He moved so he walked abreast of me.
And seriously, but thinking about breasts didn’t help the situation. Not when mine felt so heavy, my nipples tingling. I could practically feel his rough hands on my skin. When he’d touched me earlier, reaching across the dark blond wood of the bar, his palm had been calloused, demonstrating no shortage of hard work. He wasn’t a Frat Boy or a man who spent all his time pecking at a keyboard—
Not that I had a problem with that, since I spent most of my time pecking at my keyboard.
But I liked my men to be . . . men.
More danger and alarm bells and tsunami sirens.
“Shouldn’t you be back behind that bar, slinging drinks?” I asked, maybe a bit desperately.
“Nope.”
I tilted my gaze up, met his eyes. They looked dark brown in the moonlight, glimmers of silver in their depths. “Nope?”
“Nope,” he repeated.
Seriously?
I bit back a sigh, continued walking, determined to finally ignore him, as I should have done from the moment my ass had hit the seat back in the bar. And I succeeded. Sort of. Because even though I bit back my inquiry demanding that he tell me why he shouldn’t be doing his damned job, I was still curious. Heaven help me.
“I got off shift three hours ago,” he said when I was just about to burst.
This time, I did stumble.
And warm fingers caught my arm, steadied me.
“Not going to ask me why I stayed on?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone, like he knew it was killing me to not pump him for information.
But also . . . no. I wasn’t going to ask him.
Because I knew.
It was the same reason I didn’t shake him off, the same reason I rotated to face him instead of getting into my car, which was mere feet away at this point.
“No?” he said, then let out an oomph when I launched myself into his arms.
“No,” I whispered, smothering the groan bubbling up in my throat when those strong arms banded around me, the sensation exactly as I’d imagined . . . that and so much more.
Good.
Great.
What was even better?
His hard cock pressing against my abdomen.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Chapter Three
Archer
My question made her go stiff in my arms, and I expected her to back away, to step out of my hold. Instead, she surprised me by leaning closer, her pelvis brushing mine.
Pleasure splintered through me when she ground against my cock.
I slid my hand to her hip, pulled her even closer.
“You don’t need to know,” she murmured, her hand drifting down my side, sliding nearer and nearer to my cock.
“I do if you want me to fuck you.”
Her lips parted. Her eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”
I tucked a strand of long brown hair behind her ear. “You heard me.”
Brown eyes sparked with fury, and she pushed out of my hold. “Fuck off.”
“I’d rather fuck you,” I said, not grabbing her again, even though I wanted to. This woman had lit a fire in me from the moment I’d seen her close her lips around the beer bottle back at the bar. My cock had twitched. I’d forgotten all about the fact that my shift was over, and I’d studied her closely, committing the planes of her face to memory, trying to ferret out all the different shades of brown in her eyes.
Kace had given me a look, telling me he saw right through my offer of staying on a few extra hours to “help” with the evening crowd, but he hadn’t complained or told me to go, he just clapped me on the shoulder and shoved a ticket under my nose.
“Get pouring,” he’d said.
I’d poured. I’d watched.
And now, need burned like a living thing within me.
I wanted this woman.
But I needed her to want me, too.
“That’s not going to happen,” she said on a huff, spinning away.
“Okay,” I said. “But you’ll think about me when you touch yourself tonight. Think about what we could have had,” I added, knowing I’d full-well think about her when I stroked myself into oblivion. Unless, of course, I could convince her to stroke me into oblivion.
I promised I’d stroke her just as good.
She froze, spun back, and lifted her chin. Fuck, but I loved the fire in her brown eyes. “I have no need of a . . .” Her eyes flicked down then back up, a smirk curving her plump lips. “. . . bartender.”
Said like I spent the evenings shoveling shit.
Which would be a far more noble job than pouring alcohol and delivering the odd basket of chicken strips.
“Good thing I’m not just a bartender.”
Her brows arched, brown wings floating up toward her hairline. “Oh yeah?”
I stepped closer. “Yeah.”
A snort, almost delicate and musical, mirroring the natural rhythm and grace this woman held. “So, what else are you?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me your name.”
Her lips parted, irritation drawing her face into harsh lines. Then she sighed, the lines smoothing out, her hair shifting like a cape behind her as she shook her head. “Goodnight . . . bartender.”
She stepped toward her car.
Fuck.
I moved close, smelled vanilla on her skin. “You want me.”
She sniffed. “I’ve got an eight-inch vibrator in my drawer at home, and it won’t stop until I’m satisfied.”
My lips twitched. “Unless the batteries run out.”
I thought I spotted a glimmer of humor in her eyes. “Lucky for me, I’m well stocked.”
“I’m not sure if I can deliver on eight inches, but I sure as shit promise to not stop until you’re satisfied.” Even if it killed me. Hell, I’d look forward to plunging into eternal slumber if that death was wrought by pleasuring this woman.
She scoffed, pretty eyes rolling heavenward. “If I had a penny for every time a man promised that . . .”
“You could already have my cock buried inside you,” I
