“Four Roses on the rocks,” said the man at the wooden-topped bar.
Bren pulled the embossed bottle from behind the counter, grabbed a weighted glass and added five square cubes of ice. The fragrant whiskey followed.
The stranger lifted the amber liquid to his lips and took a slow sip. Bren watched him carefully set the glass down and let out a long sigh. His full lips glistened with a remnant of the drink. As she imagined kissing those wet, moist lips she felt the deep rise of lust, passion and longing between her legs. Bren almost dropped the bottle. It had been months since she felt the stirrings of desire.
The man looked up and met her steady gaze. Bren’s eyes were the exact color of a lake a twilight. He imagined what those lavender-blue jewels would look like pinned under him in a cloud of crisp white sheets. The vibration in his pocket broke his focus and train of thought.
The meeting has been moved to 11 a.m.
Interesting. He could have a long morning in bed if he chose.