Page 16 of Kane

Kane twists his lips as he looks at me, like he’s contemplating something quite deeply.

“What do you put in yours?” he asks, his dark green gaze finding mine far too easily.

Kane’s gaze is sharp, and something about it makes my blood rush.

I blink, trying to think of a non-sexual way to tell this man what kind of cream I take in my coffee. And resisting the urge to tell him I’d like to put his cream in my coffee, because I know how fucking weird and perverted that is to tell a stranger. Hell, telling my partners what I want is bad enough, because that usually ends in disaster. But I can’t deny the urge is there; pestering me like a goblin.

Do it. See what he says…

No! What are you insane?

I swallow hard and clear my throat, attempting to speak like a functional human being, but Kane speaks before I can.

“Fix it how you like it,” he says, with what I can only describe as the cockiest head nod in history. The sexy look on his face is a mix of intrigue and lethal interest that should deter me for so many reasons. Everything about this man is a warning, from his dark gaze to his sharp jawline to his tight jeans and studded boots. His perilous gaze feels dangerous; maybe even slightly possessive, which is a definite red flag for sure.

“Yes, Sir.” I say the words and instantly regret them, because while they are just normal words, maybe even professional in some sense, to me those words mean something else completely. I can’t help the way my cheeks heat from my word vomit, so I turn around quickly in an attempt to hide my stupid blush. God, this guy probably thinks I’m an absolute imbecile.

This isn’t one of Claire’s dark romance books. I don’t know this guy, don’t know anything other than his name, so for all I know he could be one of those straight assholes who get offended when a guy flirts with them.

Or worse—he could be a serial killer who only goes after blushing baristas with degradation kinks. I don’t fucking know. New York City is full of bad men who prey on desperate people. Men who wouldn’t blink twice at the thought of hurting you because you look wrong, or because they feel threatened by you no matter how unassuming you are, or because you just fucking exist and that’s an issue. Or my personal favorite, because you say something wrong or come on too strong, and suddenly their masculinity is challenged and then you’re nursing a black eye with a frozen bag of peas instead of getting some well-needed aftercare and cuddles. But that’s my problem, my curse in life, I guess. We’ve all got flaws, and mine is that I like bad guys. The ones you can see a mile away that you know you should steer clear of; the ones you know will break your spine the first chance they get and leave you sore for days; the ones who will twist and tear you apart from the inside out whether you want them to or not.

The ones that will use you and leave you a hot mess afterwards, praying for absolution, and won’t be sorry about it one bit.

I wish I knew why I was like this; wish that I could come up with some psychological bullshit reasoning like I wasn’t hugged enough as a kid or something, but that’s just not the case. My family’s great. I have Claire, my sister, who despite our seven-year age gap, is more like my younger sister in spirit. She’s the closest thing I have to a best friend here, in New York, and she also happens to be my roommate, and I don’t think we’ve ever fought in our entire lives over anything, at least not anything of importance. My mom’s amazing, and has never not supported me in literally anything I’ve ever done, from trying out for the fall play to taking up ballroom dancing because I saw one episode of Dancing With The Stars, to my brief stint as a male underwear model last year. I don’t think there’s anything that phases her, to tell the truth. Though I don’t see her as often as I’d like these days, it's not because we had a falling out or anything. I’m just busy trying to keep my head above water and she’s busy traveling with her “Girl Squad”, aka twelve of her closest friends, which she’s been doing since Dad—er, Dean—died. It’s still weird to think that he’s not my dad. Biologically, I mean. After I found out, when I asked my mom who my real dad was, all she said was that he was an asshole and doesn’t even know I exist. But Dean, the only dad I have ever known, was one of the kindest, bravest men on the planet before cancer took him two years ago. Which is how I found out he wasn’t my real dad in the first place.

Of all the cancers he could have ended up with—the last one anyone would expect would be bone marrow cancer. I wasn’t a match because DNA is a bitch, and that’s how I found out the truth, which sucks. I’m still pissed that my mother didn’t tell me the truth before I had to find out for myself. Though she says she did it for a reason—to keep me safe or whatever—I have a hard time believing her. So I’ve been trying to find the man who made me ever since, which hasn’t been as fruitful of a search as I’d hoped as of yet.

I wish I could blame my niche needs on any of those reasons, but none of those things are the reason I put myself into these situations; the ones where I know I’m going to end up hurt. Hell, even moving in with Claire hasn’t helped like I thought it would, and I’m closer to her than anyone else. I still crave the grasp of a rough hand around my neck. I still ache to feel owned, to feel that high I only feel when I’m being used by a big, tough asshole who knows how to make me feel it for days. I miss that blissful unraveling comfort that lingers in my muscles long after I’ve dropped. I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about these things, especially now, but the more I ignore the monster inside of me, the hungrier he gets. I don’t want to sound desperate, but I am. I’ve never gone this long without a master, or a boyfriend.

And I think it’s affecting my sanity as much as it is affecting my dick.

And then… in walked Kane, like something from my darkest fantasies, come to save me from the mundanity of my virtue, from my desperation, like some dark fae prince or some ruthless mafia king in a dark and deranged version of a Hallmark movie.

You need to stick to your guns this time…

And stop reading Claire’s books because they are clearly fucking with your brain.

I put the lid on Kane’s cup and slide the heat sleeve over it, then grab his cinnamon roll—the last one in the case—and toss it into the toaster oven with the tongs so it’ll warm up. Since he asked so sternly for it to be hot, and while I know it’s not an order like I prefer, it’s the closest thing to one I’m probably going to get, and the intrinsic desire to obey him is like second nature. Though I don’t think I’ll be able to get the pastry as hot as he is.

God, do you hear yourself, Ryder?

Maybe I should make a point to get off tonight, let out some of this pent up frustration.

Sadly, I can’t remember the last time I had some quality time alone with my desperate dick because I’ve been working nonstop since Rebecca quit last week.

I slide Kane’s drink to him, turning away before he can see my stupid cheeks blush again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t think I’ve ever blushed this much in my life for anyone.

He pulls the cup towards him, his fingers slowly grazing mine. Part of me feels like he’s doing it on purpose, while the sane, rational part of me tells me I’m overreacting. That I’m projecting, looking for something that isn’t really there because I don’t know how to function like a normal twenty-six year old anymore after spending the last six months practically celibate, working sixty hours a week, and living with my sister and her girlfriend.

Okay, so Tori doesn’t actually live with us, but she’s always there, so it sort of counts.

“We close at five-thirty, just so you know,” I say, desperate to make small talk if only so I can hear that deep, sexy voice of his again and distract myself from my inappropriate dissociative fantasies as I watch him lick the foam from his lips.

Fucking hell, I really need to get laid.

Maybe I could just… browse Kinktastic later. Browsing and watching isn’t the same as getting fucked in person, so surely that doesn’t count….

Kane nods as he sips his coffee, glossing over my awkwardness, and I wait to see what he will say, trying desperately not to picture him swallowing my cream down his throat.