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"Do I strike you as a man who keeps my distance?"
"I don't mean that," I say, breathless. "I mean, no relationships."
"I have a better question: How is it a pretty girl like you's still got her V-card?"
"I'm not a girl," I whisper.
"No, you're not."
He leans down and covers my mouth with his, and I pull him close, feeling his hardness with a heady rush as he rocks his body into mine.
"You're a woman," he says, between hard kisses. "Goddamned gorgeous one at that."
My hands drift into the pockets of his jeans, and oh my God, that ass. It's tight and firm and everything a man's ass should be. I want to pull his jeans off. Squeeze it. Kiss it.
I'm panting, elated by his compliments, as he trails gently down my throat and kisses my collar bone.
"I'm like you," I whisper into his hair. "Want to keep my distance."
"Not doing a very good job of it," he pants.
He comes up for air, pushing his forehead against mine, so close that I can count the yellow flecks in his irises. "You know what I mean,” I murmur. “I don't want a relationship. I never do. I mean I never have."
His eyes change, going from aroused to something more shrouded as runs his fingers down my arm. "Probably your mother."
I lean back, stunned that he said that to me. "Probably so.” I guess I come off as the screwed-up daughter of a drug addict. Lovely.
"I'm only saying because I've had my share of therapy," he says, squeezing my hand before he walks back around the counter, to the oven. He opens it, and a heavenly sweet smell wafts out.
"You have?"
"Yes ma'am. Mostly when I was a kid."
"After your mother passed away?" It's a forward question, but then he's been forward with me.
Something passes over his face—something ugly. He covers it quickly and nods. "Something like that."
"Well you're probably right.” I lean against the bar, propping my head in one of my palms. “Relationships, other than with Suri and a few other friends—they just don't seem worth it to me.”
"That's because you don't want to get hurt."
"You're quite the Ann Landers, Hunter West. I'm shocked."
He looks at me without any trace of a smile. "I do write an advice column. Vegas High-Rolling. For the Las Vegas Sun News."
I gape, and he laughs. "You gotta be outta your fucking mind if you think anyone would give me a column." He sobers a little. "Pardon the French. I don't have the cleanest mouth."
"I'm sure you don't," I say coyly. I'm feeling a little more relaxed now, and happy to flirt with him, and willing to broach sensitive subject. Like: "So what's up with you and Priscilla?"
"Nothing but the sky," he says, pouring two tall glasses of orange juice.
"You don't care about her, but there's chemistry?"
"I don't care about her," he says flatly.
His eyes meet mine, and they're so cold, and all of a sudden it's painfully obvious to me that we're not really friends, or breakfast buddies, or anything at all. We don't know each other, and I've struck a bad cord with my prying question.
Hunter turns back to the stove and begins to pile two plates with food. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter. "I’ve got a question for you: weren't you even a little worried about who would win your heart?"
