Bossier: More Productive Tales of Lesbian Lust by Harper Bliss

Author:Harper Bliss [Harper Bliss]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789881363893
Amazon: B00WFUPPSA
Barnesnoble: B00WFUPPSA
Publisher: Ladylit Publishing
Published: 2015-04-20T03:00:00+00:00

Night Shift

Axa Lee

You see her across the crowded bar—the laughing, the lights, the bodies. It’s a small town kind of bar, with George Strait and Reba playing loud, maybe some Keith Urban thrown in if people feel particularly hip. There are cowboy hats, ball caps coated thickly with corn dust, ripped T-shirts and button-down shirts, beer in massive frosted mugs. It’s been a long day at work and there’s a broad mix of clientele, some freshly scrubbed and looking to get laid; others dusty, straight out of the field, just needing a drink. And it’s a Friday so likely they all just got paid. You’re a little bit of both, clean clothes, fresh bills in your wallet, but with hair still stinking of milking parlor. You don’t live quite close enough to run home and change, not when the night shift ends after eleven and everyone else is already a pitcher of beer in. You sit at the table with a bunch of other coworkers, all male, and that makes you feel smug somehow as you sip from your own mug, which holds roughly the same liquid volume as a fishbowl.

You’re keenly aware of her, have to stop your eyes from straying to her too often, in case someone notices. You think you’ve been cool, think you’ve kept your crush under control. Fucking coworkers, in your opinion, is just a bad idea.

But your gaze wanders anyway. Just a peek, you reason, just to see what she’s up to.

She’s chatting up the bartender, who’s roughly her age, thick and very masculine with her black hair in a choppy haircut, gelled and spiked at various angles, wallet chain dangling from an oversized pocket. Iris is the opposite, with lanky hard lines, dressed in tight fitted jeans and a stomach-baring tank. It’s summer after all and hot in the bar, even with the air on. Seeing them together, that’s pretty much exactly who you picture her with. It makes you burn.

Merle is singing about just sitting there to have a drink, and you knock the rest of your first one back, reaching across the table for another, as his description sounds like a good idea.

You can’t stop looking at her.

You work with Iris, and your clit gets hard just watching her work a room, making you cross your legs to attempt to squeeze that little hot button into submission.

It doesn’t work.

If she was a beer commercial, the camera would be slipping down her body, showing the sweat or water or, hell, even Michelob, sliding across the rippled plane of her abs. She’s the type of woman not prone to fat, the kind that other women will always hate for her athletic thinness, but she’s really not your type. You like women with rounded edges, not all pointy hipbones and flat asses. But, you’re so enthralled with Iris and her stories that you can’t take your eyes off her, and when your gazes meet, across the bar and through a brief, direct line of sight down the crush of bodies, and she fixes her attention on you, your mouth goes dry.

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