Andrew shrugs. “I ain’t lyin’, Neen. Already fuckin’ said it. I’ll say it again.” He leans in, palms up at his sides. “You’re beautiful, aight?”
The word hits her again—beautiful—and she hates how fast it fucks with her. She don't mean to move, don't remember tellin'her feet to go, but she’s closin' the space between ‘em, chest risin' like her lungs are tryin' to turn back time.
Andrew swallows hard when she gets close, standin’ with squared-up shoulders, tryin’ hard to appear unfazed while the cracks creep across his face.
She drags her eyes across him—that jawline, that mouth she tries not to stare at all the damn time. Then her fingers graze his face.
His lips part to speak, but she doesn’t want to hear it.
So she kisses him.
It doesn't last a second.
He’s pullin’ back fast, eyes wide, hands stiff at his sides as if he’s scared to accidentally touch her wrong. He tries to step back, but clips the bar behind him, raisin' his hand halfway, either blockin' her or beggin' her to stop. “Nina,” he says, his voice scrapin' out of him. “This ain’t right. This could fuck everything. I can’t lose this job.”
She shakes her head fast. She’s not thinking straight. She don't care.
“You won’t,” she says fast. “I swear. You won’t.”
He hasn’t moved, fists locked around the edge of the bar now. She don’t know what’s got him stuck: the paycheck or because of her age. Her saggin' tits. Her crow’s feet. Her droopy ass. Her fuckin’ mileage.
She’s forty-one.
He’s fuckin’ eighteen.
Shit.
She steps back when it hits her, hand flyin' up to her mouth.“Christ,I’m a fuckin’ idiot,” she spits, voice barely hangin’ on. “Course you don’t want this. Not with me, look at me.” The whole sentence crumbles on the last word.
Andrew’s mouth opens, but nothin’ comes out.
There’s a whole goddamn war goin’ on in his face.
And his eyes don’t know how to lie, so they drop to the ground fast.
Every muscle in him flexes, eyes scanning the sticky floor for answers, then what comes next unfolds slowly.
His jaw clenches as he grabs her waist.
First one hand, then the other, walkin' her back till the counter stops her.
The cold edge hits her spine, heat spreadin' everywhere else.
His gaze's dropped to where he’s unbuttoning her jeans, then her zipper's draggin’ slowly, followin' the line down like it’s the one he’s crossing. She doesn’t stop him—she should, but she can't. She's grippin’ the edge of the bar, tryin’ to breathe easy, anticipatin' each second.
His thumbs slide in, hook around her jeans and panties.
He drags 'em over her hips, down her thighs.
And he’s goin' with ‘em, lowerin' to one knee.
Her jeans and panties slump at her ankles and her shoes stay on while he makes her stance wide, makes her exposed, makes her pussy throb. She thinks about the hair. It’s been a while since she’s shaved. She wasn’t expectin' this. She’s about to apologize for it, for bein’ older, for all of it. Her mouth opens to say somethin’, but it's too late. His shoulder's already dipping between her thighs.
Then his head. Then his mouth.
His warm breath beats against her pussy first.
And then his hot, wet tongue slides right up the middle, parting her slit. Nina chokes on her gasp, a sound pulled from somewhere she thought dried up years ago. Because she can't remember the last time anyone’s gone down there. And he isn’t playin’. This isn’t some tongue flick-and-run tease or fingers-on-the-outside bullshit.
