Page 8 of Intoxicated
Unless you’re me. Unless your name is Drew Benton, professional rake.
Cher no longer hides her interest in my cock. After giving it a critical look, she slips her hand between my legs.
She doesn’t squeeze anything, though. She’s content with staring ahead, boring a hole into the back of the bartender’s skull and feeling how long my cock is. Naturally, it’s happy to have her there.
“Jesus,” she mutters, snatching her hand out like my thighs are about to detach it from her arm. “And that’s soft, huh?”
“I’ll be honest with you.” I finish my drink. “It’s only alittlebigger when it’s hard, but I damn well know how to use it. So, what do you say?” I nod to the napkin with my number on it. “Sunday?”
She slips off her stool, steely eyes never leaving my gaze. My napkin is left behind as she slowly walks away.
Oh, well. At least I get to watch that delectable ass sway in that slinky black dress.
“Nice try, buddy,” the bartender says when he rounds the center island. “You’re telling her that she’s dodged a bullet? I could say the same thing to you. That woman’s like a viper, man. She’s always in here looking for some rich dick to plow her next.”
I shrug. “Now I know.”
As the bartender sagely shakes his head and turns around, a familiar face reappears.
It’s Cher, and she’s raced back to claim my phone number. The way she snatches it off the bar before scurrying away again tells me that it’s going to be agreatweekend.
