“What’ll it be, baby?”
Lara started. She’d finally muscled her way onto a bar stool, but she’d spent the last couple of minutes alternately scanning the establishment and its customers, or ogling the bartender’s hellacious butt -- the kind of taut, primo male ass that could give a woman wet dreams for a month.
Now he was in front of her, rag slung over his shoulder as he scooped a pile of cash from the counter, the timbre of his deep voice and the tone of that “baby” sending zippy buzzes of electricity up her spine -- and lower. Lara’s mouth went dry.
“One of those.”
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