You’re hit with a sting of regret as she pulls away. “There,” she says. “You’re really something, chica,” and she points at the mirror. You turn to look. Thanks to your new smoky lids, your eyes look far larger than they have any right to be. It’s a vast improvement on your own amateur efforts. You wonder if your mysterious friend is a model of some kind.
“You look like you might appreciate this. Here.” She extends a slim arm, weighted with silver bracelets, and wraps your fingers around a folded-up piece of paper. “It’s been good meeting you. I hope you’ll come,” she says as she picks up her bag and walks toward the bathroom door, her hips swinging confidently.
“Thank you for doing my eyes,” you say, a moment too late.
Once she’s gone, you unfold the paper she pressed into your hand. It’s an advertisement for an exhibition at an art gallery close by. The image is a closely cropped portrait of a woman’s face, and you realize that it’s actually her staring out, challenging you with those fabulous eyes. You run your finger over the word “Immaculata” at the bottom of the page. Is that her name? The name of the show? Is she the artist?
You slide the flyer into your handbag and step back out into the bar, but there’s no sign of her—she must have left.
You go back to your stool, a little forlorn. You feel exposed, all dressed up with no one to talk to. The gorgeous bartender is dealing with a noisy group down at the end of the bar, and the intense man you encountered earlier is still nose-to-nose with his colleague. You could stick around and have one last drink, or there’s always the option of the exhibition . . . there are sure to be canapés, at least.
If you decide to stay, have another drink, and see what happens, click here.
If you decide to check out the exhibition at the gallery, click here.
You’ve decided to stay in the bar, have another drink, and see what happens
THE ANGEL-FACED BARTENDER IS heading back your way with the Perrier you forgot you’d ordered. You thank him and type a text to Melissa telling her she owes you one for standing you up.
“Excuse me,” says a very deep voice. You look up from your phone at a massive tree of a man. He must be almost seven feet tall, and at least half that wide. He’s dressed in a black suit, and a small wire is attached to an earpiece buried in his ear.
“I’m not sure if you noticed, but the Space Cowboys are here.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the VIP area.
“They are?” you say, twirling around on your stool and craning your neck to see. The entourage must have arrived while you were in the ladies’ room, and now the VIP area is heaving. Two waitresses are heading that way with buckets of champagne, and another gorilla of a bouncer is standing guard outside the red ropes, making sure only the most important or beautiful people get in. You catch a glimpse of Jerry, the lead singer, who’s got two tall model types draped over his shoulders. He wears blondes like you would wear a jacket.
“Yup,” the bodyguard says. “Charlie asked me to come over and invite you up to the VIP area for a drink with him.”
“He did?” You’re astonished. It must be the eyes the woman in the bathroom gave you. If you ever see her again, you must remember to thank her. “He’s the drummer, right?” you ask, peering at the VIP section to see if you can spot him. Yes, there he is, sitting on a leather couch next to the guitarist, whose name you can’t remember. He catches your eye, smiles, and raises a hand.
You sit up straight and reach for your Perrier, wishing you had something stronger.
“I’m very flattered,” you say. “But you can tell Charlie from the Space Cowboys that if he wants me to join him, he can get off his butt and come down here into the real world with the peasants, and ask me himself. Not send his bodyguard to do his dirty work for him. No offense!” you quickly add to the elephant in the room.
“None taken,” says the huge man, and you think you detect a small smile at the corners of his mouth. “You do know who he is, right?”
“I don’t care if he’s Prince effing William,” you say. “Tell him if he wants me, he knows where to find me.” Then you lean past the giant, make eye contact with Charlie across the room again, smile your most evil sexy smile, and raise your glass in a toast.
“All right,” says Man-Mountain, this time with a definite smile.
You turn back to face the bar, your hands trembling slightly.
The VIP area is reflected in the mirror behind the bar, and if you turn your head a little, you can watch what’s happening. You see the bouncer return to the VIP area and lean down to whisper something in Charlie’s ear. At first he raises his eyebrows, then he looks taken aback, then he looks over at you. You act nonchalant, but you make sure you’re sitting up with your tummy sucked in. Charlie leans back and starts to laugh. Seconds later he’s up off the leather couch and your stomach does a backflip as you watch his reflection walk out of the VIP area and toward the bar. He’s coming over to you—better practice your surprised face.
Most people go for the lead singer of a group, but there’s something about the drummer that always gets you. Maybe it’s because they tend to be such bad boys. Charlie has longish hair that falls in a jagged fringe over one eye. He’s tall and lean, his arms laced with tattoos. One has a single sentence scrawled down the length of it. The hairs on the back of your neck do the Wave as you imagine trailing a finger over the letters.
“Hi,” he says, leaning back against the bar next to you. He puts his hand out. “Nice to meet you. I’m Prince fucking William.”
You had planned on playing it cool, but you can’t help yourself—you burst out laughing. You shake his hand, aware of your damp palm. Your fingers are swallowed by his. “Your hands are enormous!” you blurt out, then mentally kick yourself for thinking out loud.
