Bar Mate
Yvette Nelson swung the door behind her, leaving the coarse jokes and steam of the back of the kitchen for the loud music and swearing in the dining room. She rolled her eyes. Men were men wherever she went and all of them bored her to death.
She set a plate of nachos in front of one of her regular customers, smiled, and moved on. There were drink orders to take and busboys to hassle. No time to rest for the weary. Not that she felt tired, at least not physically. Wolf-shifters could go for days without sleeping. She bit her lip to keep from scowling as she narrowly avoided a collision with a drunk trying to get to the bathroom. Maybe the time has come to leave this job .
Tingles on her spine told her someone stared hard at her. Eyes bore into the back of her head and she turned, expecting to be yelled at by a customer feeling neglected. Instead, across the dimly lit room she saw the most intense green eyes on the hottest human she’d viewed in a long time. Blond hair fell around his shoulders, green eyes—oh yes, she wanted to fuck him, rub against him, mark him with her scent.
Pretending to rub her nose, she took a sniff of the air. She couldn’t be too careful. Too many people wanted to hurt shifters these days to prove they were big and tough by destroying what they didn’t understand. Most of her customers didn’t know the establishment consisted of shifters, all the way from the owner to the cleaning staff. Many folks thought Gunther’s just a biker bar. Yvette preferred it to stay that way.
Her sniff told her two things. The man, as she thought, had no shifter in him. Only good-old most-of-the-time, boring, human blood. He moved in his seat, and she got a look at his long legs clad in black leather. His feet, adorned in stylish, mid-calf leather boots, their sleek design only scuffed a little bit, told her they’d been a recent buy. They also weren’t cheap. Not that she cared. Money, like everything else lately, bored the hell out of her.
His black T-shirt, with white lettering that spelled out something called Morrisey’s , stuck half-tucked into his pants. The back of his chair held a leather jacket, and a motorcycle helmet stared at him from across the table.
She set her tray on the counter, her panties creaming at the sight of him. She squirmed behind the bar wanting relief for the ache already starting between her thighs. It had been a long time—too long—since she’d had that reaction to a man. She had no intention of wasting the experience. With a quick glance to Gunther, owner and tender of the bar—aptly named for him—she walked decisively toward Green Eyes across the room. Someone else waited on him, which suited her just fine. She’d decided to take a break.
“Up.” She stared down at him, extending her hand in his direction. “Come with me.”
He looked at her hand like she’d spoken a foreign language. Hell, she’d not considered he could be foreign. This could be bad.
He opened and closed his mouth before he spoke. “What?”
“Come. With. Me.” Self-confidence had never been a problem for her, but the command pushed things a little further than she usually went. Oh well, she only got one try at this crazy life. Sex with strangers might be a little slutty, but she suspected it wouldn’t be the worst thing she’d do in her life.
He stood. “Do you need help with something?”
“You checked me out from across the room.” She didn’t phrase her statement as a question.
“I did.” His cheeks reddened. Had she embarrassed him? She hoped not. She had plans for the evening that didn’t include handholding a man through meaningless sex.
“Married? Engaged? Taken? Gay?”
He smiled, stretching his arms behind him. “No.”
“Good. Then come.” She took his hand, pulling him with her. Gunther didn’t currently require his office. He hardly ever used it. All of his attention lately, had been focused on getting his finally-on-board mate
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