“You need a casual fuck,” Rhiannon says. She hands me a drink. “It’ll fix everything. Trust me. I know one of the guys who owns this bar. One of his brothers will apparently deliver exactly what you need. My friend Trista said it was like nine, ten inches at least. And he knows how to use his tongue.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I guess. Isn’t that like — too big?” I blush, cheeks hot and red. He looked at me. I could swear it.

I should be home re-reading Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban. Or listening to that podcast I downloaded. Pouring myself one, measured glass of chardonnay. I could put it together with that fig and honey cheese I got from the farmer’s market.

That’s my life — measured, boring, reliable, predictable. My own mother said I needed a little bit of adventure in my life. But adventure seems dangerous. My heart hurts when I think of any kind of adventure, stomach dropping. I’m not good at that stuff. Not redheaded or talkative, or much of anything at all.

“In my personal experience, that’s juuuust right,” Rhiannon says. “Trust me. I know you’ve only slept with Charlie, and by the look of his truck, he was definitely covering up for something. You need a walk on the wild side. This guy is an ex-con, and now he owns a bar. He’s the kind you won’t see again, so it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the glorious size of his reputation.”

I blush even harder, though I don’t believe that’s humanly possible. The redness extends all the way to my ears, like my own body is trying to prove to everyone in the bar how lame I actually am.

“Ha. Yeah,” I choke out. It seems like the kind of noncommittal response Rhiannon would give. “Size of his reputation. I get it. That’s funny.”

My dearest friend in the world has no idea I’m a virgin. You’d think Charlie would have taken the opportunity to finally fuck me in the six years we were together, but he didn’t. He was always way too focused on Jesus. He wanted us both to wait. He made me wait all this time, and where did that get me? Nowhere. I just turned twenty-three, and I’m still a virgin. In every way. I’ve only ever been kissed.

The mere mention of a cock that big — it makes me quiver with fear. But it also makes me feel empty inside, and intensely excited in a way that I haven’t been before. I take two giant gulps of the Cosmo Rhiannon got for me, and I choke and sputter. Too much at once.

Much like a dick that’s too big? I wouldn’t know.

I always thought about it a lot. Sex. Then I met Charlie, and I thought he was the one. Pretty stupid idea. Rhiannon might be right. I might need a casual fuck, as she says. But it terrifies me. What would it even feel like to have a man touch my body? To have him inside of me?

I shiver. Maybe not tonight. Another time.

Pretty ridiculous for a girl who always wanted to be a romance author. I always liked the parts with the sex. My mom’s old Harlequins were dogeared and cracked on the seams. There were a few that opened right up to the good parts — the pirate capturing the maiden, taking her down to the hold for the first time, her dress ripped, exposing one fair, virgin shoulder.

It was romantic in those books to be a virgin. A maiden. Maidens are sexy. Virgins are lame.

For a grown-ass woman in the publishing business, it’s just pitiful. And hilarious, if I’m looking at it on a good day.

“You look smoking hot, Skye. That bad boy is here for you. Like a gift from God. He’ll show you how it’s done. I’m sure Charlie had no idea.”

“Oh, you’re right. He had literally no idea at all.”

I look around and sip my drink, slower this time. The guys here are hot. They’re all bad boys. They’ll give me a good time, pay for my drinks, and fuck me silly until morning. And what’s more, they won’t expect me to come back around. I try psyching myself up.

That one guy, the one behind the bar, he looks at me again. A chill runs down my spine.

“Trust me. You’ll definitely find what you’re looking for here. That outfit looks fierce as shit.”

“I’m… passable.” I’m wearing a shirt that’s far too low cut, a skirt that’s far too short, and a thong that Rhiannon made me buy at Target. It feels weird. Not just the thong; the whole outfit she dug out of her closet and forced onto my body. She shoves me up to the bar and flags down a second drink. She’s like that — always easygoing with her personality, with her body.

