Espresso Desires (Part II)
A coffee junkie desires something stronger.
I walk around my quaint little town for close to an hour before I cross the street to a little corner coffee shop. I’ve never been inside before, but I’ve wanted to check it out. Mid-morning on a weekday, the place is pretty dead. There are also like three Starbuck’s locations around the corner, which probably doesn’t help business much. But when I enter, I see that this place has an espresso bar and a wine bar, so it’s already inherently the better choice. The night crowd must really be something. And according to the flier on the wall, there is live music several nights out of the week. I’d like to drag Cal here on a Friday night. See if we can’t spark something. A real live date couldn’t hurt matters between us. It’s been a while.
Two white-haired men who look to be in their eighties stare each other down during a diabolical game of chess. They don’t even notice me come in. It seems safe enough. That is, until I spot the barista.
I can immediately see that this man is a danger to me.
Upon first site, the alarm bells ring. He’s nearly as tall as Cal, and most definitely younger. His hair is longish, tousled in every direction, and it is the exact color of espresso beans. He has a few days of scuff on his face, and it frames a delicious smile that lights up when he sees me. I swallow hard and think of excuses to stay.
It’s only coffee. I can have coffee if I want. I’m strong enough. He’s busy working; it’s safe here.
This is how I talk myself into doing the things I shouldn’t. I lie to myself and pretend I’m not tempted.
“Help you?” he asks. His voice is cheerful, low, and smooth.
It’s all he needs to say to send a shock of urgent desire shooting between my legs. I take a moment and look down at my leather boots. The boots were a gift from Cal. I know I should be thinking of my husband to make myself strong, but I can see the way this guy behind the counter stares. He's wiping the counter with a white cloth in slow circles. I can’t help but notice the hunger in his golden eyes as they follow my every move. His gaze pierces me in a way that tells me he and I are thinking the same thing. This isn’t my imagination.
I know not every man has it in his head to fuck me — I’m not some magical succubus that makes every male crave her. I’m more girl-next-door than girl-walking-the-Victoria’s-Secret-runway. Not every man would want me, but plenty do, and they don’t seem to be fucking difficult to find. This guy — he’s dangerous. I can see that he genuinely likes what he sees. It gives both my ego and my cunt a simultaneous jolt.
“Just coffee, please.”
“Room for cream and sugar?”
“Just cream. Please.”
He smirks at me, like he’s in on a joke. Something like, “It’s a nice morning when she wants cream with her coffee,” or some other male ejaculate quip. I notice a piercing — a small silver loop on the cartilage in the middle of his ear. And sexy as hell. I hand him the cash and feel his warm hand against my palm. It lingers there for a split second longer than it should. He smiles like he knows me. “Have a seat,” he says. I notice his tone. It’s so subtle I almost miss it, but there is a hint of demand in his voice. Just. Great.
Think about Cal.
I pick a small round table in the corner and settle in to watch the young man at work.
You love Cal.
I can’t tear my eyes away. I think of nothing but my increasing urge for the one and only chemical I crave.
And Cal loves you.
It’s something stronger than coffee. My heart pounds against my ribs just thinking about it. One hit will elate me. The inevitable crash would follow, leaving me to put my fragmented self back together again. Oh, if it were only something less cruel, less harmful to Cal — injecting heroin into my eyeballs, for instance. Then I wouldn't feel like such a betrayer.
He comes to the table with the oversized mug of coffee, bringing the cream with him. Instead of setting it down and going back to work, he sits across from me. He leans forward. I look down and focus on mixing my coffee with the perfect amount of cream for a good minute (not too much), though it feels much longer. Then I meet his gaze and sip.
Without a word, he reaches out and twists his finger around a curl of my hair. Instead of swatting this stranger’s hands off of me, I gasp in surprise. But it’s in no way a bad surprise. It’s riveting and exciting. It reeks of desire. Why I want some random college kid pawing me, I can’t say. All I know is that I crave him.
“Hell, you’re beautiful,” he says. Easy as that. I'm about to fly. I can sense it. I used to have this thing about Peter Pan when I was younger. I was really into that fairytale. The book, the movie — whatever I could get my hands on. I’d spend nights thinking about the stories. Of course, I thought that having the ability to fly would be incredible. But more than that, for some reason, I’d spend an awful lot of time imagining Captain Hook. I’d wonder what it would be like to be kidnapped — to be taken against my will and tied to the mast of a ship and... well, at that age I didn’t quite know what I thought would happen after that. Peter would come and rescue me, I suppose. All I knew back then was that some part of me wanted that unknown element of danger. I wanted the adventure, the danger, the restraints. Something about the restraint appealed to me. Even as a little girl, I knew.
