Page 21 of Pucking With My Head

Now that Chris was back at the bar, I could leave. I was here to do inventory and behind-the-scenes work and was only covering while he changed one of the barrels in the cellar.

Bethany downed her glass of wine before getting up and giving the prick a small smile and making a beeline for the bathroom. It may have been the wrong move, but I followed her, anger churning in my gut.

The bathrooms were at the very back of the restaurant, with a small corridor between them and the main building, so it was somewhat secluded. Leaning against the wall, I watched and waited for Bethany to exit.

When she reappeared, her eyes were firmly on the floor. Her blonde hair, which she usually pulled back in a ponytail, was falling in golden waves that my hands itched to tangle themselves up in.

She looked breathtaking and was wasting it on an idiot.

“Bethany,” I said, my voice a little more growly than I intended.

She jumped at the sound of her name, her eyes darting up to meet mine, before breaking into a small smile. “Cullen, what are you doing here?”

Did she not know this was my restaurant?

Was it simply fate that, of all the places she could have ended up on a bad date, she’d ended up at my establishment?

“What are you doing spending time with an idiot like that?” I asked, pleasantries be fucked.

“I’m on a date,” she said, hugging herself around the middle and frowning. My grumpiness was radiating off me, so undoubtedly she was feeling it.

“Please tell me you can agree that he’s a waste of space.”

“He’s not that bad.” She sighed, but the words rang hollow and she didn’t meet my eye. A snort of laughter escaped me, making her glower at me. “I need to go back,” she said, moving to walk past me.

“No.” The word left my lips before I could think them through.

“No?” Bethany asked, bewildered.

My eyes kept trailing down to the expanse of skin along her neck and her chest. I wanted to run my lips down them and taste her. Would she taste as sweet as her scent?

I bet she did.

When I didn’t reply, Bethany frowned. “My date is waiting for me,” she said softly, brushing past me.

My body reacted, and I shot forward by an almost primal instinct. Gripping her waist with one hand, I dragged her to the wall, pressing my body against hers, the other arm resting on the wall next to her head, caging her in.

This close, I could almost taste her, the rich hint of wine on her breath escaping those pouty lips. She was perfection, and she had no idea.

“Why are you letting that shit for brains take you out?” I asked, my voice dangerously low.

Our faces were only an inch apart, and Bethany gazed up at me. She was shocked, but there was something more to her expression. The way her lips parted ever so slightly, her eyeswidening as her breathing deepened. As she took in my scent, her pupils dilated and the smell of her desire became apparent.

Sweet. Oh, so fucking sweet.

It was the kind of scent that could bring a man to his knees.

“C-Cullen,” Bethany whispered, my name on her lips the sweetest of prayers. She wasn’t angry or scared.

She wanted me.

My body was moving of its own volition, all common sense escaping me. Lurching toward her, I pressed her against the wall, every curve of her body flush against mine like she was built just for me. My hand on her waist grasped at the flesh of her thigh, pulling her closer to me.

Our lips crashed together, and it wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was hungry, frantic. I needed to taste every inch of her, to consume her. My suspicions were confirmed: she tasted like fucking ambrosia. Nothing had ever come close to her—and nothing ever would.

Her hands fisted my shirt, while the hand that had been caging her was tangled in her hair, keeping her firmly against me.

In the small hallway, her scent only intensified, her need palpable.

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