I usually end up watching people from a corner and taking notes on their names and body language on my phone. I do it for myself — for the novels I’d like to write someday. And for my boss, Mariella Davidson, the famous romance author who writes about exactly this type of guy. I told Rhiannon that this bar would be good research — but I told her that when we were a bottle of wine into our pre-gaming, back at her apartment. I’m feeling way too sober to be here right now. Low lights, the smell of beer and old smoke, alpha male types laughing way too loud and talking over one another. And girls, every one of them taller, thinner, and more charismatic than I am.

Rhiannon shoves another drink in my hand, and I sip it tentatively, like it might bite me. Like everything in here might. This one is clear, and much stronger.

“You look way more than passable. I keep telling you, guys like boobs. And you’ve got them. And an ass like Beyoncé,” Rhiannon says. “Well maybe not quite like her, but you know what I mean. It’s really good. It’s a real nice ass.”

I laugh. “I don’t think Beyoncé would like that comparison.”

“She would. I promise you that.” Rhiannon points at me, tottering from side to side a bit.

Clearly, Rhiannon is not feeling her sobriety. I laugh and try the drink again. “You’re full of shit. But I’ll take the compliment. I kinda doubt that guy is going to notice me though. It seemed like a good idea back at your place — ”

“The Dougherty brothers own this place. I know Finn. And his brother — the one I was telling you about — he’s the guy. Ten inch cock. Or nine, whatever.” Rhiannon shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “And with you, looking like you do — you could pull him into the bathroom, just like that.”

I cringe. “The bathroom? Isn’t that a little…”

“You’re right. It’s gross. But you need to get laid. It’s been forever, right? This is the place to do it. And it’s your research. For science.” Rhiannon looks at me and winks. She pulls off the whole sex kitten thing really well, even though she’s an overworked social worker by day. She polishes off the last of her vodka tonic and clinks the ice in the glass, signaling the bartender again.

“Oh yeah, research.” I look down at my drink. Is it straight vodka? What the hell did she order for me?

“You’re a romance author. This type of thing should be part of the job!” She laughs, loud. Too loud.

Nervously, I look around to see if anyone heard Rhiannon. If that guy heard her. The one with the bedroom eyes, like they say in the old Harlequin romance novels. When she’s drinking, her voice gets twice as loud and an entire octave higher.

“Oh God, no. I’m not an author at all.” I groan. “I assist Mariella. That’s all I do. She’s the romance author. I’m just the intern. Barely paid. I get coffee. I look over proofs. I get her marketing and interviews and all that shit. That’s not called being an author. It’s called being an English major with no direction in life. But I will take down some notes and get a list of good names. I like doing that kind of thing. And I’m good at it. Maybe that’s the best thing I can hope for tonight.”

Rhiannon rolls her eyes and tries to get a few more drops of vodka out of the bottom of her drink. “You want to write like her. That’s what you said. And this is the place to get laid, get the juices flowing. It’s all in the name of research. For science. It’s bad boy central. And this is the best place to learn your trade.” She gestures broadly to all the bar, and I catch her hand, bringing it quickly back to her side.

“Rhiannon, come on.” Researching bad boys and hooking up with strangers had seemed like great ideas when we were drinking wine at her apartment an hour ago. But now — it seems sort of terrifying even if it’s exciting, too.

“We came here for bad boys. So, you need to actually start talking to boys. One in particular, I think. His name is Ian or something. Something Irish. You need to talk to him. So, you can, you know — ” Rhiannon makes an obscene gesture with her fingers, and I bury my face in my hands. “Seriously — it’s been — how long?”

It’s been never. And yes, I get it, I’m pathetic. Especially if I want to be a writer someday.

“Six months or so. I guess. That’s how long it’s been.” I take another long swig. It burns my throat. The way this conversation is going, I decide to finish it off, hoping to get some of the buzz back that I lost when we came in. With Rhiannon, drunk-yelling about my sex life, I’ll definitely need something more than a buzz. The drink is gone now, and I’m still about to jump out of my skin.

