From the Inside Flap
Clay Kincaid took one look at the woman sitting at the far endof the bar and immediately pegged her as a cupcake--a term one of his femalebartenders had coined for a lightweight drinker who couldn't handle her liquor.Which seemed to be the case with the stunning blonde beauty who was studyingthe empty shot glass in front of her.
Then again, she could have been a cupcakefor a whole other reason. She looked rich, sweet, and decadent, like the kindof irresistible gourmet treats he'd stared longingly at as a little boy fromthe outside of a bakery shop in town. He'd never had the chance to sample anyof those sweets, but even now, at thirty-two, he could still remember the wayhis mouth would water for a taste, and how his always empty stomach wouldgrumble and ache--until the shop owner chased him away because she didn't want alow-life Kincaid, and the bastard child of a crack whore, to keep her customersfrom entering her upscale bakery.
This female version of a cupcake was just as tempting, andhis wicked thoughts turned to taking a delicious bite out of her to see if shewas as sugary as she looked, followed by licking her soft, creamy skin anddefiling that perfect pink mouth and curvy body designed for pleasure and sin.
His dick twitched at the fantasy playing through his mind,but that's all it would be. A filthy fantasy. The woman clearly wasn't from thearea. With that silky, shiny hair, her flawless complexion, and the strand ofshimmering pearls around her neck, she screamed upper class and wealth. Therest of her attire--a pale pink silk blouse and cream-colored slacks--was also adirect contrast to the casual jean-and-T-shirt atmosphere of Kincaid's.
He moved behind the bar, where Tara, his last bartender ofthe evening, was mixing a drink. At ten forty-five p.m. on a Sunday night, she'djust announced last call, which was what had brought Clay out of his backoffice, to relieve Tara of her post by eleven. Since it was the slowest nightof the week and Kincaid's was usually empty by ten after the hour, he didn'tmind closing up the place by himself.
"Who's the cupcake at the end of the bar?" Clay asked Tarain a low tone of voice.
"I have no idea," Tara said with a shrug as she poured halfan ounce of Kahlua into a shot glass. "I've never seen her here before."
Leaning a hip against the low counter, Clay let his gazestray back to the blonde, who had her chin propped in her hand. Her entire bodywas relaxed, and even from the other end of the bar, he recognized the glassy,dazed look in her eyes that indicated she was well on her way to being drunk.
"Did she arrive with anyone?" he asked curiously.
Tara added an equal amount of Bailey's to the shot glass."Nope. She came in alone."
"Is she lost?" It was the only thing that made sense to him.
"I don't think so," Tara replied, her mouth quirking with agrin as she topped the drink off with a generous amount of whip cream. "Sheslid onto that barstool, told me she wanted the dirtiest-named drink on themenu, so I served her a Royal Fuck. She downed the shot in one gulp and orderedtwo more, then told me to keep them coming, the stronger and the dirtier, thebetter. After three Royal Fucks, she's gone through a Screaming Orgasm, a Slow,Comfortable Screw, and a Blow Job. She's following that up with a Deep Throat,"she said, lifting the sexually explicit drink she'd just made.
Clay couldn't help the amused laughter that escaped him.Damn. So, the cupcake had a bit of a naughty streak hidden beneath thataffluent facade. And he had to admit, he was intrigued and wondered what hadbrought her to a rougher side of the city, when someone like her should havebeen sipping Cosmopolitans with her socialite friends in a safe, trendy loungeoff of Lakeshore Drive.