about that now?
One corner of his mouth kicked up in a tired grin. “Most of the women I know only drink something from a bottle with a cork in it.”
Montana knew exactly what he meant. Women in the California culture thought wine was the only acceptable drink. How she had missed her bourbon these past ten years.
“You obviously don’t hang out with too many Texas women,” she told him.
“Or else, the wrong ones.” He said it as a joke, but she had a feeling, tonight at least, he wasn’t feeling very humorous.
When the bartender placed her glass in front of her, she lifted it and took a healthy sip. The rich blend slid down her throat like a fiery caress, waking up all her senses. Wait! This was supposed to soften everything, ease her tension, prepare her body to crash for the night. Instead, it made her hyperaware of the man next to her who she was sure had to be emitting pheromones at an alarming rate. It had been so long since she’d felt real sexual attraction, she thought her body had forgotten how.
But here she was, sitting next to a man she’d met seconds ago, and all it took was his gravelly voice, fuck-me eyes, and masculine nearness to wake up her body. A sudden ache danced through her breasts, her nipples tingled, and, between her thighs, the pulse in her cunt throbbed with the insistence of a jungle drum. And, ohmigod! Were her panties wet after a few words and less than sixty seconds?
Girl, you are in bad shape.
“Is that why you’re here tonight?” she asked. “Drinking to forget the wrong kind of woman?”
His laugh held little humor. He took a long swallow from the bottle, the play of muscles in his neck and throat fascinating her. She couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from him.
“See something you like?” He signaled the bartender for another.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
When the bartender set a fresh drink in front of him, he took another deliberate swallow of beer then set his bottle down carefully. “Question?”
“Yes. Are you drinking to forget the wrong kind of woman?”
He turned on his stool, studying her from beneath hooded lids for so long she felt compelled to meet him eye to eye. Mistake. Big mistake. Sexual heat surged through her, the muscles in the walls of her cunt vibrating as if they were doing a two-step, and her nipples became so hard she thought they’d poke holes in her tee shirt. Her mouth suddenly dry, she lifted her drink and finished it in one swallow. This time, it burned going down, but she was grateful. It distracted her from the other reactions of her body.
“Maybe,” he said, at last. “Are you the right kind of woman?”
Montana had a feeling she could climax from nothing more than listening to his voice. She tapped her glass on the bar to signal for a refill and wondered what in the fucking hell she was doing, anyway?
Ooh, fuck! Andy would have a shitfit. Another naughty word.
She barely suppressed a laugh.
“Something funny?” Mr. Hotstuff asked.
“Just a private joke.” The fresh drink arrived, and she took a tiny sip. “Maybe I am. The right kind of woman. What does that mean to you?”
He draped his arm across her shoulders and threaded his fingers into the mass of curls at her neck. His touch was like the kiss of a match, igniting any nerve endings that might have still been sleeping. And, oh, god. If her panties hadn’t been wet before, they were soaked with her juices now. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to fight back the need radiating from her.
He nudged her around on her stool again, so he stared into her eyes once more.
Oh, god!
“It means maybe we both came in here for the same thing tonight.”
“Yeah? Explain.”
“A night out of time. Would you go for that?”
Would she?
There was certainly no mistaking his meaning, even if he hadn’t said the words. Well, hell. She definitely wanted to forget a whole lot of bad business. Getting naked with him would be so much better than getting
One corner of his mouth kicked up in a tired grin. “Most of the women I know only drink something from a bottle with a cork in it.”
Montana knew exactly what he meant. Women in the California culture thought wine was the only acceptable drink. How she had missed her bourbon these past ten years.
“You obviously don’t hang out with too many Texas women,” she told him.
“Or else, the wrong ones.” He said it as a joke, but she had a feeling, tonight at least, he wasn’t feeling very humorous.
When the bartender placed her glass in front of her, she lifted it and took a healthy sip. The rich blend slid down her throat like a fiery caress, waking up all her senses. Wait! This was supposed to soften everything, ease her tension, prepare her body to crash for the night. Instead, it made her hyperaware of the man next to her who she was sure had to be emitting pheromones at an alarming rate. It had been so long since she’d felt real sexual attraction, she thought her body had forgotten how.
But here she was, sitting next to a man she’d met seconds ago, and all it took was his gravelly voice, fuck-me eyes, and masculine nearness to wake up her body. A sudden ache danced through her breasts, her nipples tingled, and, between her thighs, the pulse in her cunt throbbed with the insistence of a jungle drum. And, ohmigod! Were her panties wet after a few words and less than sixty seconds?
Girl, you are in bad shape.
“Is that why you’re here tonight?” she asked. “Drinking to forget the wrong kind of woman?”
His laugh held little humor. He took a long swallow from the bottle, the play of muscles in his neck and throat fascinating her. She couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from him.
“See something you like?” He signaled the bartender for another.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
When the bartender set a fresh drink in front of him, he took another deliberate swallow of beer then set his bottle down carefully. “Question?”
“Yes. Are you drinking to forget the wrong kind of woman?”
He turned on his stool, studying her from beneath hooded lids for so long she felt compelled to meet him eye to eye. Mistake. Big mistake. Sexual heat surged through her, the muscles in the walls of her cunt vibrating as if they were doing a two-step, and her nipples became so hard she thought they’d poke holes in her tee shirt. Her mouth suddenly dry, she lifted her drink and finished it in one swallow. This time, it burned going down, but she was grateful. It distracted her from the other reactions of her body.
“Maybe,” he said, at last. “Are you the right kind of woman?”
Montana had a feeling she could climax from nothing more than listening to his voice. She tapped her glass on the bar to signal for a refill and wondered what in the fucking hell she was doing, anyway?
Ooh, fuck! Andy would have a shitfit. Another naughty word.
She barely suppressed a laugh.
“Something funny?” Mr. Hotstuff asked.
“Just a private joke.” The fresh drink arrived, and she took a tiny sip. “Maybe I am. The right kind of woman. What does that mean to you?”
He draped his arm across her shoulders and threaded his fingers into the mass of curls at her neck. His touch was like the kiss of a match, igniting any nerve endings that might have still been sleeping. And, oh, god. If her panties hadn’t been wet before, they were soaked with her juices now. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to fight back the need radiating from her.
He nudged her around on her stool again, so he stared into her eyes once more.
Oh, god!
“It means maybe we both came in here for the same thing tonight.”
“Yeah? Explain.”
“A night out of time. Would you go for that?”
Would she?
There was certainly no mistaking his meaning, even if he hadn’t said the words. Well, hell. She definitely wanted to forget a whole lot of bad business. Getting naked with him would be so much better than getting
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