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And then when she thinks she can walk again, you can take her to the botanical gardens to see the hummingbirds.
It seemed like a perfect plan. All he needed was a chance to break the ice.
“That’s where you need to start,” Lurielle announced as if she hadn’t been interrupted at all. She snatched up her strawberry freeze, glaring at the obvious scoop missing. “Figure out what you have in common outside of the construct of her job, and then put the ball in her court. But let her be the one to decide. You do have a way of beingverybossy, you know. This is one situation where whatyouwant doesn’t mean much.”
They parted ways once they were home, as she mumbled about needing to get ready for mudball.
“I have faith you can figure this out, and either way it goes, I’m proud of you. You’re putting yourself out there. I know it’s not easy. Wish me luck; I’m off to mudball soon.”
Maybe she was right, Rourke thought, slumping against the kitchen counter once the door had swung shut. It was a beautiful afternoon. The Makers Mart had been packed. It had been so crowded that the strawberry rose shampoo concoction Lurielle had been seeking was sold out at the table of the witch who made it, and the hand-forged grilling tongs he’d been admiring were sold right under his nose.A perfect day for exploring the town with someone brand new.
He blew a hard breath through his nose and shook his head as if he might be able to shake away the self-defeating histrionics of the past several weeks.
You’re being ridiculous, and you’ve been acting like a child for weeks. You’re going about this all wrong.He had always been resolute in matters concerning his career ambitions, steadfast and decisive.You need to treat this like work.An actionable plan with achievable goals and timelines. That’s what you need. Time to knuckle down and narrow your objectives.At his appointment this week, he would make a point of finding out what it was she liked to do outside of work.And then, we formulate our strategy. A stroll through the park, swing by one of the galleries. A little oral sex before dinner, she can ride you for the appetizer, some chocolate cake, and then her sitting on your mouth for dessert. But first . . . first you have to get to know her. It’s a perfect plan.
* * *
His resolve lasted through the week.
He’d been a fool. He’d not had the success that could easily be measured in KPI graphs or metrics. There were no promotions, no C-suite bonus, none of the benchmarks he knew so well, leaving him at a loss, out of his depth without a balance sheet to measure his wins. Instead, he was fumbling forward, letting his dick lead him, casting around foolishly without knowing the lay of the land. No better than a bull in a pasture. It was ridiculous. It was shameful. It was a black mark on his long track record of accomplishments and success, andthathe couldnotabide.
Now though . . .nowhe was a minotaur on a mission.
He’d delegated the priorities, presented himself with comprehensive recovery plans, set a robust budget for wooing, and a timetable for results. He was going to achieve an actual date with her within the current calendar month or else give up this venture entirely before he lost any more capital to it — in this case, he noted in the margin, the capital involved was time better spent seeking someone different, as well as his self-respect. He couldn’t bear to live with the whiny, insufferable twat he’d become, not for another month, and so the clock was ticking.
It was with that resolve that he left his office on Friday afternoon, saying goodbye to Leorna and striding out the door, his horns leading the way, as a bull should. He would stop at the coffee shop as he normally did because it took both a plan and a schedule to get something done.I’m sure Khash would probably have a line about a possum and a clothesline, but you can make do without it. Coffee was a warrior’s fuel, the gas he needed to keep his motor running. . . . And a pastry was necessary for a warrior’s appetite, he reasoned, pulling open the Beanery’s door.
The sound hit him as soon as he stepped over the threshold. The coffee shop was bursting at the seams, as usual, and behind the counter, one of the baristas had just flipped on the blender. He cursed the frozen ice cream-like confections. Even though he was a desert fiend, the frothy sweet frozen coffee drinks held little appeal for him. He wanted his caffeine gulpable and his desserts inhalable. Mixing the two satisfied neither craving.
Rourke entered the line queue with shaking legs, his knees having locked at the pulsing sound, so similar to the milking machine at the facility.You’re a bull, not a sheep. They can’t train you to do tricks like a circus animal.His inner voice was firm and authoritative, but his subconscious had already pulled him into the fluorescent light-lit primary-colored existence of the milking farm, the bench stretching beneath him like a bridge, leading him away from reality and propriety.
He could almost feel his arms wrapped around the cushioned upholstery, felt the scrape of artificial turf beneath his hooves. His hips tilted slightly, imagining that she was there as well, her hands moving in an endless fluid pull, hand over hand, twisting at his tip the way she knew he liked, pulling his contracting testicles away from his body to prolong his pleasure. His nose tickled, and Rourke could almost feel the spine-melting rush of her tiny finger inside his foreskin, rubbing against the flared edge of his head from within the sensitive sheath.
