The guy didn’t even put up an argument. Wimp. Ivy’s eyes wandered up Tate’s chest, a curl of desire pooling in her lower belly. His white button-down shirt was tailored to perfection, showcasing those shoulders and flat stomach. The sleeves strained at the bulk of his biceps. He leaned in close, bending to speak into her ear. His lips brushed the shell, sending a wave of tingles across her skin. “Stop drinking. Baby.” “Why? Worried I’ll go home with someone else?” “Because I won’t fuck you if you’re drunk.” She gulped. “Is that why you left last weekend?” He leaned away, his chocolate gaze
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