Page 87 of Filthy Little Secret

He starts to move toward me, and I can tell he’s thinking about kissing me.

Then he stops and glances around.

For a moment, it seems we both managed to forget where we were, and what we could and couldn’t do here.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For being you. For making plans like this tonight. For being my special guy.”

I wish I could kiss him right now.

He’s so adorable, and his thin pink lips are practically begging for mine, but I control my impulse.

After we finish dancing, I pay our check and head back out to the car. I pop a mint and then give him one as I drive him back to my place.

“Pull over,” he says after a few minutes. His voice is a low growl. I do as I’m told, and as I obey, I turn and his lips are on mine in no time. He unbuttons his shirt furiously, and I unbutton mine. We undress, clawing at each other’s clothes and bodies as we do, the hot fire of our passion steaming up the windows.

I can’t get him in me fast enough.

I just want to be moaning in ecstasy as he fulfills all those sexual desires he’s created…and something so much deeper that I crave even more.

31

TIM

Istock a fresh case of Budweiser into the ice bucket under the counter before taking my next two customers.

The date with Mark last night was incredible, especially when we got back in the car.

It was a defining moment in our relationship. In my life. It symbolized this transitionary period I’m going through. This is the new me. I figured I’d be annoyed working at The Independent, knowing a bunch of the kids who frequent this place are some of my old clients, but it hasn’t been bad. They’ve been pretty friendly, and my boyfriend brings his buddies around more often just to sneak a kiss every once and a while—something my boss Karen not only enjoys, but encourages.

While I’m chatting up my customers, I catch a familiar face within my periphery.

Greg steps into the bar with his new boy toy, some freshman at Emory. I saw them around campus together during those last days when I was still dealing.

Haven’t seen Greg here before, but a lot of the Emory kids hang out at the Independent, so it’s not a huge surprise.

When he spots me, his eyes light up.

I can tell what he’s thinking. That I’ve fallen from grace now that I’m working at a bar. He thinks of this as some dead-end job. If only he knew how much freer I feel here than I ever did when I was swapping cash for drugs. Might as well been a fucking stripper. The sleaze. The stigma. The judgment. All from the ones paying for it.

He heads to the bar with his man.

“Oh, hey, Tim,” he says. “Funny seeing you here. Can I get a vodka sprite and a Long Island Iced Tea for my friend Ryan?”

“ID?” I ask.

He sizes me up like he’s wondering if I’m gonna get all prudish with him now that I’m behind a bar rather than working the streets.

They hand me fake IDs, but pretty good ones, and I’m not gonna be a dick tonight.

“Those are pretty damn good,” I say. “Who gave you those? Marco Ventura?”

“You know it.” He turns to his guy. “Hey, babe.”

The wordbabemakes me fucking cringe, but I think it’s the way it sounds coming from Greg and knowing that he’s a fucking asshole.

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