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It’s my fault, really. Any other guy I would have cut off earlier, but I made at least eighty bucks off Fi
“It’s okay. I told you I didn’t bring my car,” he tries to pacify me.
“Why not? Were you worried someone would steal it?”
“Something like that,” he admits, and I can’t help but laugh. “I like how you laugh,” he adds in a sultry tone, his fixed gaze dropping to my lips, making my insides start to liquefy.
“That’s it. No more beer for you, mister,” I reply sternly, hoping it serves as an excuse for him not to say shit like that to me. I mean, a girl can only take so much.
“I like how your plump mouth opens just a tiny bit when you do it. And the sound is sexy as fuck.”
“Now I know you’re drunk, quarterback,” I play off.
“I’m not drunk,” he utters steadfastly.
“Well, you’re not making any sense either. Just pack it up for the night, pretty boy. Whatever you came here for isn’t happening tonight.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” he replies before drinking the remainder of his beer in one fell swoop and slamming the bottle on the bar. “Guess I’ll just have to take my chances tomorrow,” he adds, this time leaving a crisp hundred on the counter for me.
I pick it up and put it inside my bra, next to the other bills he’s given me tonight. Against my better judgment, I halt his step before he leaves and say, “Fi
“We’ll see.”