Rhiannon clinks her glass against the bar again, and finally, the bartender takes a step closer. A shadow falls across him, obscuring his body. But even from here, it strikes me — he’s the kind of man that could be an adventure, a major life event. The kind Mariella might write about if she weren’t so in love with billionaires at the moment. It’s like he materialized straight from one of the covers of her books.

“Another one for her too!” Rhiannon shouts at him. “She’s thirsty. For vodka. Or whatever. And men. Definitely men.”

The bartender steps into the light, laughing and polishing a glass instead of focusing on the growing crowd and line of customers. He nods to another man behind him, who starts taking orders. He takes a step closer to us, and my heart catches in my throat for a second. I had that tingling sensation before when he caught my eye, but as he approaches, I see what Rhiannon was talking about. This is the kind of guy who would be called a legend in my high school. He’s a swaggering, muscle-filled, chiseled masterpiece. It might be the alcohol, but this guy — he takes my breath away. I close my eyes for a second and imagine him as the pirate, the one who took the maiden down below deck.

I open my eyes again. He’s still there. Looking at me, harder than he did before.

Rhiannon taps on the bar again, gesturing at him wildly.

I hope he doesn’t walk over here. I hope he does.

Fuck.

Not that I’m into that sort of thing beyond the research I’m doing or the novels I like to read. Or that I even really know what that sort of thing is like. Hazel eyes, beneath dark eyebrows, flash in our direction. When he smiles, it sends another tiny shiver down to the base of my spine. But I’ve known guys like him — all talk and flashy watches, black t-shirts, and pick-up basketball. Not the type that gives a second glance my way.

He did glance at me before. But that was probably a trick of the light.

“What do you ladies want? I can’t come down there just to wait on a couple of pretty girls. I have responsibilities. Customers.” He takes a step toward us, his voice steady and deep. There’s a slight rasp to it, like he’s been talking all night. When he comes closer, I can see the faintest hint of dark stubble. Beneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt — or is it dark gray? — I can see the beginning of a multi-colored tattoo. His eyes catch mine for a moment, and he gets a beer from the tap for himself. When he drinks it, the tiniest bit of foam clings to his upper lip. Even from here, ten feet away, I can see the fullness of his lips, the square jawline, the hooded intensity of his eyes.

“Two vodka tonics. Heavy on the vodka,” Rhiannon says.

The man shrugs and pulls down two glasses. His movements are languid, like he’s comfortable in his own skin. I might be imagining it, but he looks our way again while he’s pouring the drinks. And not at Rhiannon. At me, again. I try to take my eyes off him, but I can’t. It’s probably the alcohol. And all the talk about this guy and his cock.

Oh my god. I wonder what it looks like. What it feels like. Shit.

Rhiannon leans down toward me and whispers in a voice that the three people closest to us can probably hear it. “Skye. You have to hook up with him. He was looking at you. He looks like he could throw you over his shoulder like a caveman. God, he’s even better in person. And get you out of your slump.”

“No. No — definitely not. He’s not the type of guy who looks at me.” When I look up, the man is looking at me. Smiling, one corner of his lip turned up. That smile reaches his eyes and stays there, sparkling. He gives me a quick wink and finishes making the drinks.

Rhiannon shrugs. “Hurry up! My friend here wants her vodka tonic, and she wants your number. Or at least your name! It’s Ian or something, isn’t it?”

The guy shakes his head and laughs.

At that, I nearly melt into the floor. But the guy — he walks over.

He places the drink in front of me. I expect his eyes to cut over to Rhiannon, but they don’t. He stays focused on me, instead. I take the drink and take a long swig. The buzz is hitting me hard now, but my mouth is dry, the words suddenly vanished. I look over for help, but Rhiannon is already talking to some other guy. “I, um, thank you for the drink.”

The guy smiles again. “Liam,” he says. “Not Ian.”

“Nice to meet you, Not Ian.” I try to sound cool, but inside, my core is on fire with a feeling I don’t quite recognize.

“I usually go by Liam,” he responds, smiling brighter. Full of teeth. “I thought that’s what you wanted. My name. Or is there something else you’re interested in?”

