“Don’t call me kid,” I scowl. “What would you prefer I call you?” He leans in closer, the bass of the music, the chatter of the crowd all blending into one as he whispers inches from my face. “Baby? Darling? Good girl? Greedy little slut?” It could be my shaky gasp that gives it away, or my teeth sinking into my lip, or the way my eyes roll back. Probably all three. “The last one,” he nods to himself, leaning back on his barstool, eyes locked on mine as he drains his glass. “Noted. You want another?”