I get a series of fleeting images of barista guy as I savor the coffee, which is, admittedly, some of the best I’ve ever had. Just as I can feel the hot coffee slide down my throat, I can feel barista guy’s slender fingers reaching down my pants as his other hand rips my top down, his full lips locking onto one of my nipples. I can feel my hands grip his thick black hair as I pump my smooth wet cunt against his palm, getting so high I could reach Neverland . . .
The flashes stream by and are gone in two seconds, but the damage has been done. Once I've imagined it, once I've placed myself in the scenario, I'm a goner for sure.
“Beautiful?” I ask him. “Hardly.”
I look over his shoulder as I sip, to the stage in the corner. There’s a drum set, two acoustics, an upright piano, even a stand-up base. The instruments just barely fit with room for musicians, but I can picture cozy, intimate crowds and jazz music at night. It’s all very romantic. He turns and looks over his shoulder to see what I’m seeing.
“You should come see us play,” he says. “We’re on tonight. And again Saturday.” His fingers tap on the table.
“Well, I run the midmorning shifts, but I also have a band on the side. We usually play a couple nights here out of the week. A lot of people actually come out for us,” he tells me, nodding sincerely. He thinks I don’t believe him. I look at the twitchy fingers of his left hand and notice the slight discoloration. Calluses. I lick my lips and purse them together. Rough calluses.
“You play? Guitar? Bass?” I ask, genuinely interested. He lights up at that. Passionate guy.
“Guitar. Since I was five years old. Do you play?”
“A little,” I say honestly. “Badly.” Also honest.
“Well, then you should definitely come out. I’ll get you up on the stage. I bet you sing too, just listening to you talk.”
God. I keep looking for the insincerity. The gleaming evidence of amusement in his eyes and posture that these are obvious lines, that he hits on chicks with the “I bet you sing” number once a night. I can’t find the dishonesty anywhere. There is something real about this kid. Well, maybe not such a kid after all.
“You really don’t know, huh?” he says, shaking his head at me.
“Don’t know what?”
“You don’t see how desirable you are. That’s even sexier.”
The way the sunlight hits his eyes through the large picture windows, they seem to glow golden yellow.
“I was, um… I was just thinking the same thing about you, actually,” I say. I’m not longer able to hide my face behind the big purple mug as I set it back down. It clinks to the table and nearly topples over as a result of my nervous hands.
He seems satisfied by my bold response. “There must be a reason why you walked into my coffee shop, then.”
“Your coffee shop?” I ask. I look around us. Everything is clean and cozy. The waxed cherry wood floor is open, filled with shiny black tables, loveseats, and overstuffed arm chairs.
It’s this little slip-up that makes me blush the most. I pride myself on being able to get a good read on people. I’d assumed he was some college kid, working here between classes. He looked like the type to major in something especially useful, like interpretive pottery for instance. I thought he made his living hitting on women in the coffee shop for tips.
“Yes. My coffee shop.” He grins. “I finished my MBA almost two years ago. Got the place cheap right out of school and fixed it up. Been open for about six months now.”
“How ambitious of you,” I say, half smirking at him. “Sorry. I’m new to town. It’s the first time I’ve been here.”
“I know,” he says.
His look is wide-eyed and curious as his eyebrow arches. It’s a perfect eyebrow, thick and dark. This kid’s eyes do something to my insides. I feel myself quickly losing what little control I had when I left my group therapy in a hurry.
I grip the glass sugar dispenser with both my hands, for lack of anything better to do. It’s sleek and long, the grass tinted with green and blue. I realize it’s recycled glass. A sugar dispenser and an environmentally friendly work of art all wrapped up into one. He looks at my hands, and places his around mine so we're both holding onto the glass.
“It’s nearly empty,” he observes. His eyes lock onto mine. “I should refill it. Do you need some?”
We have a stare down, his hands not leaving mine. It feels like minutes go by before I finally can gather my words to respond.
“No, I don’t. I don’t take sugar anymore.”
