Sir Loin of Beef (Grade-A Beefcakes 1)

“Fine. Stay back here and help Jed with drinks then. The bar should be a big enough wall to keep you safe until you find one who might suit your fancy.”

She patted me on the chest and walked away, taking my hat with her.

Suit my fancy? She sounded like our grandmother, Nana Jean.

“When did she become so bossy?” I asked Jed.

He grinned again as he sliced a lime on a small cutting board. “Birth, I think. I’m not one to talk. Her marketing ideas are making me a killing.”

Definitely true based on the size of the crowd, especially for a Thursday night.

I could just leave, go home and have that shower and relax, but Jed and the other bartenders were busting their asses. They really did need some help keeping up with the drink requests, at least until things died down a little. Cassidy’s was Jed’s livelihood now that he was off the circuit and it did well. Locals came for food or drinks, tourists stopped in on their way to Glacier National Park—and women came for the male strippers. I just had to wonder how Julia had wrangled up the strippers in the first place. And that thought was where I didn’t want to go, so I grabbed a bar rag, tossed it over my shoulder and got to work.

A few women recognized me, chatted me up. One had slipped me her panties… which, a few years ago, would have been really hot, but now all I thought of was how unhygienic it was over a bar. Another had asked for an autograph on a napkin—which I’d been more willing to oblige—and another wanted a selfie with the famous rodeo champion. Fortunately, the dancers were a distraction and, thankfully, more appealing than me. No one lingered at the bar when there were G-string clad men on the other side of the room. A side of the room I tried to avoid looking at by mixing some margaritas with more vigor than necessary.

“What can I get you?” Jed said, working beside me. With the four of us behind the bar, we’d gone zone defense to keep from running into each other and I’d gotten the far end.

“Can I get a pitcher of draft and a phone number?” a woman replied.

“I’m flattered, sweetheart.”

“Not yours, his.”

I wasn’t paying them much attention until Jed nudged me. I looked up from the shots I was pouring and followed his chin tilt—and grin—to the woman in front of him. We might have been in rural Montana, but she was all glammed up for a night out in the big city. Big blue eyes, bright red lips. Blonde hair that curled wild and long over her shoulders. Bare shoulders because she had on some kind of top that was sleeveless and tied at the back of her neck. And it had sequins. In fact, it was all sequins. It reminded me of a Las Vegas casino sign. I couldn’t see her lower half hidden by the bar, but I’d seen enough. She was pretty in a flashy, obvious sort of way, but wasn’t for me. Maybe the twenty-two-year-old me would have been tugging her into the back hallway by now for a quickie, but no longer.

No, she didn’t make my dick rise. But her wingman did.

Yeah, her. Holy shit. HER.

2

DUKE

Behind the bar, I kicked Jed in the shin to get his attention, but when I tore my gaze away long enough to look at him, I saw his focus was dead-on with mine.

Her.

She stood a little behind the flashy woman, but it was obvious in that women-stick-together sort of way that they were here together. She was… shy. Quiet, maybe? Definitely not as forward as her friend. She wasn’t the forward type. And the way she’d rolled her eyes, I knew I wasn’t the first guy her friend had hit on. And once I turned her friend down, I probably wouldn’t be the last.

The music changed again which had her glancing over her shoulder at the latest stripper—Jesus, a cowboy with chaps, red Speedo and nothing else—then looked back. She wasn’t frowning, but she wasn’t into the strip-fest either. She looked… amused instead of aroused.

And hot, in that prim librarian sort of way. Because while others were out for a wild girls’ night in various stages of barely dressed—from short skirts and skimpy tank tops to slutty dresses and stilettos, including her friend’s sequins—she had on a crisp white blouse and jean skirt. Cute as fuck cowboy boots.

I didn’t know of any woman besides a grandma or a waitress who wore a button up white shirt. And she was no grandma. No, she had to be in her mid-twenties and the only button up I wanted to see her in was one of mine after a night of wild sex, and nothing else. Maybe a few love bites of mine marking her skin, a mix of Jed’s cum and mine coating her pussy and inner thighs. We’d see that and know she was ours. She’d feel it slip from her, a constant reminder that her pussy belonged to us.

Fuck, I was hard as a fence post and that was just thinking about her shirt.

Her dark hair was parted down the middle and pulled back into a bun. A bun. But she was gorgeous and having her hair styled so simply only showed that off. Big, dark eyes, pert nose and full, pouty lips that weren’t slicked with red but with some kind of clear gloss. So fucking kissable and I ached to see them stretched wide as I watched her take Jed’s cock nice and deep.

She wasn’t trying like her friend. Hell, she didn’t need to, not with me. Not with the way Jed was ready to jump over the bar to get to her. Any guy who wasn’t blind could see how beautiful she was.

If these male dancers didn’t make her pussy wet, I wanted the chance to do so. No, more than a chance. I wanted it all with her and she hadn’t even said a word.

I wanted to tug that bun loose, unbutton that modest blouse and see what kind of sexy confection covered those full breasts.

Yeah, they couldn’t be hidden behind a simple top, no matter how prim it was. She’d be more than a handful. And those nipples? Plump, pink and perfect.

And the thing about her that made my dick even harder? Glasses.