“Ah,” he says, holding out his hands and examining them thoughtfully. “You know what they say about men with big hands, don’t you?”
You blush furiously.
“Hey now, what were you thinking, you dirty girl? I meant they make great drummers!”
“Oh, is that what they say?” With a sudden rush of courage, you reach for one of his hands, cradling it in your palms. “Seriously, you truly do have the biggest hands I’ve ever seen. Have you been in touch with Guinness World Records? And if this is your Lifeline, you’re going to be around for a really, really long time,” you say, turning one hand over and tracing the line gently with a finger.
“You should see my feet,” he says. Then he turns and surveys the bar. “So, is this what it’s like down among the peasants?”
“Welcome to the real world. It’s not often someone approaches me on behalf of someone else. It sort of took me back to junior high.”
“You’re right, it was a bit arrogant of me. How about you let me buy you a drink to make it up to you? Although I might need my hand back, just to pay, you know.”
You realize you’re still clutching his hand, and drop it like a hot coal. Your head feels light and fizzy, just like the champagne. “That would be great, thank you.”
Charlie beats out a quick rhythm on the bar counter. The young bartender approaches and tries not to do a double take when he realizes who it is: “What can I get you?”
Charlie looks down at you, his eyes flashing with mischief. “Two shots of gold tequila. With orange, not lemon.”
You’re about to protest that you’re drinking sparkling wine, not tequila, but he cocks an eyebrow at you, and you suddenly realize you’re about to drink tequila with the drummer from the Space Cowboys. He’s easily one of the hottest guys in the bar, maybe even in the country, and he has those hands, those enormous, sexy hands, and he wants to drink tequila with you. This is one of those through-the-looking-glass moments that happens once in a lifetime. When you either seize the moment and do something a little crazy, or you don’t, and possibly live to regret it.
Should you do it? You know exactly what tequila does to you, especially on top of sparkling wine—all yo
ur inhibitions fly out the window. If you go down this road, there’s probably no turning back.
At the thought of partying with him, something deep inside you clenches. You smile back at Charlie and nod ever so slightly, trying to seem composed while inside you’re sparking like a string of cheap Chinese fireworks. You wonder what happened to your Mr. Intense, the suave older guy. He couldn’t be more of a contrast to Charlie.
While you’re still wavering, the bartender pours out the shots and balances half a slice of orange on top of each glass. Charlie slides yours over to you and holds his up in a challenging toast.
If you want to drink tequila with a rock star, click here.
If you don’t want to drink tequila with a rock star, click here.
You’ve decided to drink tequila with a rock star
WHY NOT? IT’S NOT like you’re going to settle down with this guy. There’s no riding off into the sunset or white picket fence here—you see it for exactly what it is. If you play your cards right, this might be a happily-ever-after just for the night.
“Here’s to Prince fucking William,” says Charlie, clinking his shot glass against yours. You do the shot, screwing up your face as the liquor fires through your mouth and down your throat, then you suck on the orange to offset the burn of the tequila. Charlie laughs at the face you pull as he slams his own empty glass down on the bar and sucks on his orange.
“Ever do a body shot?” he asks.
You shake your head, feeling a rush of heat as the tequila makes its way through your system.
He moves a little closer. He somehow manages to exude sex from every pore—he even smells like sex, you think—sex and tequila. He stretches out an arm and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You tingle at his touch, and you can barely take your eyes off his arm—you can almost feel the heat radiating from it.
“The rules to doing a body shot are simple,” he says, leaning toward you, and there’s that knowing grin again. You’re so close you could almost kiss him. “I hold the orange in my mouth and you can put the salt wherever you want on my body, right? Then you lick the salt off me, down the shot, and bite the orange out of my mouth. Wanna do one?”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you simply nod. Your panties are instantly wet at the thought of licking his body.
“Another four tequilas, please,” Charlie says to the barman, “and this time we’re going to need some salt.”
Four? What have you gotten yourself into?
The barman pours out the shots and sets them in front of you. Charlie reaches for the saltshaker and hands it to you.
“You go first,” he says, a challenge in his eyes. “What part of my body do you want?”
You take your time looking him up and down, but this decision is an easy one: it has to be that taut, muscled drummer’s arm.
“Give me your arm,” you say. You’re impressed at how confident your voice sounds. You can feel your nipples hard and tight, brushing against the lace of your bra.
Charlie smiles his approval and reaches for a wedge of orange, clamping the skin between his perfect teeth, the flesh of the fruit protruding, waiting for you. Then he holds his left arm out to you, the one without the writing on it.
You reach for it; his skin feels hot under your fingertips. Holding his gaze, you pour a stripe of salt down his forearm. You drop your head and, without breaking eye contact, you lick the salt from his arm in a line, making your tongue as wide and flat as you can so you can taste as much of his skin as possible. Then you go back for a second lick, to make sure you didn’t miss a single grain of salt. He smells of musk and tastes like sweat.
His eyes are wide and his pupils dilate as he watches your tongue run over his arm. Then you reach for the shot and down it, and he leans toward you so that you can bite into the orange clamped between his lips. You clutch the back of his neck with your hand, pulling him close. You can feel his mouth pressing against yours as you bite into the orange.
