Clearing my throat, I guide her out of the living room and into the kitchen, where I deposit her on one of the stools, then move around the center island, keeping it between us. It’s mostly to avoid her feeling threatened. But it’s partly to keep her from seeing the front of my jeans bulging as my cock grows inconveniently stiff.
But watching her sitting there, so small and fragile, I want to comfort her. I also want to throw her down on the island and bury my face between her legs and taste her sweet juices. Which is why I plant my feet and stand firm on my side of the island, silently telling myself not to fucking move from this spot. The last thing she needs is a man twice her age coming on to her. Especially not after what she went through last night.
“Coffee?” I ask.
She cocks her head and stares at me for a moment, her expression puzzled, like I just asked her a question in Greek or Chinese. But then she gives herself a shake.
“Um. No. Sorry,” she says. “I actually don’t really like coffee.”
“You work in a coffee shop.”
“Doesn’t mean I like to drink it.”
“Fair enough.”
“Do you have any juice?”
“I do. Orange okay?”
“That would be great,” she says. “Thank you.”
I grab a glass from the cupboard, then walk to the refrigerator and pour her a glass of orange juice. She drinks it all, so I refill the glass and then set the pitcher down.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Of course. Are you hungry?”
She pauses as if taking mental stock of herself, then nods. “I am. Very,” she says as if surprised. “But I really want to know what happened last night and how you came to be where you were at just the right time.”
I take a drink of my coffee, staring into her eyes over the rim of my mug. “Honestly, being there at the right time was just dumb luck. I’d like to say otherwise, but it wouldn’t be true,” I tell her. “As for how, I knew he had asked you out and you agreed to go, even though it didn’t look like you really wanted to.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why’d you agree?”
“I… is that really any of your business?”
“No. Just curious.”
She stares down at herself again, and her face pales. “I’m wearing nothing but a t-shirt I assume is yours and a pair of panties.”
“Yes.”
“Meaning you took off my clothes.”
“I did,” I say with a nod. “I wanted you to be comfortable.”
“I don’t even know your name. I mean, I think I do, but?—”
“It’s Burke. Burke Wagner,” I tell her.” Burke, with an ‘e’. And rest assured, I didn’t do anything to you other than put you in a t-shirt and put you to bed.”
Her face flushes, and she lowers her gaze. “I… I know that,” she says.
“That’s a relief”, I puff out a tense breath.
“Black coffee guys aren’t the type to take liberties with an unconscious girl.”
Our eyes meet, and I feel an electric jolt shoot through my body. My skin tingles and my heart races like I stuck a fork in a goddamn light socket. She licks her lips, and I’m transfixed by the sight of her soft, pink tongue, imagining her sliding it over parts of my anatomy that are currently harder than my marble countertop. But then she looks away, and the bubble between us pops.
