Page 1 of Taste Of You

One

I am fucked.

Screwed.

Up a river without a single measure of security to keep me from drowning in this renewed hunger churning within. A yearning the likes of which I haven’t felt in years: attraction. This scorch within my veins causes my chest to feel tight and my cock to throb in time with my every breath.

And all this as the walking temptation before me just smiles.

Nothing more. Not a single care in the world for how she’s turning my life on its axis.

It’s sweet the way her top lip curls up at one side, and yet, you can’t deny there’s a subtle sinful edge to her expression that very few women can pull off.

Being a successful bar owner, I’ve seen it all over the years. The overdone and fake—surgically enhanced until recognizing their unique beauty is nearly impossible. Because after spending their every cent and those of the men they con on beauty products and procedures, they look just like everyone else.

Nothing stands out. Instead, they’re nothing more than a semi-pretty face in a sea of what’s hot and trendy.

Moreover, with my luck, they all enter my bar with the desire to land something hard for the night. Money hungry and coquettish, they want the attention I’ll never give. That up until this very moment I’ve had no desire to.

I couldn’t even tell you the last time I felt the touch of a woman. Her wetness on my fingertips. Her heat surrounding my cock.

Easily more than three years, and before my mother passed, leaving me this bar. Wasted is my first bar, and has been in the family for longer than I’ve been alive. Means the most out of the four I own throughout the East Coast.

This one is my base, though. New York is my heart and home.

“How can I help—” The resounding crack of my neck as I turn to look at Ben, my bartender, is loud. It makes him take a step back, while my glare keeps him from saying another word. With two hands up, he walks back to his station and places another beer in front of a regular.

I can feel the looks of those around me, but I don’t give a flying fuck. My attention is on her. Only her.

With him gone, I look back at my—

No, not mine. Just a pretty thing that has my curiosity piqued. Nothing fucking more than that. All I want is a taste of whatever heaven she is selling.

Leaning over the bar top, I place my hands face down on the resin top and lean forward. I raise a brow and wait for her to speak, to tell me what she wants so I can deliver.

She mutters the word right under her breath before squaring her shoulders. “Hi, I’m Camille, and I saw your sign outside saying you’re looking for a waitress?” At the sound of her sweet, dulcet tone, the noise level around me drops to a dull thrum. Almost nonexistent.

It’s odd—feeling this out of control over my surroundings and reactions. Doesn’t sit well with me, and I respond with a short nod. It’s all I can muster without having her run from me. My thoughts are dirty and my need full of depravity.

She huffs under her breath, and the action causes her body to jiggle, a movement I catch and it’s completely mouthwatering. She’s short, almost too short to reach over the bar, but it’s enough for me to just make out her form in one of the mirrors behind her.

The little morsel in front of me is oblivious to this. To the way my chest lets out a low rumble as I watch her back arch and ass pop out just a tiny bit more as she shifts on her feet. Her lips are moving, and yet, I can’t make out a single syllable.

Instead, my dark brown eyes travel lower. Down her decadent curves and bitable cheeks to her thighs which are encased in a grey, skin-tight, and short-sleeved jersey dress. Fabric stretched, it leaves very little to the imagination, and it both pisses me the fuck off and turns me on.

Fuck the summer months and the need they create for women to show skin. Not women, just her. This pretty little thing should come with a warning and wear a parka year-round.

From somewhere behind me there is a feminine clearing of a throat, but I ignore it and focus on how soft her long hair looks. How the beachy waves with a few subtle highlights flow down the center of her back.

My cock pulses and my hands clench. The need to pull her across the bar and into my arms is strong, but I keep my composure instead, fighting against every male instinct, and try to control my breathing.

There’s no way she could or should work here.

Ben coughs, and my eyes snap to his amused ones. “Everything okay there, boss?”

“Peachy,” I half grunt, my voice rougher than I intend, and then I’m back to Camille. A Camille that now looks unsure as I sweep my eyes across her body once more.

And that’s when I notice her blush and how it travels down her neck and disappears under the edge of that godforsaken dress. Fuck, I need to see more.

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