Some women are smart, some women are hot. Some are funny, others seductive. But some women are just…something else entirely. They’re part of a rare breed of women, the kind that knock the air out of your lungs the moment your eyes meet theirs.

And one of those women has just walked into my bar.

Elegant strut, tight-fitting dress, and the kind of face capable of turning a cold-blooded asshole into a romantic wimp.

“Brad,” I say, offering her my hand. Hesitantly, she reaches for it and shakes it.

“Sam,” she tells me, the sound of her voice so sweet that I can’t help but imagine how she’d sound like moaning out my name.

What? It’s not my fault I have an active imagination. Besides, sex isn’t dirty and taboo anymore, right? Yeah, we’re not in the 19th century anymore—and thank god for that.

“So, who did exactly bail on you?”

“Why do you say that?” she asks me, and I can tell by her guarded tone she’s not used to being approached by men.

Which is weird—she’s a beautiful woman and, more than that, she’s fucking hot. And that can only mean one thing…this girl doesn’t go out that much. Like I said: a rare breed of women, that much is for sure.

“Well, you have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“That one,” I laugh, pointing at her surprised face. I take the chance to take a mental picture of her cherry red lips, and my heart skips a beat as I imagine how they must taste.

“Alright,” she laughs back, slowly loosening up. “I was supposed to meet here with friends, but I guess they went somewhere else.”

“Well, their loss, ain’t it? Why would anyone choose to go somewhere else when they could come to the best jazz club in town?”

“The best jazz club in town?”

“You bet,” I nod.

“You’re too protective of this place for a bartender,” she comments, and I can’t help but laugh again.

“What? Can’t bartenders be protective of their place of work? But, anyway, I’m not just a bartender. I own the place,” I tell her.

Does it sound like I’m bragging? Because I’m not. It’s just a fact of life—I worked fucking hard to get this place up and running, and if I have the chance to tell a beautiful woman like this one that I own it…well, you better be sure that I’m gonna use it. If it sounds like bragging, I don’t give a fuck.

“Oh. That’s nice…I suppose.”

“You’re not that good at making conversation, are you?”

“Not really,” she laughs, that voice doing something to me.

Fuck, is my heart rate going up? Chill the fuck out, Brad, I tell myself, doing my best to keep my cock under control.

“I noticed. Here.” I push a glass across the counter and, grabbing a whiskey bottle from the shelf behind me, I pour her some.

“Oh, I don’t like—”

“Yes, you do. You’ll like this one,” I insist, pouring something for me as well.

Yeah, I just grabbed the most fucking expensive bottle I have around. But so what? It’s not like women like this walk inside my bar everyday.

Besides, what’s the point in owning a bar if you can’t splurge every now and then?

Slowly, she takes the glass to her lips, then drinks a little.

“Ugh,” she groans, looking like she just drank oil mixed with sand.

“C’mon!” I laugh, taking the whiskey out of her hands and replacing it with a sweet strawberry liqueur. “You disappoint me.”

“Much better.” She smiles, taking a sip out of the liquor. Her eyes never leave mine as she drinks it, and I can’t help but wonder about the woman right in front of me.

“What’s your story?”

“My story? There’s not much to tell. I work at the hospital, and…well, that’s it.”

“Jesus, what an interesting life you lead,” I tell her, leaning over the counter.

Our fingers brush for a moment and, right before she pulls her hand back, I feel electricity crackling under my skin. I don’t know what it is about her, but I feel drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

“Let me guess—you’re a doctor.”

“Yeah. Surgeon.”

“Oh. No wonder you don’t have a life. But I get it—it wasn’t exactly easy, setting this place up, you know?” I tell her, waving my hand at the large room we’re in. “For the first five years I was in business, I think I was actually living under this counter,” I continue, slapping my hand against the polished wood counter while I smile at her.

“So, a workaholic like me?” she asks me, the shape of a bright smile on her lips.

Fucking hell, I’m actually struggling right now—all I want is reach across the counter, pull her into me, and crush my mouth on hers.

“Nah, not a workaholic. I like to think of myself as driven.”

“Makes two of us then,” she agrees, and I start noticing her slowly opening up to me.

She’s not the most social of women, that much I’ve realized, but still…being around her feels like sitting in front of a fireplace during winter: you just can’t move away.

“Boyfriend? Husband?” I ask her, and I immediately feel like a fucking tool.

Am I seriously asking her these lame-ass questions? Seriously, what’s wrong with me? I’m used to pulling tail easily, but it seems that Dr. Beautiful has somehow reigned in my inner Casanova.

“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes still locked on mine. For a couple of seconds, we remain in silence, simply staring into each other’s eyes. The temperature in the room rises, my heart picks up the pace, and I feel my cock coming to life between my legs.

Before I can stop myself, nine dangerous words leave my lips.

“What do you say we get out of here?”