Page 7 of Beneath the Stands (Sugarlake 2)

I lick my lips, leaning toward him. “Maybe I like dicks.”

He steps closer, resting an arm on the bar. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

The bartender finally makes her way over, interrupting our moment. I order a shot of tequila and a glass of water—my mystery man slapping a twenty on the bar before I have a chance to pay.

I grin, running my finger around the rim of the shot glass. “What’s your name, charmer?”

“Connor. And you, my sweet southern belle?”

I tsk. “I may be southern, sugar, but I’m not sweet.”

His eyes spark. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

My pussy clenches as I picture his head between my legs, his tongue diving into my folds to find the only sweet spot on me.

“Hey, man. Sorry I’m late.” A hand grips Connor’s shoulder and my heart stalls in my chest.

If God exists, he hates me.

Connor smiles, turning to Eli, his teeth gleaming under the lights of the bar. “Hey, I was just talking about you.”

Sharp blue eyes lock on to mine, widening a fraction as they glide up and down my body. “Becca.”

“Fuckface.” I raise my shot, tilting it toward him before slamming it back, the burn distracting me from the heat of his gaze.

“You two know each other?” Connor points between us.

I roll my eyes, wiping the corner of my mouth and standing up. “I’m tired of answerin’ this question.” I point to Eli. “This your wingman?”

Connor’s brow quirks. “That depends. Do I still need one?”

“I doubt he’d help your chances.”

Eli is leaning against the bar, eyes volleying between us. “I definitely would not help your chances, Connor. You’re not fucking Rebecca.”

“Dude.” Connor groans, turning toward him.

“Excuse me?” I push past Connor and step into Eli’s space. He straightens, and I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. “He’ll fuck me six ways from Sunday if I want him to, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. God, when did you turn into such a prick?”

Eli’s perfect jaw tics. “I’d imagine it was around the time you turned into a raging bitch.”

“Dude,” Connor hisses again.

Anger bubbles in my veins as I huff out a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. I only see one bitch here, Eli, and it ain’t me.”

Eli straightens, his chest pressing into me, clean laundry and cinnamon assaulting my senses. “You wanna try me, Becca? Keep fuckin’ pushin’.”

There’s that accent.

My heart bangs against my chest so hard it vibrates my entire body.

It’s only when Connor grips my shoulders, pulling me back that I realize how close Eli and I were standing—how harsh my breaths are coming.

“Okay, firecracker. Let’s calm down,” Connor says, rubbing my shoulders. “And for the record, Eli, you are the worst wingman ever.”

If he’s trying to lighten the mood, it doesn’t work. I can’t even look at him now without thinking of Eli. I shrug out of Connor’s grip and turn around, storming to my table. Dragging a chair out, I slam myself in it, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m upset that Eli’s here and I’m pissed he just ruined a sure thing for me. Cockblock.

Sabrina tilts her head, narrowing her eyes.

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