Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy 1)

Then again, she could have been a cupcake for a whole other reason. She looked rich, sweet, and decadent, like the kind of irresistible gourmet treats he’d stared longingly at as a little boy from the outside of a bakery shop in town. He’d never had the chance to sample any of those sweets, but even now, at thirty-two, he could still remember the way his mouth would water for a taste, and how his always empty stomach would grumble and ache—until the shop owner chased him away because she didn’t want a low-life Kincaid, and the bastard child of a crack whore, to keep her customers from entering her upscale bakery.

This female version of a cupcake was just as tempting, and his wicked thoughts turned to taking a delicious bite out of her to see if she was as sugary as she looked, followed by licking her soft, creamy skin and defiling that perfect pink mouth and curvy body designed for pleasure and sin.

His dick twitched at the fantasy playing through his mind, but that’s all it would be. A filthy fantasy. The woman clearly wasn’t from the area. With that silky, shiny hair, her flawless complexion, and the strand of shimmering pearls around her neck, she screamed upper class and wealth. The rest of her attire—a pale pink silk blouse and cream-colored slacks—was also a direct contrast to the casual jean-and-T-shirt atmosphere of Kincaid’s.

He moved behind the bar, where Tara, his last bartender of the evening, was mixing a drink. At ten forty-five p.m. on a Sunday night, she’d just announced last call, which was what had brought Clay out of his back office, to relieve Tara of her post by eleven. Since it was the slowest night of the week and Kincaid’s was usually empty by ten after the hour, he didn’t mind closing up the place by himself.

“Who’s the cupcake at the end of the bar?” Clay asked Tara in a low tone of voice.

“I have no idea,” Tara s

aid with a shrug as she poured half an ounce of Kahlua into a shot glass. “I’ve never seen her here before.”

The pretty bartender, with her long, dark hair, exotic eyes, and a diamond piercing above her upper lip, was an intriguing combination of soft and tough. Soft with a huge heart, yet tough enough to handle any man’s bullshit. And considering how drunk and disorderly some of the male patrons could get sometimes, knowing that Tara was street smart and could kick ass when needed was one of the main reasons he’d hired her. The woman was fearless, as well as one helluva bartender.

Leaning a hip against the low counter, Clay let his gaze stray back to the blonde, who had her chin propped in her hand. Her entire body was relaxed, and even from the other end of the bar, he recognized the glassy, dazed look in her eyes that indicated she was well on her way to being drunk.

“Did she arrive with anyone?” he asked curiously.

Tara added an equal amount of Bailey’s to the shot glass. “Nope. She came in alone.”

“Is she lost?” It was the only thing that made sense to him.

“I don’t think so,” Tara replied, her mouth quirking with a grin as she topped the drink off with a generous amount of whip cream. “She slid onto that barstool, told me she wanted the dirtiest-named drink on the menu, so I served her a Royal Fuck. She downed the shot in one gulp and ordered two more, then told me to keep them coming, the stronger and the dirtier, the better. After three Royal Fucks, she’s gone through a Screaming Orgasm, a Slow, Comfortable Screw, and a Blow Job. She’s following that up with a Deep Throat,” she said, lifting the sexually explicit drink she’d just made.

Clay couldn’t help the amused laughter that escaped him. Damn. So, the cupcake had a bit of a naughty streak hidden beneath that affluent facade. And he had to admit, he was intrigued and wondered what had brought her to a rougher side of the city, when someone like her should have been sipping Cosmopolitans with her socialite friends in a safe, trendy lounge off of Lakeshore Drive.

Tara delivered the drink to the woman, then headed onto the main floor to clear off tables and make sure that the few customers still left didn’t want a final drink before the place closed. Clay started putting bottles of alcohol away while covertly watching the blonde as she dipped her tongue into the froth of whipped cream before she wrapped her lips around the rim of the shot glass, tipped her head back, and deep-throated the concoction, just as the drink name implied.

Oh, fuck me…

A soft moan escaped her as she swallowed. When she was done, she slowly licked the remnants of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth, her lashes falling half-mast. Her actions were so guileless and unpracticed, yet so fucking sexy it turned him on—and reminded him that it had been much too long since he’d gotten laid.

One quick text to the woman with whom he had a friends-with-benefits arrangement could easily change that status, but first he needed to make sure the cupcake left his establishment safely, then he could close up the bar. Considering his reaction to the out-of-his-league blonde, he definitely needed to indulge in a hard, hot fuck.

Tara returned with a tray of empty glasses and set them in the sink behind the bar. The last of the customers filtered out for the night, and two of his regulars gave him a wave on their way toward the exit.

“See you later, Saint,” one of the older guys called out.

Clay was more a sinner than any kind of saint, but ever since his brother Mason had given him the nickname years ago to irritate him—which it had—everyone had followed suit. And the nickname stuck. It had been easier to put up with the label than fight it.

“’Night, Ted. Charlie.” He lifted his hand in a reciprocal good-bye. “Be safe out there.”

Tara grabbed a damp rag and started to help him with the cleanup.

“I’ll finish up here,” Clay said to her. “I know you have a mid-term exam tomorrow, so go home and study and get a good night’s sleep before your class in the morning.” Tara was attending college part-time to get her business degree, and Clay tried to support her in any way he could.

She smiled at him, her expression relieved. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I’ll get the blonde to close out her tab, then head out.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He placed a bottle of Grey Goose vodka back on the liquor shelf. “She’s the last customer. I’ll take care of her.”

“Of course you will, Saint Clay,” she said on a teasing drawl. “She definitely has that damsel-in-distress vibe about her, despite her expensive clothes and accessories.”

Clay had a history—more like a bad habit—of helping and/or rescuing those who were down on their luck in some way, including Tara herself, though she’d come a long way from the broken, angry girl he’d originally employed at Kincaid’s. Hell, most of his workers had been hired based on their desperate need of a paycheck, as well as a way to prove their self-worth. A lot of them came from less-than-ideal circumstances, or were trying to recover from a hellish past as damaged as Clay’s own was.

But the blonde wasn’t any of those things, and he doubted she needed any kind of rescuing—and certainly not from him. She was merely a pretty inconvenience, one that required Clay to do the dutiful thing, as he would with any of his customers who had had a few drinks too many.

With his back to the blonde and still facing Tara, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a pointed look. “I’ll take care of her like I would any other tipsy patron,” he said, his tone direct. “She’ll pay her bill, and I’ll call a cab to take her home so she’s not driving under the influence. Making sure she leaves safely is all part of my responsibility as owner of this bar. Nothing more.”