"Truer words." He lifted his brows and nodded at my glass again. "Bottoms up, Blondie."
"Blondie, hmm?" I snorted and shook my head but picked up the shot glass nonetheless. "That was the best you could think of?"
"Well, I could have gone with Tits McGee." His smile this time was whiplash quick and I felt it like a blow to the stomach. Or someplace lower. "But underneath the rough exterior I'm a gentlemen and I'd never refer to a lady in such a way."
"Nice save." I tapped my glass against his and we both knocked the tequila back in a single belt. The burn lasted for only a few seconds before being replaced with a soft warmth which seemed to seep in to my bones. Setting the glass down, I leaned forward and lowered my voice. "Don't look now, but we've got an audience."
"Do we?" He poured another round of shots, surprising me by actually not looking. "I'm guessing it's because you're new around here." He picked up his glass and I followed suit, the second belt going down easier than the first. "And I don't drink with customers."
"I'm not new." I'd recognized every face in the room, some more than others but still. "And why don't you drink with customers?"
"Because, despite the fact they've schlepped out here and like to think they're slumming, they're just boring little people leading boring little lives just like their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents and so on as far back as they can remember." He poured a third round and even though I knew it was a mistake to do so many shots back to back I didn't hesitate to pick up my glass when he picked up his. He tapped his glass against mine, catching my gaze with his, and I wondered if the warmth in the pit of my stomach was a result of the tequila or the obvious lust I saw in his eyes. "You, though... you're not boring. You're not ordinary." His gaze dropped to my mouth, staying there until he flicked his tongue over his lips and lifted his gaze back to my eyes. "You won't run if I tell you all the things I want to do to you."
My hand trembled when I took the almost burnt-out cigarette from him, my inhale longer this time, the smoke burning my lungs but not quite clearing the fog of lust from my brain. If I was being honest with myself-which I didn't care to be most of the time-I doubted anything was going to accomplish that specific task. Stubbing the cigarette out in a nearby ash tray, I said, "Maybe I will."
"No, you won't." He poured another set of shots but didn't pick up his glass. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at something on the far wall and when he turned back to me, the heat in his gaze scorched me almost as much as the alcohol. "We close in about two hours."
"Midnight?" I frowned, confused for a moment before understanding dawned. "I forgot. Cotton Creek is vice-free on Sunday."
"Unless you're in the privacy of your own home." He leaned toward me and for a split second I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he shifted to the side, pressing his lips to my ear. "You can be as prurient as you want behind closed doors."
I turned slightly, our cheeks brushing, his beard whisper soft instead of rough and scratchy. I could smell the tequila and cigarettes on his breath along with something sweeter, the trio of scents mixing with the underlying woodsiness of his cologne. Our gazes locked again and my breath caught in my lungs, my pulse slowing to a crawl.
It was stupid, I knew, to hook up with anybody in Cotton Creek. I knew how gossip spread, what a few whispers could do not just to me but the kids.
But I couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted someone.
Not sex-I wanted that on a fairly regular basis and I did my best to get it. But a person... no, I didn't remember the last time I'd wanted a specific person.
I swallowed in an effort to clear my throat but my voice was still raspy when I spoke. "Where do you live?"
"Not far." His voice was as low and hoarse as mine, something which did nothing to help my suddenly in high gear libido. "Upstairs, as a matter of fact."
"And you close in two hours?"
"Yes."
"I'll wait."
"Good." He stood, taking the bottle and returning it to the shelf before turning back to me and picking up his glass again. "One last shot."
"Why is it the last?" I knocked it back, waiting until he took the glass from me and placed it in the three-compartment sink before speaking again. "Why is it the last?"
"Because." Once again, he leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "I want you to remember me fucking you." He brushed his lips over my cheek and I couldn't hold back a shiver. "Every second."
The next two hours were going to be hell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Five minutes before the clock was due to strike midnight, the bartender-name still unknown-killed the jukebox and raised his voice. "Pay up and get out."
As far as methods of getting drunk people to leave a bar, it was simple and crude. It also worked so well I knew he'd used it in the past.
I waited while he made his way down the bar, my card already out and ready. When he ignored it, turning instead to the digital point of sale system which looked better suited to a four-star restaurant than what amounted to a hole in the wall bar in a hole in the wall town, I frowned. "Do you not take cards?"
"Yes, we do." He didn't glance up, continuing to clear out tabs with steady efficiency. "But not from you."
"Why?"
"Because I said so." Now he did look at me, his gaze scorching hot. "Consider it a courtship ritual."
"Oh." It wasn't the most sophisticated of responses but it seemed to be the only one my brain could come up with at the moment. "Well. Thank you." I paused, chewing on my lower lip until I realized he'd stopped working and was staring at me. "You're not going to get in trouble, are you?"
"No." Leaving it at that, he shifted his attention back to the tablet, his fingers flying over the screen. "And even if I was, I promise you it wouldn't be the worst trouble I've ever been in."
"Oh." I was certainly winning the award for conversationalist of the year tonight. "If you're sure."
One corner of his mouth turned upward in a half smile, his fingers continuing to move with a precision which made me think of other ways he could put such talent to use. "I'm sure. Quiet now. The faster I get all this squared away, the faster we can get upstairs." He shot me another thought-fizzling look for the briefest of seconds. "And I want to be upstairs with you sooner rather than later."
Since there wasn't anything to say in response to that, I simply sat there and watched him work. Which was, to my immense surprise, more than a little arousing.
It might have been the way he moved, the faint ripple of his muscles under his shirt a promise of the strength in his lithe, sinewy form. He reminded me of a dancer or an athlete, gliding around the now empty space as he put up chairs and swept the already spotless floor. When he threw the bolt on the front door, the sound echoing through the room, I jumped and then laughed at myself. "Sorry."
"Don't be. It's not often someone is so focused on my ass they lose track of everything else." He walked over to me, his steps slow and measured, his arms hanging loose at his sides. His eyes, though... the look in them was anything but causal. "Most people don't make it past the tattoos."
"Because a little ink is such a big deal?"
"In this town, yes." He helped me off the bar stool, turning me toward the narrow hallway leading to the bathrooms, his hand hot and firm where it pressed against the small of my back. "I told you, boring little people with boring little lives."
"Right." I leaned against the wall, studying the tattoos in question as he pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, flipping through them before selecting one and sliding it in the lock. "You have to be one of the few people in the entire county who actually lock their door."
"I've had problems with drunk people-well, women-thinking if they could just manage to put themselves in my bed, I'd realize I wanted them as much as they wanted me." He pushed the door open, reaching past me and flicking a switch, a soft light illuminating a steep, narrow staircase. "I got tired of kicking half-naked women out of my apartment so I started locking up after myself."
"Hmm." I squeezed past him, climbing the stairs slowly, not to put on a show but because I'd had enough tequila to know gravity wasn't my best friend at the moment. I paused when I reached the landing, nodding at another door. "This one locked, too?"
"No." His voice was lower, raspy and I swallowed in an effort to wet my suddenly dry throat. "Go on in."