Romy finished sweeping the floor as Mitchell counted out the cash drawer. He’d turned up the lights above the bar, pushing back the shadows. The pool table where they had coupled hid in one corner, but the mint-tinted smell of s*x hung in the air and every few minutes Mitchell glanced up to make sure this wasn’t a dream.
It wasn’t. Romy’s shirt hung untucked from his dark jeans, and those disheveled corkscrew curls bounced as he swept. His cheeks were flushed again, not from the wind this time but from Mitchell himself. He couldn’t wait to get that man between the sheets of a comfortable bed. The remaining condoms were tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, ready for use. As he locked the night’s earnings in the bar’s safe, he asked, “You almost ready?”
“Almost,” Romy replied, tuck
