Chapter 2—Madison Tate

My shift at Scorched started in an hour, and I had to get things ready before the doors opened. I turned up the radio and sang along to Miranda Lambert’s ‘Fastest Girl in Town.’” Scorched only played the newest, hottest dance music, and that was okay. I liked it well enough, but I still had a soft spot for a good, upbeat, country song. I sang along, my hips twisting to the beat.

“Sonofabitch.” Steven’s voice was a low rumble behind me.

I smiled. Chances were, Steven would have one hand on his hip, the other pinching the bridge of his nose, and he’d be staring at the floor, his breathing shallow and controlled, his nostrils flaring slightly. That’s what Steven did when he was annoyed. Oddly enough, he’d done it earlier today during the staff meeting, right after I’d licked my lips. Now why would that annoy him? I slowly counted to five before turning around. Bingo! “Hi, Steven.”

“Why do you insist on listening to that crap?” he asked, releasing his nose and looking up at me.

“Someone’s a little grumpy today,” I said. Steven was always telling me I was ‘too damn happy’ all the time. What woman wouldn’t be happy working with a man that had raw sexuality radiating from his eyes? A man who could elicit an orgasm with nothing more than a tilt of his head as he raked his gaze over your body? A man who’s rich, husky voice could reach inside you and caress your inner most desires? Okay, so my little crush on Steven had morphed into full blown lust. I wouldn’t apologize for wanting him. Too bad for me, though, he’d never given me a second look.

“I’m not grumpy,” he said, taking a piece of hard candy from his pocket, peeling off the wrapper and popping it in his mouth.

That was another Steven-ism, as I’d come to call them. When Steven was sexually frustrated, or was going through a dry spell, he’d suck on butterscotch candy. On more than one occasion I’d considered offering to help ease his frustration, but I feared he’d laugh at me, and I did have my self-respect.

The fact that I knew what every one of Steven’s mannerisms meant did not make me pathetic. It made me observant. “The club doesn’t open for another hour,” I said. He didn’t normally arrive until moments before the doors swung open, which led me to believe something was up.

“Yeah, there’s something I need to tell you.”

I propped my elbows on the bar and leaned over, waiting for him to continue. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a quick moment before pinning me with those almost black eyes of his. I wanted to swoon like a teenager ogling over her favorite singer.

“Jessica and Connor wanted me to tell you that you’re being promoted to bar manager here at Scorched,” he said.

“Oh my gosh!” I squealed. I actually friggin’ squealed. I couldn’t help myself. “Really?”

The corner of Steven’s mouth twitched up into that self-assured smirk that only a true Italian man could pull off. “Congratulations.”

Before I had the good sense to stop myself, I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He chuckled softly and for just a moment, he hugged me back. Steven Lane actually hugged me. Then, just as quickly, he pulled away and cleared his throat. “I have uh, some things to do before we open. I’ll be back later.”

I watched his retreating body and sighed. That man was drop dead sexy and had been the star of more than one of my fantasies. The one where he fucked me right here at Scorched was my favorite. I’d imagined that his need for me was all-consuming. He wouldn’t be able to wait to get me home, so he’d rip my panties off and take me on top of the bar. My fingers would dig into his tattooed, muscular arms as he kissed me. His hips would pin me between him and the bar as he gave me one mind blowing orgasm after another.

That was wishful thinking. First of all, I was one of those very unfortunate women who didn’t orgasm during clitoral stimulation. It wasn’t for a lack of wanting to—or trying, for that matter. I just couldn’t do it. I’d get close—really close—and then I’d make my partner stop.

And second of all, he’d have to notice me, and I knew that wouldn’t happen. I wasn’t his type. Steven liked busty blondes with long legs and minimal brain cells. I was more like the girl next door. My breasts were an average B cup, my hair was red, not blonde, and I had an abundance of brain cells. I did, however, have the long legs. In fact, my legs were fabulous—they were a dancer’s legs. Long, muscular yet lean, toned, and super flexible. I bet I could put my legs in positions he’d only ever dreamt of.

A series of erotic images raced through my head. “Get a grip, Madison.” I fanned my face with my hand.

* * *

I stood behind the bar and watched as guests trickled in. Steven walked in, and I tensed. Steven Lane and denim went together like peanut butter and jelly. Sure, you could separate them, but it just wasn’t as good. He came strolling toward me in his faded blue jeans that were tight in all the right places but not too tight to be confused with a bad 80s style or those horrible skinny jeans that men were wearing nowadays. His black T-shirt was stretched across his broad shoulders, the sleeves hugging his massive, tattooed arms.

It was still early, and the place wouldn’t get packed until later. In the meantime, I could feast on his gorgeous body while my mind ran wild with things that would never happen.

“It’s going to be a busy night,” Steven said, standing beside me. “We’ve got a bachelorette party coming in. I called Craig to come help.”

“Thanks.” I hated bachelorette parties. Every single time we had one come into Scorched, Steven would end up taking one of the women home with him. At least I got to work with Craig tonight—he was easy on the eyes, and he made me laugh. Craig was no Steven though. I resigned myself to the harsh reality that I would probably have to watch him leave with some drunk bimbo on his arm.