You sit back, and he drops his huge hand onto your leg and squeezes it gently. The tequila, his closeness, his hand on your thigh, and the taste of him make your whole body quiver. Your mouth is puckering at the tartness of the orange, chasing the power of the tequila.
“My turn,” Charlie says, staring into your eyes and licking his lips. You’re so wet, if he had to touch you right now, right there, you’d probably come in seconds.
“I think I want your neck,” he says slowly, still not taking his eyes off you. You gulp as he reaches out and pushes your hair away from your shoulder, brushing your neck with his fingers. “Right here,” he says. Goose bumps explode all over your body. He leans even closer.
“I’d better lick it first,” he says, “just to make sure the salt sticks, you know?”
You nod, your skin aching for more of those strong, clever fingers. You lean your head sideways so he has as much access to your neck as possible. With one hand steadying the other side of your neck, he runs his tongue from the dip of your collarbone all the way up the side of your neck, ending just below your ear. Then he pulls back and places the orange between your teeth, ready for his mouth. He pours the salt in a line across the licked skin. Then he holds your arms gently at your sides and licks up the strip of salt, starting at the dip of your neck and shoulder once again and running his hot tongue upward, lapping the salt off your skin. If he doesn’t stop soon, it’s completely possible you’re going to come just from the feel of his tongue on your neck.
“I think I missed a spot,” he mumbles into your ear. He goes back down to the edge of your collarbone again, and then he takes small nibbling bites all the way back up your neck. You think you might pass out from the sheer pleasure of it. Satisfied that he’s licked you thoroughly, he shoots the tequila, then pulls you toward him again as he bites into the orange you’re holding in your mouth. He holds his mouth against yours, and you can taste the salt and the tequila on his lips.
Far too soon, he pulls away from you. “What do you say we go back to my hotel and find a few more interesting parts of our bodies to shoot tequila off of?” he says, slamming his empty shot glass down on the counter.
If you go back to the rock star’s hotel to do more body shots, click here.
If you decide to walk away from the rock star, click here.
You’ve chosen to go back to the rock star’s hotel suite
YOU’RE KNEELING ON THE floor on a shag rug in front of a massive rock-star-type fireplace. It’s a cliché, but it’s a delicious cliché. Only a rock star would stay in a suite like this one. It covers one entire floor of the hotel, and boasts every imaginable luxury. There is music pumping at just the right level from invisible speakers that must be housed in the ceiling as well as the walls. The track is something you don’t recognize, with a deep, smooth bass.
Charlie is kneeling in front of you. He lifts your dress up over your head in one smooth movement before you’re even fully aware of what he’s done. Then he gently pushes you back onto the shag rug, which feels soft and plush on your naked back.
“Lie still,” he orders, “this won’t hurt a bit.” His voice is husky, and you shiver as he drips tequila into your belly button. “Now, where oh where shall I put the salt?” he teases, trailing his fingers down from your belly button to the edge of the purple lacy G-string.
“First rule of body shots,” he says, snapping his fingers back just as you’re starting to enjoy them, “no hands!” Then he bends his head down and pulls the edge of your bra down gently with his teeth—it grazes past your nipple as he pulls the lace away. You suck in a breath at the roughness of his teeth, your nipple so hard and sensitive you want to wriggle, but you can’t because of the tequila pooled in your navel. Once he’s tugged your bra away from your right breast, he sticks out his tongue and glides it in a generous lap across your taut nipple. Then he reaches for a wedge of sliced orange, holding it out for you to take in your mouth.
He blows gently on your breast where he’s just licked, making your nip
ple even harder, the cool breath giving you goose bumps all over your burning body; then he pours a line of salt across the nipple, which is aching for his attention again.
Finally, just as you can barely stand to not be touched for another second, he leans in and licks the salt off your breast quickly—too quickly for your liking; you’d prefer him to stay there for a while longer—then drops his head down to your belly button. You can’t help arching your back as he sucks the tequila out of your navel, his tongue dipping into it, twirling around the edges. Then, before your body knows what’s hit it, he’s straddling the length of you on all fours, his arms on the floor on either side of your head, and he drops his mouth onto yours, hungrily devouring the orange, and you don’t know what happens to it or the rind, but it’s gone in seconds, and then he’s kissing you, and you can feel his cock hard through his jeans and against your panties, which are entirely soaked through.
You kiss frantically, furiously, your tongues entwining, full of the taste of salt and tequila. You push your hips up against his crotch, desperate for the relief of some friction. And then you wrap your naked legs around him, pushing against the hardness in his jeans. Enough of all these clothes—you really want to feel his skin against yours, so you roll him over onto his back and straddle him. Quick as a fox he reaches behind you and unsnaps your bra, freeing your breasts. But this isn’t fair: you’re almost entirely naked and he’s still wearing almost all his clothes. So you grab his wrists and push his arms up behind his head. He tries to nip at your breasts, but you want to tease him a bit, so you hold him off.
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 2