Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy 1)

Tara reached up and patted his cheek. “You can try and justify it all you want, but you’re a good guy, Saint Clay.”

Despite his nickname and the reason behind it, he wasn’t a fucking saint. Never had been and never would be. He’d done a shitload of illegal and immoral things he wasn’t proud of in his life, and while he’d done his best to redeem himself, there was still a darkness inside of him that would always remain.

“Good night, Tara,” he said, his abrupt tone making it clear that he was done with this conversation.

“See you tomorrow night, boss,” she said with a cheeky grin.

She grabbed her purse and jacket from a cupboard behind the bar just as the dishwasher—a young kid he’d caught rummaging through the dumpster in the back for scraps to eat a few months ago—came out from the back area, where the small kitchen was. He was pushing a beaten-up bike, which was his mode of transportation that he kept in the storeroom so it didn’t get stolen. A plastic bag hung from the handlebar, and Clay knew it held a Styrofoam container of leftover appetizers from happy hour. Taking a meal home at the end of the night was something Clay had insisted on, since he suspected that was the kid’s main source of nutrition.

“Elijah, walk Tara to her car on your way out?” he asked the kid. Clay usually escorted his female employees to the parking lot himself at the end of the night, but for liability purposes, he wasn’t about to leave the blonde completely alone for any length of time.

“Yes, sir,” Elijah said respectfully, that belligerent chip on his shoulder he’d carried for the first few weeks of employment now a distant memory.

Clay waited until the two were gone and he heard Tara lock the main door before he turned around to deal with the blonde. He strolled toward her end of the bar, where she was running her finger along the rim of her shot glass, her chin propped in her hand. As he approached, her heavy-lidded gaze shifted his way, then slid down the length of his body, blatantly checking him out.

When her bluer-than-blue eyes found their way back up to his face, a soft sigh escaped her lips. “You are sooo freakin’ hot,” she said, her unfiltered comment a good indication that she was well and truly intoxicated. Then she glanced down at her empty glass and frowned. “I think I need another Royal Fuck, or maybe you could give me a Screaming Orgasm.” She giggled like a naughty little girl, so cute and impish. “I’ve never asked a guy for a Screaming Orgasm before, but that last one was so good I want another.”

The corner of his mouth twitched with undeniable amusement. Damn, he didn’t want to like her. Didn’t want to see her as anything more than the rich, privileged woman she appeared to be. The inconvenience he’d referred to earlier, and it was that thought that prompted him to put an end to her evening.

He took the shot glass from her fingers and set it in the sink beneath the bar. “I think you’ve had enough Royal Fucks and Screaming Orgasms for tonight, Cupcake.”

“Cupcake?” Her pretty eyes lit up, her complexion rosy and flushed from the alcohol. “I like cupcakes. I like to make them, and I like to eat them. And when no one’s looking, I like to lick the frosting,” she said in a low, secretive whisper.

Fuck. He wanted to lick her frosting, starting with her lush mouth and moving to her full breasts and tight nipples, then working his way lower, where she no doubt tasted sweeter than sugar. Those dirty thoughts sifted through his mind, along with a sudden jolt of arousal that had him gritting his teeth.

His physical attraction to her was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, so raw and hot and immediate. She wasn’t even close to being his type of woman, but she was such an enigma, and the kind of temptation he knew would be nothing but trouble. With a shake of his head—mainly to jog some sense into his brain—he went to the register and printed up her bill. When he turned back around, he found her gaze in the vicinity of where his ass had been, and she was now shamelessly eyeing his crotch.

She slowly licked her lips and raised her glassy eyes back to his. “That Blow Job I had was pretty tasty, too,” she said huskily, a faint hint of wickedness in her voice. “Maybe I’ll have another one of those.”

A hotter-than-fuck image of her soft, pink lips wrapped around his cock as she sucked him off emblazoned itself in his mind. His unruly dick was totally on board with that idea, and he swallowed back

a groan.

Jesus Christ, she was killing him.

“The bar is closed and it’s getting late.” He placed the slip of paper on the bar in front of her. “If I can get you to settle your tab, we’ll get you on your way.” And he was certain he’d never see her again, thank God.

That frown came back again, along with a hint of worry creasing her brows. She reached into her purse, fumbled around the contents for a few seconds, then withdrew a wallet with the same pattern that was on her handbag. With clumsy fingers, she tried to slide a credit card from its slot, and when she finally managed the feat, she gave it to him.

He stared for a moment at the American Express Black Card. He’d heard that they existed, knew that the exclusive credit card was reserved for the obscenely wealthy, but had never seen one before. His bar clientele was strictly blue collar and paid in cash or with a standard credit or debit card. As he walked back to the register, he glanced at the name imprinted on the plastic card.

Samantha Jamieson.

Yeah, she looked like a Samantha, he thought, and ran the card through the system. A few seconds later, the word DECLINED showed up on the display. Certain that was a mistake, he swiped it again…and the reply remained the same.

Holy shit. Had she really maxed out one of the highest-limit credit cards available? He hadn’t seen that coming. He returned to Samantha, but before he could say anything, she looked up at him with wide, knowing eyes.

“It didn’t work, did it?” she asked in a pained voice.

“Umm, no,” he replied, and handed her back the card. “Do you have a different one you’d like to use?” He was certain she had half a dozen credit cards to choose from.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “No. None of them will work,” she said softly, disbelief etching her beautiful features. “He really did it. My father completely cut me off,” she mumbled in resignation.

Before he could process that interesting statement, she swayed on her chair, and Clay instinctively reached across the bar to grab her arms before she fell off her seat and ended up on the floor on her ass. She clutched his forearms as she tilted to the side again.

“The room is starting to spin.” Her eyes squinted in a frown as she tried to focus on him. “And you look…a little fuzzy.”

Oh, yeah, the cupcake was drunk. He no longer cared about her bill, but he needed to figure out what to do with her. “Samantha, I need your cell phone so I can call someone to pick you up.”