I want to know her name. I want to know her story. I want to know exactly what she sounds like when she’s clinging to the edge, seconds away from shattering around my cock. I haven’t even had this woman yet, and somehow, I’m already craving more.

Not wanting to break our connection, I move my arm up to rest it on her shoulder and feel her shudder under my hold.

“Cold?” I ask, already shucking off my jacket. I help her slip it on, then watch as she pulls her long blond hair out from under the collar, her loose curls cascading down the center of her back. When she pushes a few strands behind her shoulder, I get a whiff of her scent, and I can’t help but inhale again. She smells like sweet strawberries—like summer and sunshine.

“Why don’t you park in the back like everyone else?” she asks as we walk along the brick path that cuts through the town green.

Wait, what?

Most of the employees do park in the back lot behind The Oak, and some patrons do, too, when all the street spots are taken, but it’s weird she noticed and thought to ask.

I shrug off her question as genuine curiosity. “I’m not usually in a rush to get home after work. I’m new to bartending. It’s sort of overwhelming to have people clamoring for my attention all night. I like having a few minutes to myself after all the craziness.”

I click the auto-start on my Range Rover, lighting up the interior of the car as I guide her toward the vehicle.

“Wait—that’s your car?” She cranes her neck to look up at me, that same mischievous expression she’s been taunting me with all night dancing on her face.

“It is,” I confirm, guiding her toward the passenger door.

“You’re a bartender at The Oak, yet you drive a Range Rover?” she deadpans.

I fight back a smirk, instead repeating the line she used on me earlier. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

Before we make it to the car, the first hushed chime of the clock tower fills the quiet night air. Her body stiffens in my grasp, then she spins out of my hold and grabs me by the hand.

“Come on!” She pulls me in the direction of the red brick structure that keeps time at the corner of the downtown green.

“Dempsey. Hurry!”

I have no idea what the rush is or where she thinks she’s going. But I find myself picking up the pace to meet her demand.

We reach the base of the clock tower as another bell chimes quietly, the low tone muted because of the late hour.