“Just cream.” He winks as he says it and lets go of my hands. They are cold without his warm touch.
I take a sip of my coffee as he leans toward me. His torso is long enough that he can stretch half his body over the small round table. His lips brush my ear as he whispers, “That’s a good thing. I don’t like it too sweet, either.”
He grips my leg under the table, his thumb pressing into my inner thigh. Slowly, ever so slowly, he moves his hand up my thigh. His thumb lands right on the seam of my pants between my leg and my pelvis. He rubs his thumb there, pressing into the sensitive area of my underwear line, hard. The sudden pressure causes me to part my legs, opening them slightly wider. I hear him take in a breath at my reaction.
Looks could be deceiving. This was no kid.
“I can go get you the creamer we mix with vanilla. Would you prefer that?”
My cup is in my hands, my mouth dropping open at the overwhelming sensation of the beautiful stranger’s hands bushing against my pelvic bone as his full lips trace the smooth skin just under my ear. “I’m not really a fan of vanilla,” I say, my voice barely audible.
The two gentlemen suddenly get up from their seats, arguing about which one of them cheated during their game and noticing my inner turmoil not at all.
“Don’t…” I whisper. “Don’t leave…”
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere,” he assures me with a deep, throaty voice.
But I wasn’t talking to him. The little bell on the door rings, signaling their departure, signaling that we were alone now.
If there are any more words spoken between us, I don't hear them. He breezes over to the door and locks it. I stand, wondering why I didn’t leave when I had the chance, wondering if I should make a run for it.
He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. When he turns my wrist over and actually bites down with his perfectly white teeth, I gasp at the unexpected move. The little jolt of pain hits me hardest in a place that is nowhere near my wrist, and I fucking love it. My heart flutters. He studies my facial expression, coffee eyes gleaming.
“Oh, we’re going to have fun, aren’t we?” he whispers. I close my eyes and barely, just barely, nod my head.
Leaving my stuff, I take his hand and follow as he leads me to the back, no further conversation exchanged. That little voice of reason, the one that seemed so strong just an hour ago, is weak and quiet, but still there. Get out of there! Don’t hurt him like this again.
I hear my heart’s warning clearly, but my body’s voice, my sense of need, my craving for adventure — these things are so much more powerful. I push Cal out of my head as the stranger leads me to a door. It opens to a large pantry smelling of coffee and hazelnut and a thousand other sweet things.
He pulls me in, kicks the door shut, and has me pinned against it in a second. When his lips crush mine, my self-hatred goes into hiding. I’m distracted by the rush I get from being, well, handled. Then, when my coffee-flavored businessman suddenly yanks a handful of my hair back, exposing my throat as he wraps his other hand around it, the ecstasy takes over. He squeezes my neck slightly, trailing the pad of his thumb down the ridge of my windpipe as he pulls back and bores his eyes into mine, watching my reaction.
“So. The vanilla comment,” he says, sending shivers down my spine as his thumb caresses my pulse point.
“What about it?”
“Let me put it this way. Do you prefer this?” He continues gently stroking my neck. “Or this?”
The man — the handsome stranger whose name I don’t even know — tightens his grip around my throat, harder than before, as he shoves his hardening dick against my groin. I can feel my breathing quicken, the pressure in my head increasing as I feel my skin grow warmer. I wrap my fingers around his wrist, pushing back against his forearm. The resistance is all just part of the rush, and if he’s strong enough, it won’t get me anywhere, which is the point. My adrenaline surges and makes me drenched between my thighs. His arm doesn’t budge when I fight back — his biceps aren’t overly bulky through the rolled-up sleeves of his black button-up, but they strain against his shirt from the effort of controlling me. He is fucking strong. He loosens his grasp suddenly, allowing me to control the pressure.
“I prefer the latter,” I breathe out. My voice comes out low and husky. I could say it’s from being nervous, but really, it’s because I’m more turned on than I’ve been in a long, long time. “Only,” I continue, my eyes narrowing in on his, “try not to be such a fucking pussy about it.”
He cocks his head. The half grin he gives me is devious. He places his hand on my jaw and yanks my head to the left, the scruff of his close-trimmed beard scraping my cheek roughly as he whispers in my ear, “You know, I hardly know you, but I like you already.” With that, he molds himself against me and kisses me. His body crushes mine, and the air leaves me in a whoosh from the impact, but the momentary lack of oxygen adds to my high. I gasp for breath and murmur in pain (it’s delicious) as he takes each of my wrists in his hands and slams them against the wall above me. I’m shocked that I don’t have to encourage him more. He seems to know just how much to push me; he reads me and interprets just the right level of pleasure/pain.
