Page 80 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Thatcher, oblivious to her subtle advances, meets her gaze. “Coffee, black, one sugar and the family breakfast meal,” he says smoothly, his voice steady and casual as if he’s ordered this a million times, completely unaware of the way the waitress is leaning into his personal space.

The waitress beams at Thatcher, her smile widening as she jots down his order. “Coming right up,” she chirps, her tone overly sweet. She lingers for a second too long, her gaze flickering to his face as if hoping he’ll acknowledge her more directly.

But Thatcher’s attention shifts to me, his eyes sharp and calculating.

“And for you?” she finally asks, her voice hardening as she glares at me.

“She’ll have a small stack of pancakes with chocolate syrup and a cinnamon latte,” he says, cutting in before I can even open my mouth.

The waitress scribbles down my order, slightly thrown by his decisiveness, but quickly recovers and gives Thatcher a smile. “Okay. Coming right up.” Her tone sweet enough to make my teeth ache. She throws me a pointed glare before sauntering away, her hips swaying dramatically with each step.

I watch her retreat, my irritation bubbling over. “Seriously?” I hiss, turning my glare on Thatcher. “What was that?”

“What?” he says nonchalantly, leaning back in the booth and draping an arm over the backrest. “You like pancakes. And chocolate. And cinnamon lattes right?”

I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to let his casual demeanor deflect my irritation. “How do you fucking know that?”

Thatcher’s smirk widens, a flicker of mischief dancing in his green eyes. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers laced together. “I pay attention, Dove,” he says simply.

I stare at him, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “That’s… that’s creepy,” I manage, my voice trembling slightly.

He arches a brow, his smirk softening into something almost amused. “Creepy?” Before he can continue, the waitress arrives again with the coffee orders.

“One cinnamon latte,” she announces, setting the mug down a little too roughly in front of me, giving me a forced smile before turning to Thatcher. “And one black coffee with sugar,” she adds, placing his drink in front of him with a practiced careful ease, a wide smile in place.

He barely acknowledges her, his eyes locked on me as he lifts his coffee to his lips. The waitress hovers for a second longer, as if expecting something more, but when nothing comes, she heads off toward the counter.

I watch her go, a weird mix of annoyance and pity twisting in my gut. She obviously is attracted to Thatcher, and it’s painfully obvious how much she’s trying to get his attention. The way she lingered, the smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I turn my attention back to him, unable to shake the feeling of discomfort his indifference has caused. “Are you always this oblivious, or do you just enjoy watching people squirm?”

“What do you mean, Dove?” he asks, his tone laced with innocence, though the glint in his eyes betrays him.

I narrow my eyes, fighting the urge to call out his ignorance. “She wants you to fuck her.”

He hums thoughtfully, tilting his head to glance past me, probably toward the counter where the waitress is stationed. Hisexpression remains unreadable as he looks back at me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“That’s something…” he says, his voice slow and deliberate as it drops lower. “But you’re the one filled with my come, Dove, and the only one I want to fuck.”

My breath catches at his words, and I can’t think of a single thing to say. Suddenly his come in my underwear feels like a statement, a reminder of what this is. Maybe even a prize. But I hate that he left my pussy throbbing, aching, screaming for him.

I shuffle quickly out of the booth, relieved that somehow, I have unspoken permission to clean myself. The acknowledgement was all I needed. But before I can fully walk away, his voice cuts through the moment, low and commanding.

“Where are you going, Dove?”

I freeze, my pulse hammering in my ears. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy and unyielding, pinning me in place. My fingers curl into fists at my sides as I force myself to turn back, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as I can muster.

“Bathroom,” I say sharply, though the word comes out defensive. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

His lips curve into a slow smirk, the kind that makes my stomach twist. “Sit back down,” he says simply, like it’s not a request but an order, his tone daring me to disobey.

I glare at him, my pulse spiking. “Fuck you,” I bite out, almost laughing at his audacity. I hurry away to the bathroom, my heart racing in my chest as I feel his eyes burn into my back. The tension in the air clings to me, suffocating, and I can feel him watching.

I slam the bathroom stall door behind me and immediately pull down my pants. Actually, these things are coming all the way off. I hang them on the hook on the back of the door and then remove my underwear. I clean it as much as I can, wiping off his semen. I glance down at my naked body, not caring if anyonewalks in on me. I use water and soap to clean my underwear and then I dry them under the hand dryer. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, realizing how insane I look, bottom-half naked in this random bathroom. I should just throw this fucking underwear away.

I step back into my stall just as the main door swings open. My heart is hammering against my chest, but I hear the clank of heels and feel relieved it’s not him.

I exhale, locking my stall door and hold my underwear up to get a good look at them.

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