Page 4 of Hungry Hearts

“Not if you can make it with any flavor and adjust the toppings any way you want. You need to pick a flavor.”

“I’ll concede. Vanilla.”

She snorts and it’s the cutest, sexiest thing I’ve heard. Granted, I’d love to hear her moans under me, but this will do. For now.

“You’re hardly a vanilla guy.”

“What are you implying?” I lean further across the bar and run my finger down the condensation on her glass.

Her throat visibly struggles as she swallows, and her cheeks turn a fucking beautiful pink.

“You’re...not as simple as vanilla.”

“After everything I’ve told you about myself, now you’re stereotyping me?”

“Fine. Why vanilla?”

Oh, the opening I’ve been waiting for, other than the one between her legs. “Vanilla is like a blank slate. You can dress it, undress it, top it, bottom it, play around with flavors until it’s to your liking.”

Her eyes grow wide and I’m pretty sure she’s picking up on my innuendos. Thank fuck.

“Sometimes the sweet purity of vanilla is all you need to satisfy your craving. And other times, you still want the vanilla, but you’re in the mood for slow and sensual so you add strawberries. And other times...” I pierce her with my gaze and lower my voice so others around us can’t hear. “You crave a rich, dark, sinful chocolate that you know is so bad for you yet tastes so fucking good.”

Her gasp does me in. Nope, it’s her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip that has my dick fighting for its life behind my zipper.

“Excuse me, can I get a glass of water?” The lady four seats down asks.

“I think I need one too,” my angel whispers.

I push myself off the counter and take care of my customers. Never have I prayed for closing time like I am tonight. I need to take this woman back to a room and fuck her until she can’t walk for days, and she’ll never be happy with sex again unless it’s with me.

Giving my dick a break, I lighten up the questions. “Favorite day of the week?” I ask.

“Saturday.”

“Hm. Too predictable.” I shake my head as if disappointed in her response. “Wednesday.”

“Let me guess. Hump day?”

I shake my head but love her assumption. “Because it’s the day I met you.”

“I don’t know if I should swoon or laugh in your face. You’re obviously quite good at this flirting thing. You fit the bartender stereotype quite well.”

Ignoring the snub, which is false, and I know she’s only saying it to cut back on the sexual tension in the air, I rapid-fire questions. “Favorite music genre? I’ll go first so you don’t accuse me of plagiarizing. Mostly classic rock but I’ll put up with country if I'm in the mood.”

“I love country, pop, and classic rock. Depends on my mood.”

As tempted as I am to ask what kind of music she likes to listen to when she’sin the mood,I don’t.

“Favorite movie?”

“Romantic comedies.”

“That’s not a movie.”

“And sundae isn’t an ice cream. Yours?”

I chalk a point for her in the air. “Lady and the Tramp.”

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