Dark blond hair the shade of muddied gold just dug up from the earth frames his face in short chunks of curls while longer strands fall over his forehead and brush his cheekbones. And goodGod, those cheekbones. Slashing blades under tawny skin, they appear sharp enough to cut open the flesh of my thumbs if I brushed a caress over them.
My impatient, hungry gaze skips down to a mouth that has my thighs tightening. As if I can already feel those soft-but-almost-cruel lips with the slightly fuller bottom curve between my legs, rubbing over my pussy, latching onto my clit. Sucking… A shiver works its way through me.
It’s been a long time—over a year—since a man has been inside me, and staring at the wide shoulders and broad chest covered in a black, long-sleeved shirt, I’m viscerally aware of every month and day of my sexual deprivation. It’s dim in the bar, and even darker in this corner of the room, but, Jesus, I can still make out the hard, thick muscles that his Henley can’t begin to conceal.
I drag in a breath through my suddenly unrestricted throat. Funny how my abstinence didn’t seem important until this moment. Until a man with the body of a god and the face of an…
Had I said angel?
Scratch that. Archangel.
Because no mere angel whose sole purpose is announcing immaculate births and guarding people could possess eyes so hot, so knowing, so…fierce.
Green fire. A blazing emerald fire that could consume anything—or anyone—in its path.
God, yes. Only a battle-scarred warrior angel has eyes like that.
My mouth again finds a smile. Albeit a shaky one. “What can I start you off with?”
“A Hopsurd and a shot of Jameson,” he says in a low rumble of a voice that is black velvet laid over churned-up gravel. “You’re new.”
Scribbling down the IPA beer and the whiskey, I stare down at my pad with focused concentration like the Ten Commandments suddenly appeared on them.
“Not really,” I reply briskly. “I’ve been here about two months.”
He flicks a glance down my body and then back up to my face, but instead of making me feel the need to loofah with rock salt and cement like with the frat boys, the quick survey has me fighting the urge to stroke my hand over every place his scrutiny touched. To capture and massage the sensual tingling into my skin. To wonder if those lips would be soft, or firm and demanding as they slid over my breast and closed around my nipple. With that slightly cruel slant to that beautiful mouth, I vote for demanding…
Oh for God’s sake. Get. It. Together.
“I’ll go put this in and be right back.”
I don’t run from the booth, because that would be undignified.
But I damn sure power walk.
Minutes later, I head back to his table with his IPA and whiskey, and a disquieting sense of being watched scurries through me. Without even looking up, I know his gaze is on me.
In my uniform of painted on black skinny jeans, boots, and a tight T-shirt with the bar’s name blazoned across my breasts, I’m well-accustomed to eyes resting on me, stripping me down. Yet his scrutiny is as different from the others as a fingerprint. It’s unique.His. Mainly because of how it causes my stomach to twist in a sweet but gnawing ache. How it causes my pussy to clench, spasming in emptiness. How it reminds me of how long it’s been since I gave another person permission to touch me. How I miss it.
Approaching his booth as carefully as if I’m balancing on a suspended tight rope above a gasping crowd, I keep my eyes on the drinks and floor, bracing myself for the impact of facing him again.
A useless effort.
As soon as I set the beer bottle and glass in front of him and lift my head, I’m ensnared. Helplessly. Powerlessly. Fucking willingly.
“Thanks.” He picks up the beer and twists the cap off, and damn if I don’t find the sight of that big, strong hand with its long, surprisingly elegant fingers wrapped around the bottle hot. No doubt he could be both gentle and rough with those hands.
Unbidden, images of him being both with me—in me—flash through my head in vivid, technicolor, HD clarity. He could fill me with those fingers. Two of them could probably stretch me, make my neglected flesh burn. God, I want to burn.
“If you don’t need anything else—”
“What’s your name again?” he interrupts, lifting the beer to his lips, taking a sip, and waiting for my answer while I wrestle with my jealousy of a bottle getting some up-close-and-personal action with those lips.
It’s official. I need help. The kind of help that comes with a dick and orgasm.
“Ro,” I eventually shove out. Jesus, the effect he has on me. There’s no other explanation that justifies why I almost uttered “Cypress Winters.” Giving any customer in this dump my real name is on my top list of no-nos. Right under fucking one of them. It’s another barrier I can place between me and them. And as silly as it may seem, it’s less of myself I have to give away. Ro is a costume, a mask I slip into when I enter this place.
“You’re not from here, are you?”
