Icing On The Cake. Laura Castoro
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of my nose signals that we’re kissably close. Or, I’ve reached my martini limit.
He twists on his stool to fully face me. The result is my knees become nestled between his spread legs and I find it a little harder to keep my expression bland. “Is your product any good?”
“I’d match my bread against any bakery in the tri-state area.”
He laughs and it’s the most seductive thing. I feel this out-of-character-but-urgent desire to put my arms about his neck, and French-kiss him until we melt into a puddle on the floor.
A little perplexed by the force of my emotions, I look away from him. The truth is if I could have wild anonymous monkey sex with this man right this minute, I’d go for it.
I look up guiltily. “Did I just say something?”
He shakes his head. “But I’d give a dollar to hear what you’re thinking.”
Our gazes meet and I watch his pupils expand with the force of the desire in my expression. He’s going to say something, do something, I just know it.
Instead he picks up my glass and waggles it at the bartender. “I’m going to buy you one more, and then we’re going to say good night.”
I glance toward the door. Has the girlfriend arrived, after all? I don’t see anyone in particular, but then things have taken on a warm fuzzy glow. When I turn back he’s staring at me, and it hits me. I want this guy. “Why break up a nice evening?” I hope I don’t sound as giddy as I feel.
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