bathroom. After carefully applying just enough make-up to conceal the teeny crow’s feet that she’d recently discovered, Kayla gave her dark locks a bit of mousse, bent over at the waist and blew the mess out before it had a chance to go haywire on her. When she flipped back up, heavy curls fell around her nape and after a bit of arranging around her temples, she cursed it to stay in place and followed her threat up with a few squirts of hairspray. Her heart fluttered a bit at the sight of herself in the mirror. Damn. I look pretty good for thirty-eight .
Wondering who else would notice, she grabbed her beer and sucked down the last of it before she went to get dressed.
Kayla let the towel drop in a damp pile around her feet as she rummaged through her underwear drawer. Pulling up a matching set of black lacy garments, she pondered the possibilities for a moment. The bra would give her poor chest some support and give anyone looking a good peek over the top of her shirt and it had a front clasp—bonus. Panties? Who the hell needed panties? She poked the wisp of black lace back in the drawer and shoved it closed. With her come get me outfit on, Kayla stood in front of her full length mirror looking at her feet. Shoes. She’d just had a pedi so her open-toed sling backs would work. But did they send the message she wanted to convey?
Not really. Back in the closet on her knees, Kayla dug through the shoe pile in the very back trying not to mess her hair up in the process from crawling under all the hanging clothes. Patting and touching, she finally found what she was looking for. Bingo. The come fuck me boots. Kayla sat on the bed smiling as she pulled on one supple leather knee boot then the other, tugging the zippers from ankle to thigh. Once again she stood in front of the mirror and admired her handy-work. Hell yeah. Come fuck me it was.
After one last lipstick touch-up, Kayla grabbed a small black hand-bag with a long shoulder strap. She tossed in her license, her compact and a few bills and quarters for the jukebox. Kayla knew exactly where she was going. A little dive bar off the beaten path where the beer was cold and the men were hot. With the upmost care she backed her Dodge Charger out of the garage, cranked up the local country station and sped down the road.
Tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear, Kayla stopped just inside the door of the Don’t Drop Here allowing her eyes to adjust to the neon infused duskiness of the room. Every time she saw that bright orange and yellow sign with the flickering H she couldn’t help but laugh at it. People dropped here every weekend. Inside and out. The sun didn’t rise on a Saturday that didn’t find customers sprawled across pool tables, curled up in booths or asleep in their backseats in the parking lot.
Searching through the mist of smoke and dust from too many boots, Kayla looked for the one she always sought—the one that would fulfill her if only for this one night. Her black leather knee boots sent up a cadence as she crossed the old, salted wooden floor making her way through tables full of characters of all sorts. The Don't Drop was filled with the typical Friday night crowd—bikers with more tattoos than skin, barely of-age girls trying to take the bikers home, cowboys peering out from under wide brim Stetson’s, and the type she craved—a good old boy. The sort that wore a John Deere cap, sported worn toed work boots and boasted a farmer’s tan.
Her target was seated on a polished wooden stool at the end of the bar. He was tall, well over six feet, and had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Kayla hung back a moment appreciating the sight of his arm muscles rippling as he raised his beer bottle to his lips. Those arms were strong from hours of masculine labor and she knew they'd feel so good holding her tightly. He was the one. Seductively, she strolled up to the empty seat beside him, backed over it with her legs open wide and slid around
Wondering who else would notice, she grabbed her beer and sucked down the last of it before she went to get dressed.
Kayla let the towel drop in a damp pile around her feet as she rummaged through her underwear drawer. Pulling up a matching set of black lacy garments, she pondered the possibilities for a moment. The bra would give her poor chest some support and give anyone looking a good peek over the top of her shirt and it had a front clasp—bonus. Panties? Who the hell needed panties? She poked the wisp of black lace back in the drawer and shoved it closed. With her come get me outfit on, Kayla stood in front of her full length mirror looking at her feet. Shoes. She’d just had a pedi so her open-toed sling backs would work. But did they send the message she wanted to convey?
Not really. Back in the closet on her knees, Kayla dug through the shoe pile in the very back trying not to mess her hair up in the process from crawling under all the hanging clothes. Patting and touching, she finally found what she was looking for. Bingo. The come fuck me boots. Kayla sat on the bed smiling as she pulled on one supple leather knee boot then the other, tugging the zippers from ankle to thigh. Once again she stood in front of the mirror and admired her handy-work. Hell yeah. Come fuck me it was.
After one last lipstick touch-up, Kayla grabbed a small black hand-bag with a long shoulder strap. She tossed in her license, her compact and a few bills and quarters for the jukebox. Kayla knew exactly where she was going. A little dive bar off the beaten path where the beer was cold and the men were hot. With the upmost care she backed her Dodge Charger out of the garage, cranked up the local country station and sped down the road.
Tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear, Kayla stopped just inside the door of the Don’t Drop Here allowing her eyes to adjust to the neon infused duskiness of the room. Every time she saw that bright orange and yellow sign with the flickering H she couldn’t help but laugh at it. People dropped here every weekend. Inside and out. The sun didn’t rise on a Saturday that didn’t find customers sprawled across pool tables, curled up in booths or asleep in their backseats in the parking lot.
Searching through the mist of smoke and dust from too many boots, Kayla looked for the one she always sought—the one that would fulfill her if only for this one night. Her black leather knee boots sent up a cadence as she crossed the old, salted wooden floor making her way through tables full of characters of all sorts. The Don't Drop was filled with the typical Friday night crowd—bikers with more tattoos than skin, barely of-age girls trying to take the bikers home, cowboys peering out from under wide brim Stetson’s, and the type she craved—a good old boy. The sort that wore a John Deere cap, sported worn toed work boots and boasted a farmer’s tan.
Her target was seated on a polished wooden stool at the end of the bar. He was tall, well over six feet, and had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Kayla hung back a moment appreciating the sight of his arm muscles rippling as he raised his beer bottle to his lips. Those arms were strong from hours of masculine labor and she knew they'd feel so good holding her tightly. He was the one. Seductively, she strolled up to the empty seat beside him, backed over it with her legs open wide and slid around
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