Page 79 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“Any day now, Dove,” he murmurs, his voice lazy, green eyes glinting with amusement. “You can check me out while we order food.”

My cheeks burn instantly, and I shoot him a glare. Any words I could say die in my throat. There’s no use.

Damn him.

I drop my arms and swing my legs out of the car, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a full-blown meltdown. But I’m mad at him for not letting me orgasm and for forcing me out with his semen falling out of me as I walk. It’s a sticky fucking mess, and I’m instantly annoyed.

His eyes flick down to me, his smirk somehow managing to stretch even wider. Irritation slowly spreads throughout me. I straighten my shoulders, my glare intact.

“Are we going inside, or are you going to stand here looking insufferable all day?” I snap, making to brush past him to the diner but his hand at my wrist stops me.

“Wait,” he murmurs, his hold firm. “One last thing.”

Before I can protest, his hand lifts and I feel him tugging at my scrunchie, sliding it free.

“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, twisting to glare at him as my hair tumbles down around my shoulders.

Thatcher twirls the scrunchie around his finger with a smug grin. “There,” he says, his tone maddeningly calm. “Better.”

I gape at him, my hand flying up to smooth my now-loose hair. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You look better with your hair down.” He slips my scrunchie onto his wrist and continues, “It’s easier to grab that way.” His eyes are still locked on mine as though he knows exactly what kind of effect this is having on me.

I want to retort, to snap back but I’m too annoyed. I need a fucking bathroom.

He grins and shakes his scrunchie covered wrist at me, seemingly satisfied with himself. “You’re welcome to come get it, Dove,” he drawls, a challenge in his voice. “I’m not against a little scuffle with you.”

“Get over yourself,” I demand, walking towards the entrance.

The door to the diner swings open with a soft chime as I step inside. The diner’s interior is just as ordinary as the outside—faded checkered floors, red vinyl booths, the smell of coffee and pancakes filling the air. It looks and feels like I’ve been transported back in time, to a cozy 90’s era cafe, the kind you might see in an old sitcom. The worn menus on the tables, the soft hum of conversation, and the clink of silverware against plates create a kind of peaceful, nostalgic atmosphere that immediately calms me.

I try to make my way to an empty booth by the wide window, but I feel him grab at my hand and pull me back softly.

“Not there.” Thatcher’s voice is low, a deep whisper by my ear. His breath sends a vibration down to my pelvis, and I’m aching for him.

He steps ahead, guiding me toward a different corner of the diner, one near the back. There’s a booth tucked in the shadows, far enough from prying eyes, with a perfect view of the entire room. It’s one of those spots that people go to if they want to be left alone but still see everything happening around them.

He slides into the seat with ease, the worn vinyl creaking under his weight. “Better view,” he adds, his voice casual.

“So, this is your idea of a good spot?” I ask, still standing. Still needing the bathroom.

His smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “What’s not to like? Its cozy and secluded, so secluded that I could fuck you right here and no one would notice.”

“Is that your plan?” I asked, pissed off.

This makes him laugh, and it takes everything in me not to hit this table with my fist.

“Sit,” he demands.

I shake my head, and he glances between my legs like he knows why I won’t.

His voice drops to a whisper, “When I say sit––”

“Sit,” I mock.

The arrival of the waitress gratefully saves me from further demands. “What can I get y’all to start with?” she asks, a pleasant smile on her face. I was just about to leave for the bathroom because this would be the perfect time to, but witnessing how she’s eyeing Thatcher, I think I’ll stay. Her eyes are solely on him with a familiar spark in them. I can’t help but notice her uniform and the two top buttons of her blouse unbuttoned just enough to expose a little more skinthan necessary. I slide into the booth opposite of him, and the waitress leans forward just a touch too much, smiling just a little too brightly.

She’s flirting.

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