Delilah wiped down the sticky bar top with a damp cloth, the dim lights of the small city bar casting a warm glow on her curves. At twenty-six, she had a body that made men forget their own names — thick thighs, a soft round ass that stretched her short black skirt, and heavy breasts that pushed against her tight tank top. Her long dark hair fell in waves down her back, and her full lips were painted a deep red that matched the flush on her cheeks after a busy night.
It was past two in the morning on a slow Thursday. Most customers had already stumbled out. Only one man remained, sitting at the end of the bar with a half-empty whiskey glass.
Jax.
He was thirty-five, tall and rugged, with broad shoulders and arms covered in faint scars from years of construction work. His hands were roug