God, his mouth feels good. Can’t stop now. The tourniquet's been tied. And it's so fucking tight I think I might pop.
Once his kisses move below my mouth, any guilty thoughts that have managed to linger are muffled by that hazy sensation that starts deep in my lower belly and spreads downward. He’s lifting my blouse up and shoving my jacket off my shoulders. He fondles greedy handfuls of my breasts under my blouse as he bites my neck with his perfect teeth set between gorgeous lips. I notice that his lips are pink and shiny and swollen, and fuck how I want them all over every inch of me.
He kneels before me, and his mouth is trailing kisses on my stomach now. As he deftly undoes the many buttons on the front of my slacks and his mouth travels further down, I forget everything but the urge.
He doesn't bother taking the time to remove my pants or my underwear. In one continuous motion, he shoves my pants halfway down my thighs, slips the lace crotch of my panties aside, and shoves two fingers inside me. I cry out in ecstasy as his long fingers explore me without a hint of gentleness — but he doesn’t need to be gentle because I’m soaked.
“You are so fucking wet,” he says. He looks up and stares, unblinking, into my eyes. The intimacy I feel when he looks at me is powerful shit. I can’t remember the last time Cal looked at me with hunger like this. His eyes are pure excitement and lust. I feel his desire for me. It’s like a tangible energy radiating from his body. His eyes are damn near reverent as his two long fingers continue to fuck me, hitting the sensitive part of my front wall over and over again.
He licks his lips, stares at my pussy for a moment with that smile on his face, and starts to zero in. His lips latch on to my clit, and my hips immediately come forward of their own accord as I press myself against him. I hear him chuckle, the vibration of his lips making the sensation even more incredible, and then he grips my hip with his free hand, digging his fingers into my skin, and shoves them back so that my ass is against the door again. “Stay. Still.”
I whimper at the loss of his mouth on my cunt. I tilt my head back and do as I’m told, staying put. I’ll do whatever he says if he keeps doing that with his mouth.
“No,” he says. “Look down at me.”
I look down. “Watch,” he tells me. His lips are on me again, eagerly licking and sucking my folds. He teases my clit with his tongue. I watch as his head moves back and forth, his tongue hitting the bud in short, quick, hard strokes. The two fingers inside me continue to press against my front wall in a hypnotic pulsing motion as he works, and I realize very quickly that it won’t be long until I find my release. My breathing speeds up. It is taking every inch of my will not to thrust my hips into his mouth.
He removes his hand from my hip and spreads me wide so that my insides are on total display to him. He explores my slit with long, leisurely licks, like we have all the time in the world. He pauses to look at me, and I can see in his eyes how high he is getting from me. I know his drug of choice. “You taste a million times better than coffee,” he whispers. “You are delicious.”
My eyes roll to the ceiling in pleasure. My chest is heaving. I moan audibly and urge my hips toward the direction of his mouth. I can’t help it. I need more. Now. More than the confines of my pants will allow. He nods as if he can read my mind. In a swift sudden motion, he grabs my leg and unzips my long boot. He tears my boot off and slides the leg of my pants down and over my ankle so my leg is free. And that's all we need, just one.
He moves before I even know what’s going on. He scoops me up and lifts me onto the stainless steel counter just to the right of us. Glass and steel containers fall to the floor with a crash, but the glass has to be strong as hell, because nothing breaks on the tan-tiled floor. This guy doesn’t cut corners anywhere, I see.
He grips my ankle and lifts my free leg up, up, up. I feel the pull of muscle at my inner thigh as my leg reaches a height above his shoulder and he guides my foot to rest on one of the high storage shelves beside us. I kick a stack of food service gloves with my foot, and they tumble down around us to the floor.
“Nice socks,” he said, admiring the shape of my calf in my long, knee-length sock. Today I choose the ones with soft gray and purple stripes.
“I have a thing about socks. Stockings. Tights. All that stuff,” I admit. “It’s fun.”
“Stockings? Like with the garter belt and everything?”
