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He’s the only person let alone man to even notice me, ever it feels like, and here I am basically brushing him off in the heat of the moment.
It’s not because I don’t want him. Far from it.
But at work? In the forbidden bathroom of all places?
Well, that’s part of it. The rest I can’t even bring myself to even think most days let alone say it out loud to someone as amazing, mature, and experienced as Dillon.
It’s complicated. And despite what Dillon might think it has nothing to do with him or anyone else.
There is no one else, there never has been, case in point. If only we weren’t at work and not just chewed out by the boss, then I could explain things better.
Trembling for all the wrong reasons now as well as not having eaten all day, I make my way back to the bar.
“Still here?” Chimes witch faced Barbie, her smug expression changing to disappointment when it’s clear I haven’t been fired.
“Still here,” I pipe in over her, deliberately cheerful and rolling my sleeves up to get back to work.
Marco rolls his eyes, mumbling something about needing to take a dump anyway before he struts off.
Only Marco could get away with abandoning his post like this, but Dillon appears just as he’s leaving so I can breathe again.
Noticing Dillon completely ignore the Barbie doll waitress makes me feel better still.
I was telling myself they’d be all over him, that he’d probably be taking at least two home, but he seems to bat her away like a fly.
Something that’s a pest and not something he truly wants.
He heads straight for me again, asking me again in a low tone so only we can hear.
“Becky. Tell me what’s wrong. Now,” he pleads.
I feel myself swallow hard, knowing I can’t lie to him but also knowing that now isn’t the time or place.
“Can we talk after work?” I beg him. “I promise I’ll explain everything, just…”
He frowns and takes in a heavy breath before glancing at his watch.
“I can’t stand here for another eight hours wondering this or that,” he says firmly. Not messing around anymore.
I feel awful, my heart feels like it’ll break if he’s gonna be like this for the rest of the shift.
I hear myself tell him something else, something to tide him over.
Something I’m shocked to even hear coming from my own lips.
“If you wait until after we finish work, I’ll sit on your face and you can show me how you drink my come,” I coo into his ear after he lets me pull him down to my level by his collar.
His expression changes and he makes a low sound of pleasant anticipation.
I jump and then gasp when I feel his hand between my legs again, but it’s only for a moment before he brings his fingers to his lips again, showing me he’s well aware of how I taste already.
More than capable of lapping up anything I can serve him.
The next few hours are a blur, with Dillon finally satisfied (a little better anyway) that I can serve our members and still be only his, we make it through the shift.
It’s around five by the time I finish up with the computer and paperwork. Credit card receipts and reconciliation, not to mention cleaning up behind the bar ready to do it all again tomorrow.
Dillon offers to help, but I let him know he really can’t.
I only have to direct my eyes to one of the dozen CCTV cameras to remind him.
“You probably shouldn’t even be here seeing as we’re closed,” I remark, noting the pain flick across his face at my words.
“Because I’m driving you home is why I’m still here,” he tells me, a matter of fact.
I wince at the thought, and then a part of me softens.
The way he just takes control, telling me he’s gonna do this or that, it’s so sweet and I know it’s only so he can be there to watch over me.
To protect me.
But the thought of Dillon seeing my apartment. That’s not something I’m looking forward to.
“Plus,” he drawls slowly, easing back on a barstool and making a smacking sound with his lips.
“You owe me a drink, remember?” he says, letting his voice become deeper and more commanding again.
Not asking me, but reminding me I have an appointment with his handsome face.
The thought makes me quiver and I almost drop the glass I’m holding.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask him, moving closer, knowing he must’ve cut his hand up when he crushed that heavy glass earlier.
But there’s no sign of injury, and I know from my little experience with him that although his hands are huge, they certainly aren’t rough.
They’re warm and smooth. Everything a girl wants, with their own built-in guidance system that puts them in all the right places every time.