I take another long sip, and the alcohol pulses through my veins, warming me. Making me bolder. Which is something I’m definitely not — bold.

“Liam. That’s good. I collect names, actually. That’s a good one.” The veins in my temples pulse, and a lump forms in my throat. That was an idiotic thing to say, and it makes me sound like a serial killer collecting trophies. I clear my throat. “I mean, for my job. It’s my job to write interesting things down. For my boss.” I lift the drink in his direction in a fake toast.

“Yeah? What do you do? Write phonebooks or something?” His accent is pure New York. “No. Let me guess, you’re a librarian. Something about you looks like… a sexy little librarian.”

I swallow hard. Sexy. Shit. I gather myself together.

“Books, yeah. But not phone books. And I’m not the one writing them. My boss does. I go out and do research. Help her get proofs together.” Anxiety surges in my body, and I try to tamp it down with more vodka.

He shrugs, like he has this effect on women all the time. “Yeah? What does she write?” He studies me for a second, taking another sip of his beer. “Let me guess. Historical fiction? Fantasy? Some of that young adult stuff? The next Harry Potter? Or some Hunger Games shit? I liked that one.”

“First of all — no. She writes romance.” I try to keep my face calm when I say this because it’s ever so slightly embarrassing. “And second of all, I can’t see you kicking back with a young adult novel.”

“There are lots of things you might not know about me, librarian. I’m totally hashtag team Gale. Peeta’s a pussy.”

“He is not! He’s sweet!” I find myself laughing in spite of myself. “And you just said hashtag out loud.”

“The more important topic here,” he says, laughing. “Is whether those romances you write are clean. Or are they — ” He leans in closer to me. “Dirty?”

I’m glad the alcohol is kicking in because I would not be able to handle this otherwise. “My boss writes them. I don’t yet. I haven’t given anything but short stories a try.”

“Clean?” he asks again. “Or dirty? I mean, if you were going to write one, would it have fucking? That’s all I’m asking. A romance novel is nothing without fucking.”

I make a slight strangled sound in my throat. “I guess I’d write something on the dirtier side.” A hint of warmth begins between my legs. This guy is good. Charming. He’s even got me talking.

“What’s your name, anyway? I want to know it so — well, I got plans for your name.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” I say. “But it’s Skye. Skye Williams. And what are these plans you have?”

He leans forward slightly, but he still talks loud enough that anyone in the bar could hear him, if they were listening. “I want to know what to call you when I get you on your knees in front of me later tonight.”

I freeze. Shit, shit, shit. Oh my God. This is a thing that could happen.

“I think Rhiannon might want to go home…” My voice trails off. “I — I might need to go home.”

No, you’re not going home. You might actually have a chance with this guy. If you stop saying stupid shit.

“Your friend?” He gestures to Rhiannon, who’s dancing now. “She’s having a good time all by herself. No reason you shouldn’t have a good time too.”

“I came here to do, um, research. Not really to go home with anyone.”

Shit. No. He’s going to ask —

“One — you don’t need to go anywhere else to go home with me. And two — what’s the research on? I’m very curious.” He lifts an eyebrow.

“The, um. This part of town. And the bar. The people here.” I smack my lips together. Another nervous tick. “Yep. This part of town, and the people who — well, own it.”

Men like you. You, in particular. Apparently.

“The Irish families,” he says. “That’s us. That’s me, I mean. The Doughertys. They own this area, and the more violent ones are still trying to stir up trouble every once in a while. I’m not in the life anymore because of certain responsibilities — ” He stops for a second. “Because I don’t need to get back in trouble. I’m co-owner of this bar, and I’ll leave the other shit to my family. Back to the issue at hand. You going upstairs with me. My shift is about to end.”

Several girls look over our way, and I’m pretty sure they’re glaring daggers at me. Liam is talking loud now, and he’s leaning over the bar, his broad chest poised over his elbows. I can see the tattoo. It’s an elaborate Celtic cross. I don’t ask, but I’m betting it’s part of the whole family thing. From the scars on his arms, and the one fading on his jaw, I can guess Liam wasn’t always just the co-owner of a bar.

