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“You’d better go, she can get very, very naughty,” I taunt him.
“Oh, really,” he whispers back conspiratorially. “What about you? How naughty can you be, little Summer?” his eyes glint at me.
The image of his penis flashes in my mind again, so vivid I can practically feel it in my hand, and in my mouth.
Stop, stop, stop!
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I smirk. “Now you’d better go, I’ll take the coffee to you. You mustn’t keep a woman waiting.”
“What about a man? Anticipation is a good thing…up until a certain point. The longer a man waits, the more animalistic he gets. Remember that, sweet thing, each time you tell me no. Because when you do say yes, and you will, you’ll pay. For every. Single. No.”
Holy shit! I think I just self-combusted!
Him, animalistic, primal, and taking me.
YES!
Legs wobbly, heart palpitating, uterus exploding, is it possible to come just by the power of suggestion? Because, holy cow, I think I just did.
“Mighty big promises, Rock.” My stupid voice almost gave away my inner lustful turmoil.
“I’m a mighty big man, Summer. But you’ll see.” He winks again.
Kersplash, there go my ovaries.
Promise?! Oh, yes, please let him be big!
He lets go of my hand as a slow and cocky grin turns up the corners of his sinful mouth, that mouth I was having all those lurid and filthy thoughts about. He turns to go to Mrs. Merriweather, but turns back to me and catches me ogling him. He grins. Damn that man! “In case you’ve forgotten, the coffee’s black.”
I turn my back to him, trying to shove all those dirty thoughts about him from my head. Having nothing better to say, I mimic him under my breath in the most ridiculous and childish voice I can, “The coffee’s black,” then, because I’m, oh, so mature, I stick my tongue out.
“I heard that, Summer.” Oh, no! “Is that any way to treat your favorite customer? That tally is adding up,” he chuckles.
“Brut!” I mumble as I pour his coffee, contemplating all the things I can put in it. Not to kill him, that wouldn’t be any fun, but to give him some agony so I can enjoy watching him writhe in pain.
It’s not pain you want him moaning and writhing with.
Shut-up you miserable inner tart, nobody asked you!
As I approach the table Rock is now canoodled up to the very wily Mrs. Merriweather at, Canoodle? Now I sound like her, she’s already grasping his hand in her arthritically bent one on the table.
Traitor.
“That was such a lovely thing you did for our Summer, Rock. And you ‘ave an absolutely brilliant name,” she’s beaming.
“I like her coffee too much, I don’t think I’d like to have to go back to my sludge,” he shrugs his shoulders.
Is he embarrassed from the praise? Is the big and bad tattoo man shy?
“Don’t be so modest, my boy. That little twat, what was ‘is name Gwendolyn?” Mrs. Merriweather turns to her granddaughter who is sitting mesmerized by the god sitting at their table.
Gwendolyn turns bright red now that she’s the center of attention and has Rock’s eyes on her, and was caught undressing Mr. TD&I with her eyes.
“Steve,” Gwen chokes out.
Rock throws his head back and laughs at Mrs. Merriweather’s very graphic, but very accurate, description of Steve the little twat. The little peckered twat.
“Yes, Steve.” She turns back to the sex on legs man with her. “’e wouldn’t ‘ave even given our Summer’s plight a second thought, ‘e wouldn’t.”
