again before I get away. But my hopes are doubly dashed when he plants a kiss on my cheek and says, “I’ll call you.”
“Okay,” I say, and I turn to leave before he sees how upset I am.
I feel his strong hands on my shoulders, and he spins me back toward him and kisses my definitely bad-tasting mouth.
Fuck, he already brushed his teeth!
I’m pissed off and embarrassed by his minty advantage, but I’m over it the second he grabs my ass and sucks on my bottom lip. Maybe he really is late for a shoot, and maybe I’ll be hearing from him again after all.
With a hand on my lower back, he guides me gently out the door, and I find myself alone and confused in a place I’ve waited a long time to explore. I should be feeling guilty and ashamed of what I’ve done. But I’m really just worried that I won’t get another taste.
Chapter 8
I ’m at Starbucks waiting for my Americano on my way to work, and all I can think about is sucking the barista’s cock. This is a pretty unsettling urge for at least a couple of reasons. First and most obviously, I’m married—to a man who’ll be back from San Francisco tonight. Second, he’s a fucking barista , albeit an atypically masculine one. Usually, part of the charm of waiting for your drink is getting to fake-flirt with the sassy gay gender studies major who’s making it for you. It’s a harmless way to have someone other than a fellow woman tell you they like your bag or that your shoes are cute. But there’s nothing harmless about the new guy in the green apron—or his jawline. He’s the precise opposite of the quintessential Starbucks employee. His apron hugs his pecs, and buff arms reach out of the too-short sleeves of his black polo. He doesn’t say much—not like the chatty baristas who buzz around him, stealing the same glances of his body that I’ve been savoring every time he bends down to retrieve the whipped-cream canister from the bar fridge. He’s the strong, silent type, and I feel a carnal tingle when he looks up from the milk he’s frothing and smiles with his piercing blue eyes.
“You the triple Americano?” he says.
“Yup. I’ve got a little bit of a caffeine issue.” Damn it. I hope that wasn’t a lame thing to say.
Thankfully, he laughs. “You and me both,” he says. “I’m usually in bed right now. The late shift’s more my style.”
“That explains why I haven’t seen you before.”
He smiles again, this time like I’ve said something that intrigued him. Shit, did I just show him my hand?
“I took a shift,” he says. “But I’m glad I did. The morning crowd is much more attractive.”
Good God, was that directed at me? Is he flirting? It’s not the usual “Where did you get those darling earrings?” or “I love your sweater” that the typical baristas throw around to make the day of every professional woman who can afford a five-dollar cup of coffee. No, this is a straight-up “You’re attractive and I want to fuck you” level of flirting that I’m not equipped to handle. He was even looking right at me when he said it.
His blue eyes burn a hole in me, and then he goes back to frothing the milk in the metal canister he’s holding. I suddenly wish I was wearing something other than my editor uniform of stretchy jeans and a striped top. I wish he could see who I really am—how my new body looks in a pair of tight yoga shorts and a sports bra. Or maybe one of my lacy new Fräulein sets.
I cool my heels by reminding myself that he’s wearing a fucking apron and he’s probably making eight bucks an hour. And yet he still has the balls to flirt like that. His confidence is so hot that it makes me tingle. It also makes me wonder if whatever he’s packing beneath that apron makes up for his paltry paycheck. I add an event to my mental calendar: come back during his later shift wearing something a little tighter.
I’m still gaping at him when he calls my beverage and places the cup on the counter.
“You
“Okay,” I say, and I turn to leave before he sees how upset I am.
I feel his strong hands on my shoulders, and he spins me back toward him and kisses my definitely bad-tasting mouth.
Fuck, he already brushed his teeth!
I’m pissed off and embarrassed by his minty advantage, but I’m over it the second he grabs my ass and sucks on my bottom lip. Maybe he really is late for a shoot, and maybe I’ll be hearing from him again after all.
With a hand on my lower back, he guides me gently out the door, and I find myself alone and confused in a place I’ve waited a long time to explore. I should be feeling guilty and ashamed of what I’ve done. But I’m really just worried that I won’t get another taste.
Chapter 8
I ’m at Starbucks waiting for my Americano on my way to work, and all I can think about is sucking the barista’s cock. This is a pretty unsettling urge for at least a couple of reasons. First and most obviously, I’m married—to a man who’ll be back from San Francisco tonight. Second, he’s a fucking barista , albeit an atypically masculine one. Usually, part of the charm of waiting for your drink is getting to fake-flirt with the sassy gay gender studies major who’s making it for you. It’s a harmless way to have someone other than a fellow woman tell you they like your bag or that your shoes are cute. But there’s nothing harmless about the new guy in the green apron—or his jawline. He’s the precise opposite of the quintessential Starbucks employee. His apron hugs his pecs, and buff arms reach out of the too-short sleeves of his black polo. He doesn’t say much—not like the chatty baristas who buzz around him, stealing the same glances of his body that I’ve been savoring every time he bends down to retrieve the whipped-cream canister from the bar fridge. He’s the strong, silent type, and I feel a carnal tingle when he looks up from the milk he’s frothing and smiles with his piercing blue eyes.
“You the triple Americano?” he says.
“Yup. I’ve got a little bit of a caffeine issue.” Damn it. I hope that wasn’t a lame thing to say.
Thankfully, he laughs. “You and me both,” he says. “I’m usually in bed right now. The late shift’s more my style.”
“That explains why I haven’t seen you before.”
He smiles again, this time like I’ve said something that intrigued him. Shit, did I just show him my hand?
“I took a shift,” he says. “But I’m glad I did. The morning crowd is much more attractive.”
Good God, was that directed at me? Is he flirting? It’s not the usual “Where did you get those darling earrings?” or “I love your sweater” that the typical baristas throw around to make the day of every professional woman who can afford a five-dollar cup of coffee. No, this is a straight-up “You’re attractive and I want to fuck you” level of flirting that I’m not equipped to handle. He was even looking right at me when he said it.
His blue eyes burn a hole in me, and then he goes back to frothing the milk in the metal canister he’s holding. I suddenly wish I was wearing something other than my editor uniform of stretchy jeans and a striped top. I wish he could see who I really am—how my new body looks in a pair of tight yoga shorts and a sports bra. Or maybe one of my lacy new Fräulein sets.
I cool my heels by reminding myself that he’s wearing a fucking apron and he’s probably making eight bucks an hour. And yet he still has the balls to flirt like that. His confidence is so hot that it makes me tingle. It also makes me wonder if whatever he’s packing beneath that apron makes up for his paltry paycheck. I add an event to my mental calendar: come back during his later shift wearing something a little tighter.
I’m still gaping at him when he calls my beverage and places the cup on the counter.
“You
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