Page 2 of Starving for Her

I’m used to girls throwing themselves at me, but that’s not what I’m looking for. To be honest, I’d rather just find myself a good woman who would be by my side, loved me for me and not my money, and who also knew how to whip up a good steak and mashed potatoes. But that kind of woman just doesn’t exist.

I thought I’d found her back when I was twenty. Her name was Becky,and we met just as I was starting work on my battery technology. She played me like a fool. I was sure she was the one for me and fell head over heels for her. I let her into my life and told her about what I was doing; she ended up trying to steal my designs and sell them.

Thankfully, I realized she’d gone on my computer one night, so I just replaced all my important information with fake nonsense I got from Google. I saved my business, but my heart was broken. I guess I still haven’t recovered, because the idea of falling in love, finding “the one”? Yeah, that just sounds like some shit you only see in movies or books.

But then she walks in, and all of a sudden I’m rethinking everything.

After a line of made-up thots, seeing her beautiful face with no makeup on makes me stir inside and I feel an instant rush of blood between my legs. She’s carrying something wrapped in foil in her hands, and she actually looks nervous—not like a girl here to charm me with her sex appeal.

Her hair is pulled back and she’s only wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a worn t-shirt with a crop-top sweatshirt over the top of it. She looks almost like she just woke up and came straight over here. It may be a modest outfit, but there’s simply no way to hide the unbelievable body she’s got as she walks toward me.

I’ve seen every kind of girl in the world, and for the last 17 years I’ve had them throwing themselves at me. Instagram girls, runway models, gymnasts, actresses—but this girl has me aching in a way I haven’t felt in forever. I’m shook. Nothing Al could have said would have prepared me for her, and I realize my mouth is literally hanging open as she sets down the tray in front of me.

“Hello, Mr. Russell,” she says, sounding flustered but doing her best to keep it together. “My name is Layla White.”

Layla, I think. You’ve got me on my knees, baby.

She is clearly nervous, a little rattled, but there’s also an indescribable confidence in her voice, like a girl who was used to taking care of herself. I want to get up and pull her body to mine but she extends her hand, and for now, I simply shake it.

“You’re late,” I tell her. I don’t know why I say it—maybe I just want to see how she’ll react. Maybe she’ll actually behave like a human, unlike the rest of the girls who just left.

“I know,” she replies, putting a hand to her head. “I—to be honest I wasn’t sure I was even going to come to this. No offense.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Well…I guess I sort of figured—and really I don’t even know if I should be saying this because I don’t want to offend you, but—”

“You can’t offend me,” I tell her. “Go ahead.”

She fidgets nervously and takes a breath. “But I wasn’t sure if you were actually looking for a chef… or something…else.”

She’s smart, I think. She knows what men like me can be like.

“Well then, that already puts on at the top of my list,” I tell her. That and those perky tits I can see under your sweatshirt. “I think the other girls that were here thought this was an audition for The Bachelor.”

The way she’s dressed has me feeling like I’m back in college—before I dropped out. I’m wearing Gucci loafers, some black pants and a white button-up, in my own home, and suddenly I feel overdressed.

Unlike the other girls, Layla hasn’t had any work done. Her lips are full but natural, and her hips may be wide and built, but they haven’t been touched by a surgeon. Her beautiful brown eyes are also fixed on me, not looking around the house in awe. It’s almost like my wealth doesn’t impress her one bit. Like a ten-pound bass, I’m instantly hooked.

“Yeah… that’s not really my style,” she smiles.

“What is your style?”

“I—I don’t really know,” she laughs softly. “I just work a lot. Too much. And, as you can see, didn’t have time to plan my outfit.”

“You look great,” I tell her, and that’s putting it mildly. My cock is raging beneath my pants and my veins are on fire with my blood coursing through them. I’m lit up and can’t even remember the last time I felt this way. She’s so small and supple, yet confident at the same time. I want to snatch her up in my hands and ravish her.

Fuck, what’s she doing to me?

I’ve lost my cool and am struggling to maintain it as I drag my eyes up her amazing body, wondering if she has any panties on under those skin-tight pants. She works too much? How is this girl not modeling? She can’t be more than twenty-three, and that would be pushing it.

“Thank you,” she replies with a nervous smile. “So…would you like to see what I brought you?”

“More than anything,” I tell her. Again, she fidgets slightly then unwraps her dish. Instantly, my nose is flooded with an incredible smell. I can already tell she knows how to cook. I may be starving, but it will take more than her meal to satisfy me now.

And what’s really killing me is the fact that she doesn’t seem interested in me—not in the slightest. She’s not giving me the eye, she’s not twisting around to show me her body, she doesn’t have one foot up on her toes to accentuate her curves. None of that. She’s just waiting for me to try her meal.

I’m salivating. I’m ready to try it all.

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