I nod, and he growls in reaction. “That’s something I’d like to see, but these are very nice as well.” And he kisses the skin of my knee, just above the edge of where the sock ends. It feels possibly a bit too sweet and intimate. We accidentally gotten to know each other in some way. Even though we were only talking about women’s legwear, it seems somehow we’ve delved deeper. We’ve discovered compatibility in more ways than one here.
But before I can deal with that internally, he hugs each of my thighs tight with my legs spread wide. He stares at me, open and exposed before him. He stares for so long I grip his hair in anticipation. Then he attacks.
His mouth covers my pulsating clit, and it's not the gentle lapping it was before. He is alternating between sucking my bud into his mouth and giving it short, quick flicks of his tongue. Then his tongue is swirling inside me while his mouth is open wide, his wet upper lip rubbing along my clit. The increase in intensity is a shock to my center. Short waves of pleasure spread to my legs and belly. He works me into a ball of solid nerves, and I feel coiled up and desperate to spring.
He shoves one of his hands roughly up my blouse and pulls down on my bra so that one breast is free beneath my shirt. He pinches my nipple in tempo with his probing tongue. When his fingers slide into me, adding to the onslaught of sensation, the buildup is overwhelming. I close my eyes, tugging his hair with my hands. I give short little thrusts to increase the pressure of his fingers and tongue. I'm in essence fucking his mouth, and I feel the fingers inside me pushing up, encouraging me to thrust even harder. When I open my eyes and see him in the midst of all his multi-tasking, clearly enjoying his work, the visual is the very thing that pushes me over the edge.
This. This is my greatest weakness.
This euphoria is worth the destruction of order.
This orgasm is my chaos, and I can't seem to get enough.
My muscles tense and quiver and then burst with the release. I cry out as I come dripping into his mouth. But the rush doesn’t last long enough. My hands find his belt and I unbuckle it. I set his hard cock free, and he is already unwrapping a condom from his pocket and rolling it on. If he didn't have any on hand, I had several in my purse... I guess I still don’t trust myself not to fail on my days attending group therapy. Better safe than...
He cups my bare ass and slides me to the very edge of the counter. He puts his hand between my legs, feeling how drenched I am. He caresses the smooth skin of my mound. “I can't believe how beautiful this is,” he says. “I imagined it when you walked in — but this puts my imagination to shame.”
I take his hand and suck on his fingers. I taste myself, with a hint of espresso beans. I love the taste. “Holy fuck,” he groans.
“Enough talking,” I say.
Without warning, he buries his exquisitely hard cock into me without any guidance from our hands, and I moan loudly from the feeling of him filling me completely. I am sure we will break the metal unit the way he pumps into me so hard and deep and fast. He wraps my legs around his waist and continues to fuck me deeply. I still have the one boot on and the pants dangling from my leg, and he easily lifts me up and brings me to a standing position near the wall.
I’m caught off balance, leaning into his arms and chest, watching as his long fingers — the dexterous fingers of a guitar player — graze the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, down to my one remaining boot. He unzips and slides the cumbersome thing off. My pants go with it.
He shoves my back against the wall, the hardwood of the doorframe digging into my shoulder as he presses his cock into my belly. He is still fully dressed aside from his exposed dick snaking out of his unzipped pants. I stare at it longingly, feeling exposed in nothing but my top and socks. My blouse is still buttoned, but the bra is shoved under my breasts, exposing my nipples beneath the sheer fabric.
We seem to be waiting for something as we stare at each other, both of use breathing heavy. A next step. A level up. The way he digs his fingers into the bare skin of my hips and ass is intense and painful, the pressure delicious. I think I’ll have fingertip-sized bruises there tomorrow. I gasp at the feeling, and he notices. “That’s not too much for you, sweetheart?”
“Not enough.” I purse my lips and avert my gaze. I want to say so much more, but it’s here that I get self-conscious. This always freaked Cal out. It made me feel like the freak. I feel insecure about telling this man, this stranger, that I want him to handle me rougher than what he’s already doing.
“You really are something,” he says. I look at him and see that he’s not staring at my cunt or my chest. He’s looking at my face, into my eyes.
He pulls the leather belt from around his waist in one fast, smooth motion.
He turns me around, presses my breasts roughly against the wall, and says, “Cross your wrists behind your head.”
