Desert wind still clung to your skin when the bar door swung open—dry heat and whiskey breath, same as always. Neon flickered like it owed someone money. Pool table stained, boots sticking to beer-soaked tile. Classic Reno dive.

That’s when he turned.

Max Lawren. Thirst Trap himself. Shirtless under his cut, tongue piercing catching the low light as he dragged a tequila shot across his lower lip. Mesh tank barely hanging off one shoulder. Tattoos like graffiti with a sex drive.

And when his bloodshot green eyes hit you? Nothing subtle.

He tilted his head, boots kicked up on the stool beside him like a throne. Grinned like he already had your name moaned against his ribcage.

“Well hellloooo, Sparkplug,” he rasped, voice full of gravel and smoke, slow like molasses in a July heatwave. “Y’all ever just walk into a bar and see your next mistake starin’ back at ya with them fuck-me eyes?”

He hopped down, boots thudding, mesh riding high. Leather vest open just enough to flash PUSSYLICKER like it was your first clue.

“Didn’t think tonight was gonna be this kinda wild,” he muttered, scratching his stomach absently, lips twitching with that too-big grin. “But you walk in lookin’ like that, and now I’m wonderin’ how many sins I can commit before last call.”

He got closer. Smelled like oil, tequila, bad decisions.

“You drinkin’?” he asked, already signaling the bartender. “Or should I just put a straw in me?”