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Never let them see you waver, my girls,she would say to us.Weak women show when they hit the target. Strong women always keep them guessing.
Ben ignores my words, moving a few inches so we’re close, nearly touching but not quite. Heat radiates in the small gap between us.
“Finally, if you had a man,” Ben continues, his voice dipping an octave in a way that I can only see as ominous. He’s ignoring what I said, that smile growing in preparation for what I can already tell will be the final blow. “You wouldn’t be up early, baking for all the men of the boardwalk.” My gut drops. I open my mouth to argue because there is no situation where I would end my dream for a fuckingman. But he keeps talking, clarifying.
“No, if you had a man, he’d give you a reason to stay in that bed, sleep in late. Change your schedule because he can’t get enough of you.”
A tattooed hand raises, the tanned arm lifting it until it's at the side of my face, pushing a loose piece of hair back behind my ear. Where his fingers touch, the skin burns, burns in a way I want him to continue. As he moves the hair behind my ear, he runs his fingers down the length of my neck, where my breath is shallow and tense. Then his thumb runs over the collarbone that’s exposed by my shirt and apron.
A chill runs down my spine.
It’s not one of anger or frustration, either.
Holy fuck, the look in that man’s eyes.
I’ve read about that look.
It’shunger.
And not because he wants a cookie or cupcakes.
The air between us suddenly feels thick, charged in a way I’ve never felt.
“When was the last time you had a man take care of you, sweet girl?” he asks, and now he’s so close, his bare chest brushing the thick canvas of my apron, but I can still feel it. I can feel every brush of him like there’s nothing between us.
“What?”
“A man, baby. When was the last time you had one?”
It’s been a long, long time.
And a part of me, maybe it’s a part of New Lola I haven’t discovered yet, can’t help but think I would give anything right now to have this man break that streak.
“I want to kiss you, Lola,” he says, and you’d think those words would shock me out of this daze.
I hate this man.
He’s an ass.
He’s a jerk.
He’s everything bad about the male species.
But I really, really want him to kiss me.
So . . . I nod.
It’s a short nod, quick and concise, nearly imperceptible. But he sees it.
I know he does because the next thing I know, his lips are on mine.
And we’re kissing.
His lips are moving on mine, and mine are responding.
It is not sweet.
It is not chaste.
