago.
“Promise?” She whispers it in my ear, her lips grazing my lobe, her words a solid weight on my back, shoving me over the edge.
My grip tightens on her hand, and I practically kick the door open, barely managing to drag her through it before I’m slamming it closed.
The overhead lights click on, triggered by the motion sensor over the door. More of Declan’s high-tech bullshit. As soon as our love nest is revealed, she takes a look around at the floor to ceiling shelves stacked with liquor and rows of kegs lining the back wall, and I have to smile. “Not exactly the Hawthorne, is it, Daisy?” I say, making a show of turning the lock. “You sure you’re down for this?”
Her chin comes up a bit while her hand goes to her throat, fingering that high-priced collar of hers. “Maybe if we turned off the—”
“The lights stay on,” I say, my tone low, almost guttural. “I need you to say it, Daisy. I’m on a bit of a schedule.”
“Say what?” she says, her voice pitched high, eyes wide like she’s rethinking her urge to live out her fuck the hot bartender fantasy.
“I need you to say that you want me to fuck you,” I say baldly, liking the pretty pink stain my words bring to her cheeks.
She hesitates for a moment, but then the hand at her throat falls to her stomach, pressing against it as if to quell the nerves that flutter there. Her eyes take me in, running over me from head to toe. I know what she sees. She sees what they all see. What I want them to see.
Worn jeans. Callused hands. Killer smile. Tattoos. An almost indecent amount of swagger.
It’s what they want. Why we’re here. Why she chose me and not the dickhead suit who tried to buy her a drink. I’m unknown. Unpredictable.
It’s also probably why she’s about three seconds away from changing her mind. I look at the clock nailed to the wall above her shoulder. I’ve got about ten minutes before Declan comes down the hall, banging on doors. “Look, Daisy—”
She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly before saying the last thing I expect to hear.
“I consent.”
Not okay. Not let’s fuck. Not I want you.
I consent.
It’s probably the hottest thing a woman has ever said to me.
“You’ve got about thirty seconds to get that shirt unbuttoned,” I say, reaching for my belt. “It looks expensive, and I won’t be paying to replace it.”
She nods, looking relieved that I’ve given her something to do, finally said something to her that she can make sense of. Her hands are shaking again—nerves or excitement, I can’t tell and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. She tugs the tail of her blouse from her skirt and starts at the bottom, fumbling the buttons loose, one by one, until it hangs open, giving me another glimpse of delicate black lace.
“I’m clean.” I give her the spiel, working my belt the rest of the way open, yanking the tail of it loose from its buckle. “I get tested every six weeks, and I wear a condom every time.” As if to prove it, I reach into my back pocket and pull out a foil pack, holding it between my fingers.
“I trust you,” she says, looking up at me, her dark chocolate eyes shooting sparks of gold and copper. Her fingers find the tiers of pale golden orbs at her throat. The clasp has worked itself around to the front. It’s set with a sapphire roughly as big as a baby’s fist, surrounded by glittering white stones that have to be diamonds. Seeing it makes me wonder who gave them to her. Pearls like that aren’t something a woman buys for herself.
I shut it down. Push it aside. She isn’t mine. Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t afford to buy a woman like this a cup of coffee let alone the kind of hardware she’s got around her neck.
“Turn around,” I tell her, tugging the button of my jeans open before working down my zipper. I can feel her staring at me. Watching me with avid interest, like she’s trying to figure out what was going to happen next.
My cock practically lunges at her, and I wrap my hand around the shaft to hold it steady while I fit the tip of the condom over its head, rolling it down the shaft. When most women see what I’m working with, they get nervous. This one is no exception.
“I said turn around, Daisy,” I growl it this time. “And put your hand on the desk.”
The desk really isn’t a desk. It’s a wide plank of plywood supported by a pair of empty beer kegs. Her gaze jerks up to my face, her cheeks flaming, and she nods again, spinning in her heels to do as I say. I’m behind her before her palms make contact with wood, dropping my hands on her hips, fisting them in the soft black of her skirt. This time I don’t stop, yanking it up around her waist in the time it takes her to gather one shuddering breath. The panties are black lace to match the bra, a wide band slung low around her hips, a thin stretch of it between her thighs. I can tell, just by the feel of them, how expensive they are. My cock twitches like a divining rod, brushing against the back of her thigh and she lets out a soft, breathless sigh at the contact.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re ready first,” I say, cupping her perfect, lace-covered ass cheeks in my hands, running my callused thumb up the seam of her damp, lace-covered pussy. “Spread your legs.”
She does as I tell her, giving me room to find her clit and I circle it with slow, teasing strokes. She’s soaked through the l
ace of her panties, the warm, heavy scent of her arousal wraps around my cock, making it jump again. “You’re wet.”
She nods, teeth clamped around her lower lip, eyes closed. Hips tilted back against the pressure of my hand between her legs.
“Who are you wet for?” I say, fighting the urge to bury my face in her. To taste her. Which is weird because I’ve never felt that before. I’ve got this shit down to a science and it never includes oral. “Say it,” I tell her, stroking the pad of my thumb against her clit until her knees buckle and she lets out a moan. I stop stroking, my thumb hovering above her. “Who are you wet for?”
“You... oh god…” She pushes against my thumb, working her hips. Riding my hand, her need making her shameless. “I’m wet for you.”
Suddenly ten minutes isn’t enough time. Ten days wouldn’t be long enough.
“Looks like we’re taking the scenic route Daisy,” I tell her, stroking her again.
“I don’t—” she says, looking at me over her shoulder, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. Brow furrowed like she’s trying to figure out what I’m talking about.
Instead of moving her panties to the side, I use them to fuck her. Stroking her with my cock, I slide it along her quivering cleft, rubbing the delicately textured lace against her clit in slow, even strokes.
“Ohhh…” Widening her stance even more, she lets go of the breath she’s been holding in a low moan. Cheeks flushed, that full, lush mouth of hers parted slightly.
“Tell me,” I say, the head of my cock hits her in just the right spot, again and again. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Oh god…” she breathes softly. “Please…”
“Tell me, Daisy.” I work my cock, the length of it sliding across her wet, swollen clit until she collapses onto the desk, face pressed against billing receipts and last months’ electric bill. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me,” she says in a low, desperate tone. Her choice of language stains her cheeks, the bright pink of them nearly has me undone. “Please fuck me.”
