Page 17 of Kane

A low whine escapes me as I watch him drink the coffee, and I have to stifle it to not sound like a total pervert who gets turned on by watching hot guys guzzle coffee every day. Because I’m not.

He lets out a sigh as he stops, wiping the cream off his lips with the back of his hand. A little spreads into his beard, and I have to fight the urge to stare and lick it up myself.

I clamp my jaw tights, cross my arms, and try to remain as normal as possible while I wait for his answer.

Will he still find it gross? Demand his money back?

Does he know I’m thinking dirty thoughts about him right now? I hope not.

His eyebrows tighten as his jaw tenses, and for a moment, I think he’s going to tell me the coffee’s shit and that I’m a liar. But to my surprise, he nods, clearing his throat as he says, “Not bad.”

It’s like a weight is lifted off my shoulders the minute he speaks, the minute his lips turn up in the corners. Thank God.

I give him a genuine smile. “Told you. Can’t even taste the fungus.”

Kane chuckles, the sound deep and warm, which makes my insides twist.

Jesus, even his laugh is sexy. I let my gaze drift over him as he drinks his coffee, taking in all his features. Everything about him is attractive in a way that stokes the monster inside of me, taunting me like a dangling carrot.

It’s only when he speaks that I realize I’m being obvious about my very unprofessional staring, and my cheeks heat instantly.

“See something you like?” he asks, his voice strangely humorous and seductive at the same time. Like he finds this—finds me—amusing.

“Just uh… admiring your, uh… artwork,” I say, trying to cover up my momentary lapse of stupidity as I nod towards his knuckle with the most visible tattoo I can see—the number thirteen.

Kane glances down at his arm for a moment before looking back at me as he passes his coffee off to his other hand and shoves the tattooed hand in his pocket.

“You have any? Tattoos, I mean,” he asks nonchalantly. But I don’t miss the slight tension in his shoulders.

I shake my head. “Nope. Blank canvas here.”

I watch as the darkness in his gaze grows, like a shadow overtaking the light. He holds my gaze like he owns it. Like he owns me. The sight makes my damn dick jump, which I know is highly inappropriate given the circumstances. I turn around to give him my back, if only to adjust my dumb cock, just as the toaster buzzes.

Saved by the fucking cinnamon roll.

“Let me guess… you’re afraid of the pain, right?” he asks with a slight tone of annoyance.

I could just tell him yes, and that would be it. End of story, end of interaction. I’d give him his pastry, he’d leave, and I’d just go on with my night, clean and restock, close the kiosk up. Head home to my sister and her creepy girlfriend.

But the problem is I don’t want Kane to leave. I want him to stay here, to keep talking to me with that sexy as sin voice, to soak up whatever attention I can from him because it’s been too long since I’ve had any sort of male attention. Especially the kind that leaves me feeling this good. And the guy hasn’t even touched me; no more than a polite graze of his fingers, anyway.

Maybe that’s why the words fall out of my mouth too easily; why I regret them immediately.

“No, I’m not afraid of pain,” I say, watching his gaze darken. The sight makes my stomach flip, and I can’t help but bite my lip to keep the moan that wants to escape me inside.

“Is that so?” Kane asks, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips even though I know there’s not a drop of cream left there because I’ve been staring at them long enough to know.

Nervously, I add, “I’m afraid I’ll like it too much and end up with a body covered from head to toe.” I mean the words to be humorous, but there’s also a bit of truth in them, too. Though Kane doesn’t know that. There’s a thick silence for a moment, and I think I might’ve just fucked up and made this really awkward, but before I can escape underneath the counter to die of embarrassment, Kane laughs, and I swear the air feels lighter, and I feel a deep sense of relief. The smile that splits my face is genuine, just like my reciprocal laugh. Suddenly, the world feels less shitty. I can’t remember the last time I had a good, genuine laugh like this.

Kane smiles, and I swear, it’s the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen on a guy. Like he, too, is at ease in a way that feels strangely comfortable right now—here, with me—despite the fact we’re strangers.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that,” he says, his gaze roving over me again.

I toss his cinnamon roll in the bag and offer it to him, feeling a little better. Once again, he takes the item from my hand, slowly; his fingers grazing over my knuckles. They linger there, longer than they should, and I realize he is doing this on purpose when he looks right in my eyes and fucking winks as he pulls away, removing those long, rough fingers from my grasp.

My skin buzzes with warmth from where he briefly touched me, and I can’t hide my stupid blush.

“Thanks,” he says, and I get the feeling he’s thanking me for something other than coffee and dessert, but I’m not quite sure what exactly.