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A Bartender’s Wild Erotic Odyssey
- Prologue: The Last Pour
The Crimson Lantern had finally fallen quiet, its velvet hush broken only by the low creak of settling wood and the faint drip of a faucet Ava had forgotten to tighten. She moved behind the bar with deliberate slowness, the damp cloth sliding over scarred oak still warm from the press of countless elbows and spilled drinks. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of aged whiskey, citrus peel, and the lingering trace of expensive cologne from the evening’s last patrons. Her black silk blouse clung to the small of her back, damp with exertion, the fabric whispering against her skin with every reach.
Ava Sinclair paused, forearms braced on the bar, and let her eyes drift across the empty room. Six months had passed since the breakup—since the man who once claimed to love her had slowly eroded every sharp, hungry edge of her desire until she felt like a ghost behind her own skin. No more. Tonight the decision crystallized inside her chest, heavy and sweet as honeyed bourbon.
She reached beneath the counter and drew out the new leather journal, its cover supple and cool beneath her fingertips. The pages parted with a soft sigh. In her neat, slanted hand she wrote:
Tonight, I begin taking what I want.
The nib scratched satisfyingly across the paper. She capped the pen, set the journal aside, and straightened.
A sharp knock sounded against the front glass door.
Ava’s pulse kicked. Through the etched glass she saw him—Damien Voss—shoulders broad beneath his tailored coat, rain glistening on dark hair. The arrogant tech founder who always ordered an Old Fashioned and watched her with eyes that promised ruin. She had served him for months. Tonight she would not serve.
She crossed the room, heels clicking, and turned the lock. The door swung open on a breath of cold night air that rushed against her heated skin. Damien stepped inside, bringing the scent of rain and warm male. Before he could speak, Ava pushed the door shut behind him and turned the bolt again with a decisive click.
“No small talk,” she said, voice low.
Damien’s mouth curved. “Good.”
She took his hand—large, warm, slightly rough at the palm—and led him back behind the bar. There, under the low amber glow of the pendant lights, she turned and let him crowd her…