Page 10 of Drown Like Heaven
I dumped all four cups of creamer into the coffee then stirred it around with my spoon before lifting the mug to my lips and taking a tiny sip. The liquid was hot as it went down my throat and into my stomach, pleasantly heating me from the inside out. I kept my hands wrapped around the warm ceramic.
When our waitress came back, Mason ordered the food and handed her our menus.
“So, Dakota,” he started. “What were you doing on the beach?”
“I like going there. Watching the waves. It soothes me.”
“Most people wouldn’t find that sort of weather calming—at least not being out in it,” he commented, then motioned for me to give him the coffee. Reluctantly, I slid the mug across the table.
Mason turned it and took a swig from the exact same place my mouth had been prior.
I had to look out the blurry window to be able to ignore the things it did to my insides, though the glass mostly showed a reflection of our table illuminated against the stormy afternoon.
“I’m not most people.”
“No. You’re not. I don’t know many who would risk their own life for a stranger like that.”
“Well Idoknow many people who’d at least thank the stranger that tried to save their life,” I grumbled.
“Thought the food and dry clothes were evidence enough of my thankfulness.”
“Those things are evidence of you wanting to control me, and ignoring my bodily autonomy.”
“You want me to ignore your bodily autonomy some more?” He leaned forward, forearms pressing against the table, and it took some bravery not to lean back away from him, not to give up any ground.
I fidgeted in my seat, the forest-green vinyl creaking under me, my elbows still planted on the table. “No,” I answered.
“Are you in college?” His eyes slid to my mouth, then back up.
“I’m not telling you that.”
He leaned back, putting more space between us again so I could breathe. But his eyes didn’t leave my face.
Thankfully, he didn’t really seem to mind my attitude. I really couldn’t figure him out. Who he was, what he wanted, why he was here and buying me food. The whole thing was strange. Maybe he just wanted to fuck me.
Maybe I’d let him.
“Is there anything youwilltell me?” he questioned.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how I’m feeling.” I tilted my head to the side.
“And do you feel like opening up for me?”
My legs or my mouth?“Not especially,” I answered, ignoring the slutty thoughts prodding the back of my skull.
“I’ll get you there,” he promised as he inclined his head towards me, the words sounding ridiculously filthy in his low voice. I honestly didn’t know if he was talking about emotionally opening up or physically opening up at this point. Both?
He scared me just as much as he excited me. It was unnatural.
The waffles arrived back at the table along with a pitcher of warm syrup and a couple foil packets of butter. I placed a pad of butter on top of the stack, and spread it around with my knife as it melted. Then, I poured on a ridiculous amount of syrup, the sticky sweetness filling every square on the waffle and dripping over the sides, puddling on the plate.
I cut myself the first bite of our meal, and had to stifle a moan when I put it in my mouth. The sweet syrup and fluffy waffle combined with the slight fruity tartness of the blueberries was heavenly.
Mason didn’t take his gaze off me the entire time, and I felt him watch my throat as I swallowed. Heat flushed my cheeks and burned low in my stomach. The way he was looking at me wasn’t subtle at all.
