His palm found her just above the knee. Her skin was supple satin. She leaned into his touch, shifting closer to the opening of his booth.
The residual echoes of panic and fear evaporated. Only desire remained. His dick grew hot and heavy and uncomfortable in his jeans. The stupid thing sent a message up to his brain—Kiss her. His little brain took control, bypassing his big one.
Slowly, to show his intention, he reached up to her neck and drew her down. In her eyes, he saw himself. Saw the blur of the tattoo on his cheek and knew, in the deepest sense of knowing, that they were destined to inhabit the same space. Just as their lips touched, she closed her eyes, but he didn’t. He watched her as he felt the softness of her mouth on his.
She licked the seam of his lips. More from a sense of surprise than any knowledge of kissing, he opened his mouth to her. Her tongue swept inside and met his. Warm, sweet honey exploded across his taste buds. She tasted as good as she smelled. He devoured her, felt her hand on his head, pulling him closer, grinding their mouths together in mutual hunger.
All his senses, except for hearing, were dominated by her. He tasted her honey. Smelled the warm sweetness of her desire. Felt her straining into his touch. All the while, he watched her beautiful face as he kissed her. He reveled in the sanctity of her.
He slid his hand up her thigh until his fingertips brushed the edge of her shorts. His dick was going to bust the zipper, but he couldn’t stop. He wanted her. More than he’d ever wanted in his life. Her. Only her.
“Order up!”
Holy Jesus. Even he heard that.
She jumped away from him, sloshing coffee over the table. She blinked as if just waking from a dream, then winked—winked—at him and hurried to the kitchen window.
A giant smile cracked across his face. He probably looked demented, but he couldn’t help himself. Not only had he finally had his first kiss, but she’d winked at him without regret or embarrassment at his ill-timed sprint toward first base.
From the kitchen window, Mr. Clean shot hate bullets directly at Lathan’s head, but that did nothing to dim the wattage of his smile.
Lathan drank a barrel full of coffee while he waited for her shift to end and focused on his new hobby: watching her—and only her. His hands had begun to tremble from the caffeine overload, and he’d started to notice the SMs. Even though he’d had no problems controlling them since he met her, they now hovered at the periphery of his mind, testing the firmness of his boundaries.
Had to be the caffeine. He’d never drunk so much coffee and been around people at the same time. Lesson learned. Too much caffeine affected his control.
He needed to leave, get away from the people before the SMs tried to take over, but he couldn’t leave her alone, unprotected against Junior and the Strategist.
The vision in his left eye wavered, then disappeared as one of the trucker’s memories played.
Her ass swayed, luscious in its movements as she walked away from him. She shouldn’t be a waitress. She should be a stripper. He imagined her at a classy joint like Barely There. Topless. Perfect tits. Nipples tilting skyward just how he liked them. On the stage, she melted to her hands and knees and crawled toward him. She bowed low, lifting her ass in the air like a satisfied feline.
Lathan pinched his nose closed and inhaled sharply through his mouth. The SM was some asshole’s memory of imagining her in a strip club. He tried to shove the SM out of his mind—focus on the diner—
Her tongue crooked, beckoning him like a finger. She cupped her full breasts, pinched her nipples.
No, those weren’t her breasts. They were some asshole’s imagination of what her breasts looked like.
Lathan shot to his feet, bumping against the table. I need to get the fuck out of here before—
Honey was in front of him. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t concentrate on reading her words or even trying to hear them. He closed his arms around her, buried his nose in the skin of her neck, and sucked in her scent. The SMs retreated as if they couldn’t exist in the same space she did. She was a miracle. His miracle.
Her jaw moved against his chest, and he faintly heard her voice. He pulled back to see her words.
“What did you say?”
“Are you okay now?” She touched the space between his eye and his hairline and kept her gaze riveted on his left eye. “What happened?”
Holy Jesus. He had probably looked like he’d been possessed by the Antichrist. “I’m fine now.”
He could practically see the questions lining up in her brain, and he didn’t want to lie. “It’s just something that happens sometimes. Not a big deal. Nothing to worry about.” Please, don’t ask, he pleaded with his eyes.
She must have understood because she changed the subject. “I just clocked out.”
A woman emerged from the hallway next to the kitchen with a tray of food.
“That’s Brittany. My roommate. Tonight’s her first night. She’s trying to stay busy by picking up this job. What happened with Junior scared her. Really scared her.”
Really scared Honey too. And if Lathan was going to be completely honest, freaked him the fuck out. What had Junior been trying to do? Suck the soul out of her? He’d nearly succeeded.
“Junior is claiming she tried to roofie him but accidentally roofied herself. He’s saying that I was trying to rob him and he was defending himself. And of course, the cops believe him.”
He wished he could go back in time and wrap his hands around Junior’s neck—and feel the delicate hyoid bone break as he crushed Junior’s throat and extinguished his life. Instead, he tucked Honey into his side and walked down the row of booths toward the door. He needed some fresh air to calm the murderous impulses.
Outside, he stopped. “You can take your shoes off. Your feet must be killing you.”