The shudder that that starts at the top of my spine and runs down to my core is bliss as I slowly bring my arms up. I bend my elbows, crossing my wrists so that my hands rest at the base of my neck. He takes the black leather belt and loops it around the point where my wrists cross. I hear him feed the tip of the belt through the buckle, and then he tightens it.
“Fuck,” I gasp. He makes it as tight as it will go, and then tighter as my arm muscles stretch just that little bit more.
“Fuck, good? Or fuck, bad?” he asks, checking in on me.
“Good,” I spit out, scared that he’ll stop. I hear him chuckle as I feel him loop the belt around and feed it through my wrists, which is a challenge for both of us since they are pressed so firmly together. He manages to get it through, sliding it into place so that the pressure of the tie holds it.
Next, he pushes his forearm against the back of my head. I turn my face so that my cheek is flush against the white wall. His mouth is there, kissing me. He keeps the pressure of his arm against my hands and neck, but pulls my ass away so that I’m at a good angle for him. I arch my back, tilting my ass up. His fingers glide down my spine, barely touching my skin, and I shiver.
His fingers go lower, dipping between my ass cheeks for a moment, exploring me there. Then they continue their journey down to my wet lips, dipping inside me. They are gone suddenly, and then I feel his large member pressing against me.
When he enters me, my breath hitches. His size stretches me slightly, and when he’s fully inside me, the angle of him behind me feels exquisite. We stay like that, not moving, enjoying the feel of each other. A full minute might have passed. Maybe two.
“Fucking hell,” he says, kissing the back of my shoulders. “That cunt of yours.”
Then he starts to move. He thrusts inside me, the intensity of his movements slowly increasing. Faster. Harder.
There is pain in my arms, pressed at an unnatural angle each time he plows into me. The pain mixed with the sensual pleasure of his cock drives me insane. When he reaches his free hand around and starts to thrum my clit, my volume increases to loud, panting shouts.
“No, no,” he says quietly, presses himself as deep as he could possibly go. “Shhhh…”
He removes his arm from the back of my head and clamps his hand down on my mouth. Impaled by him, my arms tied up and behind my head, his hand clamped down so hard on my mouth so hard that I can just barely get air through my nose, my inner core muscles start to tense. The tension comes from deep inside of me, right where his cock hits the farthest point of the wet and wanting upper wall of my vagina.
He glides himself in and out of me, pulling himself out as far as he can go without disconnecting us, and then diving into me with mercilessly hard thrusts. He speeds up steadily, my legs inch open wider where I stand, and my arms bruise. He rides me and I shout into his mouth with each deep, unforgiving penetration as he impales me against the wall. He still has one free hand, and he reaches around to play my clit like his own personal instrument. My legs begin to tremble. He is tireless, and it seems to last forever. I'm flying again.
When he comes with a guttural groan, he brings me with him, and I scream into his hand. Good thing he’s muffling me, because I sound like I’m being murdered. But really, I’m flying, riding wave after wave of life-altering extacy, the likes of which I’ve never felt. In my mind, I say it. I can say it with total honesty: this is the most incredible orgasm I’ve ever felt.
He groans against my hair to muffle his own sounds as he continues to push into me, milking himself until he’s empty and encouraging mini-weaves of aftershocks in my cunt as it clenches and unclenches his cock in short, sweet pulses. We’re both shuddering and sweating and clinging.
The waves of ecstasy faded, and he slowly unwraps himself from around my body. His pulls his hand away from my mouth and undoes the belt from my wrists. “Bring them down slowly,” he whispers. Like we’re in a library. The blood has all but drained from my arms, and he guides them down slowly, rubbing up and down their length with his hands to encourage the blood flow. They are tingling, the pins and needles a beautiful/painful sensation. I relish the feeling with childlike wonder.
“Are you okay?” he asks, turning me around to face him. He puts his hand on my chin and lifts so that I’m looking at him as I answer. He wants to make sure I’m telling the truth and not just giving him the obligatory yes. This stranger — he cares.
His eyes dip down to my lips, trying to see if I’m lying. But my wall is back up. I’m hoping it’s back up, at least. God, please let it be up.
We both stand to dress, fumbling with buttons and zippers as we politely look away from each other. “You’re Hazel, right?”
I freeze as I smooth down my blouse. “How do you know my name?” It clicks before he answers. I remember where I’ve seen him before.
“I’ve seen you in our sex addict's group. The one we’re both missing right now.”