Page 21 of Bad & Bossy

Cole

Six months was long enough for the plans I’d enacted before my departure to reach fruition.

Rows and rows of prototypes lined the table in front of me. Sours, pale ales, and IPAs infused with different tropical fruits. A new expansion on our already significant product lineup.

And I couldn’t even taste it.

Lines of small cups sat in front of the new beers, each filled about halfway with testers. The tour guides, bar staff, and wait staff stood before me, shuffling awkwardly on their feet. Toward the back on the righthand side, Dana looked anywhere but directly at me.

“Anyone that would like to try the new lineup can come up and grab one,” I said, lifting my chin just a hair to keep the air of being in control. “Please only take one of each. Don’t need anyone getting drunk at work.”

Whispers flitted around the room as the majority of them formed a line behind the table, including Dana. I couldn’t blame them for the gossip, plenty of them were aware of my old habit of drinking at work. It was hard to miss.

The goal now was to create enough buzz that the products would fly off the shelves and taps. The tour guides would focus on the brewing aspect of it, which we’d already gone over, and the bar and wait staff would push it to newcomers and regulars alike. I watched each one take their cups and drink, my mouth salivating at the idea of finally getting to try what I’d wanted to make for years. I felt like a fucking sham.

Dana met my eyes briefly as she sipped at each one, tossing away a mostly full cup after each sip.

As the group filtered back into their positions, questions began flying at me left and right. How long is each one brewed for? Is the fruit fermented separately? Will there be testers for those on the tour? I handled each with as much care as I could before rapid firing into the next.

But it was seeing Dana’s hand raised that stopped me in my tracks and made me pause.

“What do you think of them?” she asked, her voice booming over the others in the room. Everyone went dead silent.

It wasn’t a bad question despite the intent behind it. A quotable endorsement from myself would benefit all of them. I just didn’t have an answer. And from the look on her face, her honey-hazel eyes wide and her mouth parted just enough to entice me, she knew damn well she’d stumped me.

And she liked it.

“I think it’s exactly what I’ve been dying to make for years,” I said, each word carefully chosen.

“What’s the percentage?” Dana asked, using the quiet to her advantage.

“Seven.”

She nodded, her hair bouncing forward then falling back. She didn’t break eye contact once, holding my gaze in the same way I’d done the day before with her. There was a heaviness, a staggering weight between us that made me hungry for her.

My cock twitched.

Fuck.

I was thankful the table was high enough to cover my lower half as hazy memories from that night flitted across my mind. Her, naked, full of my cum, and begging for more. Her mouth, that same one that asked me angering and perfect questions, split open wide and waiting on her knees. The way she’d tasted as I’d devoured her pussy over and over, like fucking honey, like overripe strawberries?—

Stop, for fucks sake.

I took a seat and let them mingle amongst each other, trying more of the beers. The sample stock wouldn’t be sold, and I was happy for them to take as much home as they wished. The alternative was taking it home with me, and that simply wasn’t an option, no matter how much I wanted it.

How fucking ironic that I owned a brewery and couldn’t taste what we made.

A handful of people came up to ask me personal questions and I let them, hoping for the blood in my cock to dissipate enough that it wasn’t noticeable. But just when I’d figured I was calm enough to make my rounds, Dana’s face shined through the crowd as she approached, her hands clasped together in front of her. I wondered if she even realized her arms were pressing her breasts together, creating a luscious cleavage.

“Hey,” she said, a tight-lipped smile flashing across her face. “I’m sorry about the question. That was kind of rude of me. Especially in front of everyone.”

I shook my hand and waved it off, standing from my seat. “Don’t worry about it. It was a good one, and in fairness, I think I gave a pretty quotable answer.”

A little chuckle seeped past her lips. “Yeah, I can definitely use it to my advantage. ‘What does Mr. Pearson think of his latest lineup?’” Her voice deepened as she pretended to be a questioning guest, that silly, goofy attitude making its first appearance in months. “Well, sir, he thinks it’s exactly what he’s been dying to make for years!”

I laughed at her impression of me, less because it was funny and more because it was the first genuinely pleasant interaction I’d had with her since I’d returned. Maybe the first pleasant interaction with anyone. “I don’t sound like that,” I chuckled.

“Oh, you totally do. If only I could grow, like, nine inches taller, then I could look down my chin at them and puff out my chest?—”

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