Page 12 of Taste Of You

A small giggle escapes her. “Can we make this a daily occurrence?”

“What?” I ask, and press the button for the first floor once inside the elevator. “Be more specific.”

The cart descends, and she looks at me. Pierces me with her blue eyes. “The compliments, Jet. I like having your attention.” Pink blooms across her cheek, and I bite my own in order to hold in my groan of pain.

Fuck.

Fuck.

How can I fight this?

That’s my thought as I help her into my car and drop her off at school in silence. A silence we share through occasional glances and a few smiles.

Even as I pull away from the curb and glance back at her through my rearview mirror, the question is there.

But more importantly, so is the answer.

It’s—we are inevitable.

This desire to mount and own her pussy is maddening. Almost uncontrollable.

Camille is killing me, and the worst part is that I think she knows. It’s all in that subtle smile every time she’s near, or the way she seeks my approval in everything she does.

The torment she inflicts is brutal, but I wouldn’t change it. I love it.

Love everything, but the way men stare. How they lust after her.

It’s the same every fucking day she’s on shift. On time, always helpful, and a fast learner—everyone loves her, and the male clientele salivates each time she walks the floor. Her section is always busy, and my staff finds the grinding of my teeth and the permanent glare hilarious.

I don’t. Not in the least.

Because if I catch one more motherfucker trying to ask her out, I’m going to snap.

Thank fuck this night is almost over.

“Hey, boss man,” Millie calls out from across the bar. She’s leaning over the countertop, looking at me with a sweet smile that I reciprocate.

“Yeah?” I walk over and match her stance. I’m close enough that I can inhale her sweet exhales. “Whatcha need, sweetheart?”

“Bucket of Heineken, and to head out a little early if possible?” As the last word reaches my ears, I catch a slimy punk getting closer to her from behind. He’s staring at her ass, almost reaching out to touch her.

“Touch her and I’ll break both hands.” At the menace in my tone, they both freeze. “Better yet, get the fuck out of my bar.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her. Just wanted to talk and—”

“Never touch a woman without her consent,” I growl out, my hand clenching into a tight fist, the blunt fingernails cutting into my skin. “She’s not a piece of property, nor asking to be harassed. That’s a dick move, and I’ll be damned if you do so in my bar. Especially to her.”

“You dating him, Camille?” The punk narrows his eyes at her. “Look at me,” he demands, and I jump over the bar.

“Watch yourself.” At my snarl, he takes a step back, but his posture remains aggressive.

“Camille,” he starts again, but before I can lay his ass out, Millie places a hand on my chest and turns her head toward him.

Her touch is an instant balm to my raging ire. At once, I can see past the red haze and notice that the entire bar is quiet.

“I don’t owe you an explanation, Alex.” Her lip curls up in disgust while she angles herself closer to me. Just a smidge, but our arms touch and for the moment, it’s enough. “Not you, or anyone else. I’ve already said no three times tonight. Not interested.”

“But—”

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