For a split second, I feel horrible. Maybe he’s sick…
Yeah, no.
As he turns, stepping out from the hall, just behind him is a tall brunette in a white shirt and bowtie, working her tie back into place with one hand while she tucks her shirt into her black skirt with the other.
When his eyes meet mine, I see the streak of red lipstick that matches the smear on hers and I roll my eyes at the ceiling as I let out a disgusted groan.
“It’s not what you think.” He comes over, his belt askew and the fabric on the crotch of his trousers showing the same hint of red on the front.
“Uhhh…” I narrow my eyes and tug my brows together. “I think…she needed mouth to mouth? Or, should I say mouth to cock?”
My mother would be horrified, but I don’t give a shit. I may be poor. I may be what some would call illiterate. But what I am not is a fucking doormat for some entitled asshole to wipe his shoes.
Dr. Stumps glares at me, opens his mouth to reply, but before he’s able to manufacture a retort a hand is on my shoulder, moving me aside as a literal wall of black suit a thousand feet high steps in front of me, broad shoulders like a bull blocking out the doctor as a spicy cologne like a shot of tequila assails my nostrils.
And all I can think is: See, this is how a man is supposed to smell.
“Your reservation is no longer honored, Dr. Stubbs.”
His voice is a rumbling baritone, his words clipped and defined, and something about it makes me giggle. Looking up, his black hair looks as though it’s just been cut, each strand the exact same length, his square jawline closely shaved, and I can see the sinuous muscles under the skin around his throat, rock hard and flexing.
His stance is strong and dominant, yet his hands are now in his pockets in an off-hand, casual manner.
“It’s Stumps. And who are you? I eat here all the time, I practically own that kitchen…”
“I don’t think so. I own this restaurant, and fifty more like it all across this country, and I see assholes like you every day. You own nothing here. You can see yourself to the door, or I’d be happy to assist. Your choice.” He sniffs, taking a quick glance over his square shoulder at me, an odd twinkle in eyes. They’re so blue, it’s both spooky and wildly sexy at the same time.
Then he steps another few inches forward, his chest in the good doctor’s incredulous face, and growls like some sort of wild animal. “Well. What shall it be?”
2
Dimitri
SHE DOESN’T KNOW I’VE been watching her since she walked through the front door.
She doesn’t know I’ve been imagining what she tastes like.
Her mouth.
Her tits.
Her dripping cunt.
I’ve got one of the most refined palates in the world, but I already know nothing will compare to her flavor. Nothing that’s come before her. She will be the perfection my mouth has longed for.
The length of my cock is thick down the leg of my trousers as I fantasize about what it would feel like stretching her tight little opening as I bury myself deep into her pussy.
I’m shocked at the thoughts, but the moment my eyes landed on her swooping curves and flawless ivory cheeks, something moved through me I’ve never felt before. The dark waves and curls of her hair cascade over her shoulders like a defiant waterfall of the finest whiskey, falling over the jade green sweater she’s paired with a black chiffon skirt and red heels. Perfectly mis-matched, but the whole only makes the urge to pull her closer to me even stronger.
I wanted to kiss her glossy pink lips, to run my tongue lower until I find her cleavage. Her tits are round and full, but not obscene, and I thought about gripping them, burying my face in between them and breathing her in.
Fuck, my dick has never been so hard.
The red glittery headband that struggles to keep her hair from her face is like the innocent and sexy cherry on top of a mouth-watering dessert I intend to devour.
A raging sense of possession overtook me before I even knew she needed me. This little girl, who has to be barely even legal, steps into one of my restaurants and I’ve never been so hard. My heart has never skipped beats before. I thought all that sort of rhapsodic romantic drivel was bullshit. Created to reinforce unrealistic expectations to unrealistic, desperate women.
I could see the glowing green of her eyes from where I stood near the front of the kitchen, where there are several glass walls that allow the guests to see—but not hear—the action in the kitchen. A five-star, fine dining restaurant under my umbrella is a fine symphony of activity, orchestrated by a head chef that knows my exacting standards and my hard-ass approach to running a gourmet kitchen.