Caught Up in You by Sophie Swift Page A

doing. Even when the woman shows up wearing nothing but a trench coat. And one wrong read of where that line is can land you in a jail cell with a not-so-convenient criminal charge on your record.
    Not that I know this from experience. It was just a bartender’s code.
    You flirt, you compliment, you pour drinks, you wait for them to make the first move.
    And she did. She pressed those pouty lips against mine faster than I could offer to take her coat. She tasted good. She felt fucking amazing. Even through my clothes—which came off quickly, I might add.
    I’m talking, record time.
    But then, as soon as I had her backed against the bar, my cock hard as brick ready to go to battle, she draped her tongue across my neck, pulled my hand between her legs, showing me how wet I made her, and whispered those words hot and breathy in my ear.
    “By the way, I’m not technically divorced.”
    WHOA!
    Now there’s a way to lose wood.
    In fact that should be Train’s next song. “50 Ways to Say Goodbye…to Your Boner.”
    I took mental note for the next time I needed to get rid of an erection fast. I’d always relied on the tried and true: baseball, your mother taking a bath, a men’s locker room.
    But this is one I’d have to store for later.
    I pulled away, trying to ignore her gorgeous body displayed before me like an offering from the Gods.
    “WHAT?” I demanded.
    She smiled. The smile of a seductress. A siren. “It’s no big deal, cutie,” she purred. “I’m planning to leave him soon. Now get your big cock back over here and show me what I’m missing being married to an older man.”
    She grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled my mouth back to hers.
    But I resisted, mentally patting myself on the back.
    Way to go, Blake!
    “No big deal?” I repeated in disbelief, bracing against her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. “I would say it’s a pretty fucking big deal. You lied to me.”
    Her smile fell into a pout. A really fucking condescending pout. “Awww,” she cooed. “Your morals are adorable.”
    My morals?
    Of all the things that women have called “adorable” over the years—and trust me, there have been plenty—my morals were certainly not one of them.
    She reached up and brushed a long, manicured fingernail against my cheek. “My husband has his little twenty-two year-old intern and I have you.”
    I opened my mouth to argue but she stopped me with a look. “Don’t waste your tongue on words,” she said. “Not when I can think of so many better things to do with it.”
    Her hands were on my head now, pushing down. I found my face between her long, lean legs. She was waxed. Everywhere.
    She bucked her hips toward me, coaxing me to her. She squeezed her knees around my shoulder blades, sending my resolve to go live on a remote desert island somewhere.
    So much for my morals.
    I titled my head to the side and traced the length of her thigh with my lips, following it all the way down, into the sweet spot.
    And oh, was it sweet.
    Fucking apple pie.
    She gasped and pressed into me.
    God, I love it when they do that.
    I lifted her onto the barstool and then plunged my tongue deep inside of her, feeling the way her body instantly responded. I was well aware that I was the revenge fuck. I was the young twenty-something to get back at another young twenty-something.
    And ask me if I cared at that moment.
    I didn’t.
    It was hard to care when a body like that was stretched out before you, when legs like that were wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you into a delicious world.
    But it became much easier to care when I heard the owner’s voice shouting at me from the entryway to the restaurant.
    “What the hell are you doing?”
    And that was pretty much that. I was promptly dismissed as being “not high-class enough” to bartend at his prissy posh restaurant. I swear, you fuck one customer and suddenly you’re white trash.
    “I’m looking for a professional bartender,” the