He’s not your type. Not at all.

It occurs to me in that moment that maybe no one is, or was, my type. And maybe this guy standing right in front of me, the one very obviously flirting with me, he could be the type for one night, anyway. Then it wouldn’t matter that I’m saying stupid, meaningless bullshit.

“I’m not very experienced,” I blurt out. “I don’t do stuff like this. Rhiannon got me out to try something new, I guess. And I mean, I really don’t want to waste your time. I had a bad relationship, and that’s it. That’s the beginning and end of my experience.” I look down.

His eyebrow raises. “Oh really? I like the sound of that. Because I have plenty of experience. And I could be an inspiration for your research.” He leans over and touches my hand, sending a shock to my core. “I can be very inspiring.”

Rhiannon catches this bit of our conversation, and she looks over, giving me a big, exaggerated thumbs-up.

“I’m sure you can… but I’m not exactly your type. I don’t think.” I chew on my lip.

Liam looks at me. Holds my gaze. Waits for me to continue. His eyes move down to my breasts, unabashed.

What do I want? Do I want a one-night stand? A few sentences, a hot evening, no goodbyes? Or do I want him to leave me alone?

“When I say I’m not experienced, I mean I’m really not experienced.” I’m just digging myself deeper and deeper. I make a move to slink away from the bar and pretend that none of this ever happened, but Liam catches my hand again, fingertips linking with mine.

“Wait.” He smiles, and then he laughs again, rich, and dark. It stirs up something inside of me, like I want to leap across the bar and run my fingers through his hair. Examine his tattoo in detail. See if I could rip his shirt in half with my bare hands. Charlie didn’t give me that feeling. Not ever. Which could explain a lot.

“I don’t usually talk to guys like you,” I blurt out. My heart starts beating fast. I remember the last time I was with Charlie. It was dark and horrible and awkward. I’d wanted to so badly — and he hadn’t wanted any part of me. And with Liam, with someone I don’t even know, it would be seventy times worse. “Not ever, really. I’m stumbling over my words here. I should go. This — ” I gesture between the two of us. “Isn’t going to go well.” Because you’re scorching hot and totally fine. And I have no business talking to you. The thought hangs there in the air.

“Who says? And I don’t know if I should take offense to the whole ‘guys like me’ thing, but I won’t. Like I said, there’s plenty to me you don’t know. Maybe you’d like to. Who knows?”

His smile. Infectious. Addicting. I need to see it again.

“I mean, like. Bad boys. Guys like you. With a past. And — ” I look around. “At least six other girls staring at you.”

He laughs aloud. “So, you’ve heard about me?”

“I can guess. And yes. A little.” Nine inches, ten inches. At least. I finish the drink. Was it three drinks? Four? I’ve said just about every embarrassing thing I know how to say, and this guy is still talking to me. Still flirting with me, for fuck’s sake.

“You can guess, huh? That means you’ve been thinking about what I can do for you.” He leans closer, eyes sparkling. He leans in close and whispers. “I’d like to see you come, Skye Williams. On my fingers. On my tongue. On my cock. Not necessarily in that order. I do take requests.”

I almost faint. “Did you — this is a little fast. Did my friend say something to you?” The alcohol rocks through my body. I’m bold. I feel like I should. Heat is pooling between my legs. I feel my body in a different way than I have before.

“No,” he says. “You looked out of place when you walked into this bar.” Liam looks at his watch. I imagine getting in bed with him, letting it happen, never seeing him again. It’s appealing. The next sip of my drink makes it even more attractive. “And I’m sick of the girls around here.” He puts a finger to my chin, tilts my head up like men do to women in the movies. “Maybe I need a little forgetting, too. An escape. A release. A fix.”

“I don’t do this sort of thing.”

“That’s exactly why you should. Gotta have material to actually write a book, don’t you?” He leans in, kisses me. Powerful and warm. Rhiannon waves at me and gives me a big grin.

I melt. And I follow him upstairs.