Patchwhore(9)

By: Kim Jones



I know I’m being petty. So we shared an intimate moment. It’s not like there’s anything to be ashamed of. Sure, I never thought I’d see him again … sober. But he’s here. This is my job. And when I’m not in a bathroom, against a wall with a man’s face buried in my vagina, I’m a professional.

Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath and force my feet to walk to his table. While he keeps his face buried in the menu, I take the time to appreciate his good looks with a clear head. His light brown hair. Square jaw with a few days of scruff. Them Val Kilmer lips. Shocking blue eyes framed in dark lashes. Muscular, cut arms that are well defined even beneath his long-sleeved thermal. When he notices me, he smiles. My knees go a little weak. He’s beautiful…

“Carmen? Right?” I just stare at him—my thoughts going stupid. He remembered my name. Or maybe he read my name badge. How could he forget me? The bastard…

“If you weren’t breathing so hard, I’d think you didn’t like me.” His words make me aware of the scowl on my face and my labored breaths.

I shut my mouth and straighten, forcing myself to breathe through my nose. “What can I get you to drink?” I ask, trying to ignore the deep tone of his voice that makes me ache. I wonder what it would sound like if he told me to take my panties off… My cheeks flush at my thoughts.

“Sweet tea.” I can hear the laughter in his voice as I turn on my heel—keeping my head down until I disappear from sight.

“Oh, he is too fine,” Jeannie says. Thankfully, she’s too busy looking at him to notice my shaky hands as I fix his tea.

“He’s okay.” I feign nonchalance.

“Yeah. That’s why he’s got you so overheated. Your skin is the color of my hair.” My eyes flit to her fiery red hair. I blush darker.

“I’m just hot,” I blurt before realizing I’d given her even more ammunition to tease me.

“I bet you are.” She dips her head to my ear and slaps my backside hard. “Go get em’, tiger.”

I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

I say the mantra over and over in my head as I make my way back to his table. I manage to set his tea down without spilling it everywhere, and regretfully, give him an expectant look. He’s smiling up at me. I’m melting.

“Ready to order?”

“You on the menu?” Classic…

“Do you want something to eat or not?” Thankfully, he has the grace not to comment on my poor choice of words. But his smile turns wicked and his eyes darken. My stomach flips. He knows I’m remembering that night. Just like I know he’s thinking of it too.

“Steak and eggs. Medium rare on the steak. Over medium on the eggs. Raisin toast. No butter.”

“Watching your figure?” I quip, temporarily forgetting the awkwardness.

His eyes roam my body. He’s seen me on a good day—up close and personal. But even covered in sticky syrup and bacon grease, he looks at me like I’m sexy. And it makes me feel sexy.

“You have a good figure. What’s your secret?”

I drag my mind back to the present, and answer his question as evasively as possible. “Ramen noodles and the occasional waffle with burnt edges.” My truth has him pulling his eyes back to mine—that sexy half smile still in place.

“A girl like you deserves better than a ten cent pack of noodles and a free waffle.” The intensity in his voice is surprising. It’s as if he actually believes I do deserve more. And he’s pissed I don’t have it.

“You don’t even know me,” I mutter, scribbling his order.

“I know enough.” My tongue slides over my lips. Like his did … on my other lips. “Head outta the gutter, gorgeous.” Jerking my head up, I meet his cocky smile.

“Your order will be up soon. Let me know if I can get you anything.” I don’t notice his reaction to my generic line. I just walk away embarrassed and kicking myself for allowing him to tease me. Once again, I take my anger out on the dishwasher—stacking cups and slamming the door with a little more force than necessary.

If I’m being completely honest with myself, the cause of my frustration stems from my sexual need. Just the memory of what we’d done stirs the embers of desire inside me until it becomes a blazing inferno. I’ve masturbated more in the past three weeks than I have in my entire life. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t reach that level of oblivion I experienced with him. It’s infuriating. And I’m sure seeing him again will only add to the fantasies I have when I’m in bed. Or in the shower. At work. Everywhere.

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