Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I choke on a laugh. I’m too fucking stunned to even try hiding it. “And I have this BBCF?”
The dimple in her cheek pops, and those brown eyes do something dangerous. “You’re practically a poster boy. I bet you steamroll everyone in meetings and drink your black coffee like you’re angry at it.”
I want her to just keep talking, period. Jesus. My cock is already half hard, and all I’m doing is ordering coffee.
I lean in, lowering my voice, trying not to look like a man about to beg. “If I wanted to surprise you, what should I order?”
She bites her lip, scanning me up and down, blatant as hell. “You look like you need something strong. Maybe a double espresso. Or, if you’re feeling brave, my signature vanilla bourbon cold brew. I make the syrup myself.” Her tongue darts out, quick, and I almost come in my pants.
I lean in, all pretense of hurrying gone. Fuck the impatient assholes waiting in line behind me. “Hit me with your best shot.”
Cydney leans over the glass, so close I catch the scent of her shampoo, some mix of vanilla and sugar that makes my mouth water. Her lips part, tongue flicking over the bottom one before she grins like she’s got my number and she’s loving every second of it.
“Coming right up, boss man.” She calls out my order to the woman standing behind the coffee machine, and I rake my eyes down her body, shameless, ignoring the way the guy two spots back in the line is probably rolling his eyes. I want to buy the damn bakery just so I can watch her all day. Instantly, I picture her on my granite kitchen island, covered in nothing but whipped cream and a smile.
Jesus.
Focus.
She turns back to me. “Would you really like to live dangerously and try a pastry to go with your coffee, or are you one of those strict no-carb warriors?”
I glance at the display. Every surface is loaded with sweets—danishes, scones, something chocolate the size of a small loaf. “What do you recommend?”
Cydney points to a tray with a massive cinnamon roll sitting squarely in the middle of it. “The monster sweet roll is my favorite.”
“I’ll take two,” I say, wondering when I lost my goddamn mind. She finishes ringing me up, then walks over to the pastry case to box up two cinnamon rolls. I watch her, mesmerized, which is ridiculous, but there’s something hypnotic about the way she works. She glances over her shoulder and catches me watching.
“It won’t take long,” she teases. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”
It suddenly hits me that I don’t want to leave. I want to stay right here and watch her all damn day. My cock is granite, and my brain is soup, but I can’t make myself look away from the sweet curve of her ass as she bends over to grab something from the pastry case. Fuck, does she know what she’s doing to me? Or maybe she just always moves like that, hips swaying, every motion loose and tempting. Cydney. I roll her name across my tongue, savoring it. The way she glances up through those thick lashes lets me know she caught me staring, and she loves it. A slow smile spreads across her gorgeous mouth, and, holy hell, my cock nearly tears through my pants. I’m not even embarrassed about it. I want her to know exactly what she’s doing to me.
She straightens, box in hand, and hip-checks the register closed. “You gonna need a bag for these, or do you like to live dangerously?” She arches a brow, pure sass. I want to bend her over the counter and show her what dangerous really looks like.
“Barehanded is fine.” Christ, my voice is low and way too fucking needy.
She grins, all dimples and challenge. “Man after my own heart.” She slides the box and my coffee across the counter, her fingers brushing mine, and I swear to God, I get a jolt straight down my spine. Fireworks. I’m not even ashamed.
“Oliver,” I blurt, because, apparently, the last of my dignity is now six feet under. “Oliver Burkhardt.”
She leans in, her laugh like warm honey, eyes sparkling as she tests out my name. “Oliver.” Jesus. I want to hear her say it a hundred different ways, the way her lips wrap around every syllable. “Nice to meet you, Oliver. I’m Cydney. I own this circus.”
“Nice to meet you, Cydney.” My voice comes out rough, hungrier than I want to admit. I can’t stop staring at her mouth. I have an MBA, I’ve built three companies from nothing, and here I am, feet glued to the floor, completely at her mercy.
She grins wider, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Hell, maybe she does. “If you survive my vanilla bourbon cold brew, you can come back tomorrow and let me try to top myself.”