He felt dizzy. He felt hot. He felt as if he needed to bend over one of the coffee shop’s low chairs and rut against the nearest table. He needed to get a fucking grip. He was a grown-ass bull, practically middle-aged, and mooning like some lovestruck horny teenager was embarrassing at his age.Look at this; you’re in so deep you can practically smell her.It was true, he realized. His subconscious was working overtime, and his nose tickled again at the soft, creamy scent he’d come to associate with his appointments at the farm.
The girl didn’t wear a typical perfume. There was nothing overly floral about the way she smelled, nor did his nose discern any of the heavier notes that normally came with a seductive name in an architecturally imposing bottle. She was neither sweet like an artificial cupcake nor bearing the strange, out-of-place smell of berries or cucumbers. He had no idea what perfume it was she wore, only that it had come to smell like heart-pounding bliss to him, and his overactive imagination was re-creating the scent right here, in the middle of the overcrowded coffee shop.When you give yourself an erection that’s eye-level with some goblin’s grandmother, we’ll see if you’re still having a grand old time.
He was so wrapped up in his own inner monologue he somehow made it halfway up the line before noticing the discordant jangle of his cell phone and the way it vibrated against his thigh. The distraction was what he needed. Rourke shook off the sound of the pulsing blender, one frappe drink concoction after another being filled, and instead focused on the sound of his phone, the hum of his neighbors around him, and the aroma of the coffee.You are in charge of the situation, not your cock. Get it together, and start acting like it.Squaring his shoulders and palming his phone, he straightened himself back to control.
It was a call from one of his sales contractors, reporting issues with the distribution network, looking to him for guidance. It was a good reminder that he was not some green, out-of-his-depth teenager.You are the leader. You have people counting on you.
“Tell them it doesn’t matter what their suppliers are saying. Their suppliers are lying. Are we really supposed to believe there’s not a single axle available to ship on the whole eastern seaboard?”
He had turned his back on the counter once he’d entered the line in a failed effort to turn himself away from the sound of the blender. His back was still turned to the wide open room, edging along the line sideways, facing the windows. Rourke closed his eyes as he listened to the response from his harried salesman. There was a baby crying somewhere behind him, and the sharp smell of espresso curled around the creamy white smell of . . . the milking tech.
“Check in when your plane lands, all right?”
He ended the call as quickly as he could, keeping his shoulders and his chin lifted. His mind had created her scent so completely that it was unable to let the fantasy go. The smell of her tickled his nose, and he tucked the scent away into the most hidden filing cabinet of his mind, reserved for his bedroom, when he thought of her stretched out beside him in the sheets.
It was not hard to do. Her skin would be as soft as a downy peach beside him as he ran a palm up the length of her, from the back of her knee, over her thighs and the delectable swell of her peach-like posterior, his hand pausing to squeeze a cheek before smoothing up her back. She would stir against the pillow, and although his mind’s eye was unable to create the curve of her lips, he could see her smile in the way her eyes crinkled, still closed, the smell of the coffee he brought her making her nose twitch. It was far too easy to imagine the smell of her and the smell of the coffee, which made this particular daydream one of his favorites. It wasattainable.
“The honeycomb latte, please. Medium.”
His eyes snapped open. Her voice.Hervoice,here! Rourke spun. The realization that he was hearing her voice, that the smell of her prickling down his spine was real, that she was here and she was close, went straight to his cock. He realized that the girl right there in front of him — petite beside him, dark curls swinging past her shoulders – was the one bearing her scent, whose voice he’d heard as she’d ordered, right there, close enough to touch, close enough to embrace.Close enough to poke in the back with your chub if you don’t get a fucking grip.
He was not a stranger to moving quickly in unexpected circumstances. The business world sometimes turned on a dime — products his distributors couldn’t acquire suddenly arriving in a windfall, leads that required decisive action, and deals that needed to be closed without wavering. This was, at last, his fucking wheelhouse. Rourke stepped up closer, facing the cash register for the first time, alert and ready to act.
His dual caffeine and pastry addiction served him well at the moment, for he knew every employee at the Beanery, and the tiefling behind the register was no stranger to him. He caught her eye, mouthing that he would take care of the young woman’s coffee, motioning between himself and her back with his credit card to seal the deal. The tiefling smiled. Nodded. Was in on the game.
