Good thing I like it hard. I was never one for following orders. For one night with him, I would have sold my soul to the devil. And that’s exactly what I did. Let me tell you, hell in the company of Damon Baxter was blissfully hot. I offered him a single night of pleasure, but when he demanded another in that deep and sexy whisper, what could I say? He was my boss, and I always aimed to please…when it pleased me.
He didn’t care that I broke his rules. But was I ready to break my own?
It wasn’t a question, but a firm statement. Like he knew every person in the place except for me and that fact irked him. My head snapped up. His gaze raked across every inch of my upper body, leaving a warm trail in its wake. When his eyes finally returned to mine, he lifted one eyebrow.
“Yes, sir,” I said, ignoring his implied question. He wanted to know my name. Let him want. Names were not part of the deal. If I was going to fuck him—and I hadn’t unequivocally ruled that out yet—then there would be no exchanging names. It was a hard and fast rule I lived by. No names guaranteed an evening of unadulterated pleasure.
“And young.” He added after a moment, leaning one forearm casually against the bar. His gaze lingered on my face. “Too young to know what you’re doing behind a bar. I’m surprised they hired you.”
I accepted his comment at face value—a calculated move on his part to get a reaction out of me. Controlling and arrogant. Arrogance and confidence often went hand in hand. As long as it translated well in the bedroom, I wouldn’t complain. But what I could not abide was pettiness. Was he lashing out at me for refusing to play the flirting game by his rules? It was time to find out. “Why don’t you reserve your judgment until after you’ve tasted my martini, old man?”
Tilting his head slightly, he regarded me closely and then chuckled. The gesture softened the edges of his mouth, making him even more attractive, if such a thing was possible. Okay. He was not petty.
“How old are you?” he asked.
Taking up a muddler, I began to gnash olives in the bottom of a mixing jar. “At least twenty-one,” I replied with a cheeky grin.
A slight tightening of his square jaw was the only indication that he disapproved of my evasive answer. He was accustomed to receiving prompt and direct responses to his questions. That much was clear.
After pouring the gin, vermouth, and olive brine over plenty of ice, I stirred the contents in the jar thoroughly before fine straining the mixture into a martini glass. Three Mediterranean olives as garnish and his drink was served. “Taste that!”
Folding my arms, I stood back to assess his reaction. He lifted the glass to his full lips and sipped, letting the liquid fill his mouth and wash over his tongue. I could almost feel it gliding down my throat and taste the saltiness. The way he savored the drink and then licked his lips, showed his appreciation.
“That’s not bad,” he said, flicking his gaze to the martini. “But mine is better. Perhaps I can interest you in a drink?” A sudden sparkle gleamed in his eyes and I steeled myself against the words I knew were coming. “What time do you get off tonight? I’d like to take you to my place and show you how a pro makes it.”
I threw back my head and laughed, basking in the warmth of the moment. The man had some serious balls, and I wanted nothing more than to accept his offer so I could feel the weight of them against my tongue. The rule said no sleeping with the patrons. I had no intention of sleeping. Perhaps I could stay at his place for an hour. Maybe two.
R.C. Matthews is the author of contemporary romances featuring bold, sassy heroines and magnetic alpha heroes. Warning! The chemistry between her characters is off the charts hot, so read at your own risk. She resides in the Midwest and is surrounded by men: her husband and three sons. During her free time you'll find her watching The Walking Dead, reading a fabulous book or hanging out with her family.