“This one is on me,” he says to Stevie, with a grin that can only be described as “panty-melting.” A tattooed hand slides around Stevie’s waist from behind. “Absolutely not.” Zanders’ venomous glare is focused on the soon-to-be dead bartender. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.” The bartender’s face pales. “Sorry, man.” He holds up his hands in surrender before taking off to serve another patron. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Zanders keeps his attention on his back before leaning down and dotting kisses down Stevie’s neck. “I can’t take you anywhere,” he murmurs against her skin.
