Two-For-One Night

Annie just stopped in for one drink, until she meets rodeo star and whiskey romeo, Clay, and realizes how thirsty she is. Enjoy this intoxicating little honky tonk romance by our editor G. Lynn Brown

"Care to go for a twirl?" asked a country twang.

She put down her bottle of beer and turned from the bar, met by a cowboy, his thumbs hooked on his belt. In the dim neon lights of the honky-tonk, she could just make out the chiseled jaw outlining the handsome face beneath the black Stetson hat.

His blue eyes smiled and so did he, and he held out his hand in anticipation of hers. She wasn't sure if it was because of the beer or his inviting eyes, but she obliged, and he helped her from the wobbly barstool. His hand was rough and calloused and swallowed hers.

"We don't do much two-stepping where I'm from, up north," she explained, ogling his perfect back pockets as he led her on the crowded dance floor. "I'm afraid I'm not very good at it." She glanced at his boots. They were without blemish and she hoped she wouldn't scuff them too badly.

He winked and pulled her close. "That's alright, Darlin', I can teach you everything I know."

The band plucked out a Western Waltz and, with one of his strong hands on the small of her back and the other firmly on her hip, they gracefully glided across the dance floor.

His eyes never strayed from hers, nor did his lopsided grin from his lips, and both his gaze and his touch made her feel special, like the belle of the smoke-filled dancehall, beautiful and desirable.

And when the fiddler's bow eked out the last shrill note, he didn't let her go but pulled her closer, held her tighter.

"Yes, Ma'am, I can teach you everything I know."

He tipped back his hat, leaned in, and kissed her hard and with purpose, handling her like no man ever had before and, becoming the cliched putty in his arms, she surrendered to his hospitable Southern charm.

*******

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked and waved for the bartender.

She hopped up on the barstool beside him, her lips still tingling from her surrender, her body still feverish from his embrace. "Not right now." She already had two beers, which was two more than she usually drank, and wanted to pace herself. "Thank you, though."

"So, Darlin', what do your friends up north call you?"

"My name's Annie," she hollered to be heard above the choir of drunken voices belting out a raucous rendition of "Rocky Top."

"I'd like a little Coke with alotta whiskey in it," he quipped to the bartender, then directed his lopsided grin back toward her. "Annie. That's a pretty name for a pretty lady." He winked at her, then nodded at the bartender delivering his drink. He reached for the glass, swirling it - the ice - before taking a swig. "I'm Clay."

The name fit him as perfectly as his Wranglers. After all, what else would a whiskey-drinking, two-stepping, rodeo champion be named? She glanced at his impressively large, silver, engraved belt buckle, a gold bull's head emblazoned in the center.

"You know what they say about the size of a cowboy's buckle," he whispered into her ear and put his hand on her knee, slowly sliding it up her inner thigh.

She bit her bottom lip and slowly lifted her gaze to meet his. He winked and laughed, and so did she. He raised the glass to his smile and tilted back his head, making certain every drop of the hard cocktail was accounted for.

"Hit me!" He raised the empty glass to the man behind the bar, his warm hand still caressing her leg.

The glow from the neon signs blinked in his eyes, making them dance with red and blue twinkles that mesmerized her, and looking at him made her feel as drunk as he was getting.

Damn! He was gorgeous. And sexier than any other man that ever was or certainly ever would be. And something about him made her feel especially alive and awakened all of her senses, stirring up needs within her she never realized she needed satisfied.

She put her hand on his, urging his touch even further up her inseam, and he eagerly took her cue. Her skin flushed, her heart raced. And she couldn't wait to once again fall prisoner to him, to his kiss, his embrace. And then some.

"Here ya go, Hoss." The bartender placed the drink on a cocktail napkin in front of him.

He reached for the glass and took a long sip of the Jack and Coke. "Are you sure I can't buy you a drink?"

She leaned over and kissed him, but more than that, she tasted him, savoring the whiskey that lingered on his breath, on his tongue. She slowly released his lips from hers and traced his angled jaw with her fingertips.

"You keep drinking and with every sip I'll keep kissing and we can both get drunk for half the price but with twice the pleasure." She licked her lips, the taste of whiskey blended with the spice of her desire, creating a potent potable all its own.

He gulped down his last swallow and raised the glass to the bartender. "Make it another and, Buddy, keep 'em coming."

He slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her to the edge of the barstool. "Annie, Darlin', I like your thinking." His hardened breath warmed her lips. "But, just the same, this one's on me."

She glided her hands across his chest and over his shoulders and clasped them behind his neck, urging him even closer. "Well then, how 'bout making it a double?"