2. Ash
Ash
Iwas no better than a man.
I leaned against the counter and drank my ale. It was strong enough to dull the exhaustion of being on the road, but I lost interest in the taste the second I saw the bartender’s face.
She moved behind the bar like she knew exactly who was watching and didn’t mind it in the slightest. She had dark hair pulled loosely back, sleeves rolled just enough to show toned forearms, and a confidence in the way she set down glasses that felt intentional.
And when she bent to reach something beneath the counter—
I exhaled quietly, dragging my attention over the curve of her hips before lifting my drink again, mostly so I had something to do with my hands.
“See something you like?” I glanced up to find her leaning against the bar opposite me, one brow slightly raised, amusement already playing at the corner of her mouth.
“Depends,” I countered, tilting my head as I let my eyes drift over her.
She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head as she reached for a cloth to wipe down the counter. I hid a smile at the unnecessary effort, considering she had already wiped the wood down just a few minutes prior, and I was still the only one sitting there.
“You’ll have to start paying extra if you keep looking like that.”
“Looking like what?” I asked.
“Like you’re about to cause trouble.”
I took another sip, letting the silence stretch. “Maybe I just like to have fun.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine. “And what kind of fun would that be?”
“The kind that gets me another drink,” I replied, sliding my empty cup an inch closer to her. “Or at least a name?”
She paused, considering, then leaned in as she refilled the mug, her voice dropping. “Are you staying long enough to make it worth telling you?”
“That depends on whether you plan on making it hard to leave.”
She laughed.
The tavern around us buzzed with low conversation, boots scraping against the floor, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. It was Mostly men stopping in for a drink before heading home, paying us little mind. Which suited me just fine.
I hadn’t even meant to stop here. I couldn’t have told you the name of the place if you asked.
This was the first tavern I had seen after settling my horse.
Thistlebrook was small and tucked along the base of the mountains, built on coal and soil and whatever stubbornness it took to live this far north.
I might have passed through once before. Maybe. But it didn’t matter. Right now, the only thing in this town worth remembering was the woman standing across the bar from me, watching me like she hadn’t quite decided if I was an amusement or a problem.
I lifted my drink in her direction. “Still waiting on that name.”
She leaned her weight onto one hand, studying me for another beat. A hint of a smile returned to her lips. “Buy another round, and maybe you’ll get it.”
Somewhere behind me, voices rose, men slipping from drink into argument.
She turned to pour another ale for a waiting customer, and my attention followed the line of her arm as she moved.
She had the kind of strength earned from work, not vanity.
I let my gaze linger longer than necessary, tracing the flex of muscle beneath her skin and wondering how much there was to see.
By the time I finished my drink, another appeared in front of me. I smirked. “Are you always this generous, or am I special?”
“Boldness gets you a second drink. What you do next decides if you’re special.”
I tapped my fingers against the rim of the fresh glass. “In that case, you might want to clear your schedule.”
Behind me, the argument escalated—chairs scraping, voices rising louder now, sharp enough to cut through the hum of the tavern.
She didn’t even flinch. “Give it a moment,” she muttered, reaching for another glass.
CRASH.
Something or someone hit the floor hard enough to rattle the room.
I glanced over my shoulder, catching the tail end of a man sprawled on the floor, another looming over him with his fists clenched. I took a sip of my drink before turning back.
“That one had it coming.”
Her laugh was soft this time.
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “So, how long do I have to stay and behave before you tell me your name?”
She met my gaze, considering. “Ten minutes.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s when I’m done here.”
Ah. Now that was interesting.
“And after?”
She held my gaze, a new warmth slipping into her expression. “Are you still planning on having fun?”
I pushed off the bar, grabbing my drink and knocking back the last of it in one go.
“Absolutely.”
Ten minutes felt longer than they should have.
Three weeks on the road had worn me thin in ways I hadn’t expected, leaving me starved for even the smallest trace of affection.
The last touch I’d known had been a blade pressed to a man’s throat and a brief, businesslike handshake when finishing the mission.
So, flirting with the bartender was unraveling me faster than the road ever could.
I waited near the back hallway, leaning against the wall as if I hadn’t been counting every second. When she finally appeared, our eyes met.
And that was enough.
The door to her room barely had time to close before I kicked it shut behind us. Hands found fabric. Breath hitched. Laughter cut off the moment our mouths met.
It wasn’t gentle, and it sure as hell wasn’t careful. It was heat and tension and everything that had been building across the tavern bar finally given somewhere to go. We stumbled back together, tangling into the sheets, my grin flashing between kisses as I pulled her closer.
For once, I didn’t think about the road, or the next job, or leaving—just the warmth of her skin beneath my palms and the satisfaction of knowing I had made exactly the right decision.
I focused entirely on drawing out every soft, breathy sound from her throat, cataloging the way she came undone beneath my attention—each tremor and gasp a reward I hadn’t known I was seeking.
She had beautifully round breasts, her nipples hardening into tight peaks as I circled them with my tongue, teasing until she whimpered my name.
I took my time with her, savoring the salty-sweet taste of her skin, the way her breath hitched when I grazed my teeth along the sensitive flesh.
She was so warm when I slipped my fingers inside her, her body welcoming me with a slick heat that made me groan against her inner thigh.
Tight and responsive, she clenched around my fingers as I worked them deeper, curling to find that spot that made her back bow off the bed.
When I replaced my fingers with my tongue, diving into her with slow, deliberate strokes, she sang so prettily for me, starting with breathless pleas that dissolved into wordless cries.
I held her hips steady as she tried to writhe away from the intensity, keeping her exactly where I wanted her, open and vulnerable beneath my mouth.
The taste of her arousal flooded my senses, and I lost myself in the way her thighs trembled against my shoulders.
There was nothing I enjoyed more than loving women and worshipping their bodies the way they deserved.
I’d always been drawn to women, even when I was younger, all bones and restless energy, fumbling through my first encounters with more enthusiasm than skill.
Now, my body was no longer painfully scrawny but honed into a quick and capable machine, shaped by the demands of my business into lean muscle and controlled strength.
But it was making a woman come undone before me that drew my interest like nothing else.
Bringing them right to the edge of desire and keeping them suspended there until they begged was intoxicating.
Watching that flash of euphoria wash over their features—the slight parting of their lips, the way their eyes went unfocused, their cries of pleasure echoing in my ears—made me weak in the knees.
There was power in it, yes, but also surrender.
In those moments, I gave myself over completely to the singular purpose of unraveling them thread by thread.
Good girl, I thought as she shuddered beneath me, her release crashing over her in waves.
I lapped up every drop, drawing out her climax as long as I could, my tongue working her through the aftershocks until she grew limp in my arms, her limbs drooping from exhaustion and contentment.
Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her skin in the dim light.
As I crawled up her body, pressing kisses along her stomach, between her breasts, along the column of her throat, I drew her in for another kiss. She tasted herself on my lips and moaned softly into my mouth, her fingers threading through my hair with renewed interest despite her exhaustion.
I always preferred making my lovers come at least twice—once to take the edge off, and again to show them what their bodies were truly capable of when someone paid proper attention.