Besides, what’s the point in owning a bar if you can’t splurge every now and then?
Slowly, she takes the glass to her lips, then drinks a little.
“Ugh,” she groans, looking like she just drank oil mixed with sand.
“C’mon!” I laugh, taking the whiskey out of her hands and replacing it with a sweet strawberry liqueur. “You disappoint me.”
“Much better.” She smiles, taking a sip out of the liquor. Her eyes never leave mine as she drinks it, and I can’t help but wonder about the woman right in front of me.
“What’s your story?”
“My story? There’s not much to tell. I work at the hospital, and…well, that’s it.”
“Jesus, what an interesting life you lead,” I tell her, leaning over the counter.
Our fingers brush for a moment and, right before she pulls her hand back, I feel electricity crackling under my skin. I don’t know what it is about her, but I feel drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
“Let me guess—you’re a doctor.”
“Yeah. Surgeon.”
“Oh. No wonder you don’t have a life. But I get it—it wasn’t exactly easy, setting this place up, you know?” I tell her, waving my hand at the large room we’re in. “For the first five years I was in business, I think I was actually living under this counter,” I continue, slapping my hand against the polished wood counter while I smile at her.
“So, a workaholic like me?” she asks me, the shape of a bright smile on her lips.
Fucking hell, I’m actually struggling right now—all I want is reach across the counter, pull her into me, and crush my mouth on hers.
“Nah, not a workaholic. I like to think of myself as driven.”
“Makes two of us then,” she agrees, and I start noticing her slowly opening up to me.
She’s not the most social of women, that much I’ve realized, but still…being around her feels like sitting in front of a fireplace during winter: you just can’t move away.
“Boyfriend? Husband?” I ask her, and I immediately feel like a fucking tool.
Am I seriously asking her these lame-ass questions? Seriously, what’s wrong with me? I’m used to pulling tail easily, but it seems that Dr. Beautiful has somehow reigned in my inner Casanova.
“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes still locked on mine. For a couple of seconds, we remain in silence, simply staring into each other’s eyes. The temperature in the room rises, my heart picks up the pace, and I feel my cock coming to life between my legs.
Before I can stop myself, nine dangerous words leave my lips.
“What do you say we get out of here?”
Samantha
Stop.
Seriously, let’s stop for a minute so I can gather my thoughts. This can’t be happening, right? Am I seriously leaving the bar in the company of a stranger? Am I seriously going to let this guy drive me to God knows where?
Well...seems like it, doesn’t it?
“I don't do this kind of stuff, you know?” I find myself saying as I sit inside his sports car, placing both my hands on top of my knees and looking down at my feet.
My cheeks are burning, and I can’t even muster the courage to look him in the eye. Why am I feeling this embarrassed right now?
“What kind of stuff?” he asks me, genuinely confused. “We’re not robbing a bank. You know that, don’t you?”
“It’s not that…” I start, trying to look for the right words. “It’s just that—”