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Her skepticism dulls my excitement. “I haven't… figured that out yet,” I admit.
She snorts. “Well give me a call back, if and when you do. Better yet, come over wearing a pair so I can make sure your feet aren't all bloody and full of glass shards.”
My hopes are dashed and I set my mouth into a straight line, sighing deeply. “Yeah… it's probably a stupid idea. They’re just so pretty.” As I say it, I know I'm not gonna give up on the idea, but I let her think I am, and beg off the call.
For a split second, I consider trying another one of my contacts but with my ego bruised and I don’t think it can take another hit right now.
I glance at my drawings one more time before I shove them, my coloured pencils, and sketchpad into my laptop bag. Now I really want to cancel tonight's date. My mind won’t settle, and until I figure this out, I’m going to be like a dog with a bone. Talking it out would help too, but Dan isn’t the most verbal of men. And while the strong, silent type is hot, it’s not what I need long term.
And this, Elle, is exactly why you need to find a supportive man who can encourage you even when your ideas are absolutely bat-shit crazy. And any time you waste with Dan, is less time you have to find that guy.
Looking at the clock, I realize there’s no time to cancel my date. And, in fact, there’s barely time for me to get ready. And a sponge bath just won’t do, not when I’m likely to be spread wide and devoured like a decadent dessert (shiver) at some point this evening.
I picture Dan’s face as he puts me on my knees in front of his cock and a primal need rises in me. It’s just sex—gloriously hot, earth-shattering, demanding sex, and that’s all it’ll ever be. And maybe, just this time, I’ll let this bone go. I smirk. Or at least trade it for another kind of bone tonight.
CHAPTER 5
Danon
The bar Elle chose is the polar opposite of the bar where we first met, and the stuffy, uppity atmosphere puts me off immediately. Ce Soir. My mother would love this place.
Stepping inside, I glance down at my dark jeans and charcoal henley. I’m underdressed. I can’t help but curl my lip in disgust at the pretentious, hipster clientele, the specials on a chalkboard menu that are trying way too hard, and the perky, big-busted waitresses who are probably grossly underpaid. I’d bet my ass they’re trained to survive on whatever they make in gratuities. Picturing Elle working here for meager tips and drink discounts turns my stomach. It also heightens my protective nature. No one could survive on these wages easily and even after one night with her I don’t want her to struggle.
I scoff at myself just for thinking it.
Elle’s living situation is not my problem and never will be. I’m no knight in shining armor or her prince riding in on a white horse to rescue her. My only obligation to her is mind-blowing orgasms and a night of twisted sex—apparently our favorite kind.
Amazing, hot, mindless, distracting, monkey sex. Getting my dick wet long enough to loosen the strangle hold my life currently has on me is my sole purpose for needing her, but I’m not a total bastard. I make sure my partners have a good time too.
Focusing on Elle makes it easier to forget my royal obligations, and the parade of mindless, high-society, wannabe stepford wives waiting for me once I get back home.
With less than a week left in the US, I fantasize about staying behind, about disappearing in one of the many states, living with choices rather than obligations. Not because of Elle either. I’m not long-term boyfriend material, back home or here. But in the bedroom, we’re pretty damn compatible which is why we’re meeting up again, hopefully for round two.
My eyes scan the room for Elle. But she must be in the back somewhere, because I don’t find her, but I do manage to catch the attention of a busty waitress with bright red hair, and a sultry smile. She points at a table that’s just been freed up so I grab it. It’s busy tonight, just not the kind of busy I like. In here, everyone is sizing everyone else up.
“Well, hello there. What can I get for you?”
I scan the room again, wondering where Elle is and whether I should order while I wait.
When she mistakes my hesitation for indecision, she slides a little menu across the table at me. This doesn't seem like the type of place that would pour my favorite American beer on tap, but I ask anyway.
“We don’t have that on tap, but I can definitely get you a bottle. And it is happy hour so it’s cheaper than normal.”
I scan the offerings, remembering the taste of Elle’s lips on mine, and decide on something I’ve never ordered before. “Margarita. Make it on the rocks though.” Glancing back up at the redhead, I add, “Thanks.”
I don’t order for Elle. I'm not certain if that’s her go-to drink or just the drink of the night. And if I know anything at all about modern women, princesses aside, they don’t jive with men making assumptions or ordering for them.
“Make that two,” Elle says, coming up behind me, her presence alone waking my dick up. She keeps her distance, grinning at the waitress, who I realize is probably a friend of hers. “I’ll have mine blended like usual, Ariella, with sugar on the rim please.” She slaps down a card before I can pull mine out, and I feel a stab of guilt that she’s spending even a few dollars of her hard-earned money on me. “Put the bill on this, and can you send out a plate of those seafood nachos, too? Oh, and save us some of that amazing chocolate mousse.” She looks at me. “I have a serious chocolate addiction. I may need to go to rehab some day.” She gives me a little laugh, that’s so fucking adorable I want to sit her in my lap right here.
Ariella flicks her gaze between the two of us. It's clear she has questions. I guess Elle hasn’t been talking about me at work and I admit that burns a little because our sex is totally gossip-worthy.
When the waitress disappears into the back with one last glance in my direction, Elle leads me to a table in the back.
“This place is… different from where we first met.” I offer the observation up as small talk, not telling her how much I hate the vibe here. “It seems nice though. Do you make good money?”
For a second something that looks like righteous indignation flashes across her face, but she quickly covers it with a laugh. “Yeah, I guess I do okay.” A smile plays on her lips and I wonder what’s funny.
“It seems like the kind of place that’s busier later in the evening,” I comment, silently looking around as I count occupied tables.
