She grins and gestures to the 50s-style chrome and Formica diner counter with the space-age looking stools bolted to the floor in a line down it.
“You want something?”
“Nah,” I shake my head and shake off some water before I trudge in squeaky wet boots across the floor. “I’m good.”
“You sure? Coffee or something?”
“I could do coffee.”
She beams. “Sit tight, I gotcha.”
She turns and starts to mess around with the coffee machine, and I almost walk right into a bloody booth with my eyes locked on her. It’s not even a flattering outfit she’s wearing, this little yellow 60s mod-style dress with a white apron and the white sneakers. But fuck me sideways, I can’t look away. She moves almost sensually, reaching up for the coffee filters on the shelf above with a practiced grace that says she’s worked here a while.
The coffee machine bubbles to life as I slump my wet arse onto a stool and shrug my jacket off. I stand again and reach down to peel off my soaked black hoodie. I can feel my long hair come loose when I tug it over my head, and my t-shirt sticks to it like glue and peels off of me as well. I toss the hoodie onto the stool next to me and push my t-shirt back down out of my face. My hands slide into my hair, and I push it back and wrap a tie around it, keeping it in a knot on top of my head. I look up, and the waitress blushes when it’s pretty clear she’s been staring at me.
The coffee machine burbles behind her as we both go quiet.
“Um,” she swallows. “I like your ink.”
“Thanks. Yours too.”
She glances down at her arm and blushes a little. “Oh, thanks.” She whirls quickly, fussing with some stuff on the back shelves. “Cream or sugar?”
“Whiskey if you’ve got it.”
She turns and grins, arching one pretty brow as her soft full lips curl. “I wish,” she giggles.
“Just black is great.”
She nods and reaches up without looking to snag a plain white, chipped mug from the shelf. She pulls the coffee carafe out early from under the drip, pouring me a mug before sliding it back under. She turns and slides it across the counter to me.
“Thanks,” I growl. I glance around at the darkened diner. “This your place?”
“Rosebud?” She smiles and shakes her head. “Nah, I just work here.” She frowns. “A lot,” she follows with a wry smile. She looks up at me again. “You sure you’re not hungry? I’m just going to be closing things down before I leave. I really can get you a piece of toast or something.”
I take a sip of the steaming hot coffee and rake my fingers over my beard. “Don’t—”
“It’s really not a problem.”
I nod. “I could do toast.”
She smiles. “Comin’ right up.”
She whirls on her heel and waltzes through the saloon doors into the kitchen area.
“You want some music on?” she calls.
I shrug. “Sure.”
“Any preference?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“What?”
“Dealer’s choice!” I call out a bit louder. A second later, Bill Withers begins crooning out “Ain’t No Sunshine” over the dingy speakers. I grin and lean over the mug of hot coffee. Shit, nice fucking choice. Hilariously appropriate for a thunderstorm, but the song also brings me right back to East London, to my Grandmother’s flat where me and Asa grew up.
“This okay?” she calls out.
“Fuckin’ perfect.”
Her pretty face appears over the top of the saloon doors from the kitchen. “What?”
“Perfect,” I grin. She smiles back and disappears again.
“Can’t go wrong with the classics.”
Amen to that.
I sip my coffee as Bill serenades us and the rain pounds the windows. Thunder booms again, and then again, and suddenly with a flash of lighting, the music stops, and the lights turn out. There’s a scream from the kitchen, and I’m up and moving like it’s hardwired into my brain. I grunt as I slam through the double doors into the kitchen to see her standing by a work counter with a hand on her heart. She looks up at me sheepishly and makes a face.
“Sorry,” she mumbles.
“You okay?” I frown.
“Just scared of the dark, apparently.”
I chuckle. My eyes are still adjusting to the almost pitch-black back in the kitchen area, and I can barely make her out.
“Let’s skip the toast, huh?”
She giggles softly. “Yeah, I can’t see a thing back here. Hang on, there’s a flashlight up at the register out front.”
Two things happen: She moves to go to the door, and I move to help her. I don’t even know what I’m trying to do, but it ends up with her bumping flat into my chest and my arms going around her for a second.
“Oh,” she says quietly with a gasp.
“Sorry,” I growl. But I’m not that sorry, not when I feel her body press to mine, and not when my hands slide over her hips for a moment. We both pull apart, and she laughs a short, forced, breathy laugh as she brushes past me.
“This way.”
I follow her out to the dining area, which is about one percent less pitch black than the kitchen. I can make out the shape of her through as she feels her way down the counter to the register. I follow behind her, when she suddenly comes to a stop and swears.
“Fuck,” she hisses.
I grin at the language. Wasn’t expecting that from her.
“It’s supposed to be here. So of course, it’s not, knowing this place.” She sighs in the darkness. “There might be one in the back office, hang—”
She whirls suddenly and walks right into me. She gasps, and her hands fall flat against my chest through my damp t-shirt. With a grunt, my own arms move on autopilot, jutting out to catch her as if she loses her balance. My hands grip her tight waist, and my pulse suddenly spikes at the feel of her.
Aww shit.
The clouds seem to let up for a second outside, because the moon glows through the diner windows, bathing her face in white. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and her lips in a little o-shape, and she gasps. She doesn’t pull away, and I don’t let go of her. I watch the delicate hollow of her neck move as she swallows, and I can hear her breath catch.
Something raw inside of me blazes to life. A storm bigger than the one raging outside threatens to explode through every part of me, flickering hungrily across my eyes as they drink her in. My cock thickens, hungering for her, and I don’t even realize I’m growling lowly like some kind of animal until even I can hear it.
“I—” She gasps quietly.
But her pretty eyes lock on mine, and when I see the green fire in them, and when I feel her body roll ever-so-subtly into me under my hands, I know not even the storm outside could pull me away from her.
I move in, my hands tighten, she moans, and then, I crush my lips to hers and kiss her like she’s already mine.
Chapter Two
Delphine
“Fucker,” I swear under my breath as I grab the plate of pancakes and bacon, yanking my hand back.
“Plate’s hot,” Jerry, the line cook, mutters under his breath without looking up.