This Barstool's Taken

Alexa keeps the customers coming in more than the booze—short skirts, coy winks, that little trick she does leaning over the cooler. Robby strolls in right on cue, scouting for trouble with nice legs attached. He takes one look at her fancy heels and flashes a grin you could market to dentists. “Girl, those feet have seen more care than my truck.” She smirks, lifts one up onto the stool like she’s tossing dice. Robby hits the floor and gets to work, mouth locked around her toes like he’s trying to whistle through silk. Between slobbery kisses, he stammers stuff like “You smell like cinnamon sugar,” which makes her roll her eyes but the foot stays put. When he can’t hold out any longer, he tugs her skirt up, shoves aside the lace, and sinks straight in behind the bar—quick, slick, zero apologies. Every thrust rattles the bottles and Alexa laughs between moans because the joint’s still open and every single clink is a dead giveaway.