6. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Ryder
It doesn’t take long to make the drinks here, since most of the recipes are short and the bases are prepared ahead of time.
Including the mushroom coffee, which really doesn’t actually taste like mushrooms, despite the name.
Still, I take my time, not just because we close soon and I want any extra overtime I can get, but because Kane, if that is his real name, is watching me like a damn hawk right now.
I wish I could say his watchful gaze feels creepy, especially because it’s been pretty dead here for the last hour or so, but that would be a lie.
A part of me feels positively giddy because it’s been months—six to be exact—since anyone has looked at me like this.
Like they see something they like; something they want.
Especially guys. Most guys don’t look twice at me.
I’m not exactly Channing Tatum over here.
I’m more Timothy Chalamet, if Timothy Chalamet was an awkward, gay twenty-six-year-old with daddy issues who looks like a bad Harry Potter cosplay on a good day.
When I moved here from Connecticut six months ago, I promised myself a do-over. New York City was going to be my Eat Pray Love. My Under The Tuscan Sun, How Stella Got Her Groove Back-style comeback. My glow-up.
No more getting mixed up with emotionally unavailable men who see me as nothing more than the role I serve for them—their submissive.
No more throwing myself headfirst into situationships with men who don’t see me as “relationship material.” Which you’d think someone like me, who operates best under the hand of a strict dom, would know better than to let myself get attached.
I know the rules, and I know they’re there for a reason.
I agree to them, time and time again when I connect with a dom.
I always agree to them, because I know I can’t have what I want any other way.
I’ve tried. Time and time again, I’ve tried to squander my desires and needs in favor of others, and every time I tell the truth or make even a little request, it always undoubtedly ends with me having my heart broken in one way or another.
Which is why I promised myself after finding my suitcases packed and on my ex’s porch, with a pre-paid bus ticket to New York City, that I would take this opportunity to do things differently.
Take the road less traveled. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, so maybe if I stopped looking for the perfect dom, I’d find the perfect man.
And if I stop looking for the perfect man…
Though, to be fair, I wasn’t entirely sure perfect existed until he walked through the doors.
Kane—the man who looks like the literal embodiment of all my wildest dreams. Like something straight out of a Batman movie; dressed in all black, those thick boots echoing in the space as he walked—no sauntered—over here like he owns the place.
Some guys just have that air about them where you know they have a dominant personality even if they aren’t into the kink or lifestyle.
They exude that magnetism whether they realize it or not.
Kane has that vibe. Those vicious, dark green eyes that I swear look like they can see right through my soul, the way he carries himself, head held high, hands in his pockets.
And don’t even get me started on his long, thick beard or those broad shoulders, or the faint edges of the tattoos on his fingers that I can barely make out.
I could easily envision those hands wrapping around my neck or other things.
Things I shouldn’t think about at work even if I am the only employee here.
Fuck, he’s so hot, it should be a literal crime.
Which is why flirting with a perfect Batman villain replica whose deep voice puts Christian Bale to shame and makes me want to drop to my knees without a second thought is probably a bad idea.
Like, really bad. I know that. I’m not stupid.
But I can’t deny that there’s something about Kane that makes me want to ignore all the red flags he’s throwing up for me, and honestly?
There’s a part of me that is convinced he’d be into that—me, doing things I shouldn’t—if his whole “I will literally destroy you and you’ll like it” vibe is anything to go by.
Which I know sounds crazy. Or maybe I’m just losing my marbles and my horny brain and my unruly dick is looking for any excuse to get some attention, because this is the longest I’ve gone without a master or a boyfriend.
Like ever.
Though there is a part of me that feels as crazy as it sounds, something tells me there might be some truth to those vibes.
I’ve always been good at picking up signals people don’t always realize they are sending out like beacons, and Kane definitely is sending out some signals that I recognize all too well.
Signals I know I should well enough ignore.
Maybe my sister is right—maybe I do need to get out more.
Or maybe I just need a sexy Batman villain to tell me what to do and how to do it.
Unclear.
So I push the horny thoughts aside as best I can and focus on Kane’s coffee.
“Whole milk, two percent, skim, or non-dairy? Whipped cream?” I ask, looking over my shoulder, just to steal another glance at him.
Kane twists his lips as he looks at me, like he’s contemplating something quite deeply.
“What do you put in yours?” he asks, his dark green gaze finding mine far too easily.
Kane’s gaze is sharp, and something about it makes my blood rush.
I blink, trying to think of a non-sexual way to tell this man what kind of cream I take in my coffee.
And resisting the urge to tell him I’d like to put his cream in my coffee, because I know how fucking weird and perverted that is to tell a stranger.
Hell, telling my partners what I want is bad enough, because that usually ends in disaster.
But I can’t deny the urge is there; pestering me like a goblin.
Do it. See what he says…
No! What are you insane?
I swallow hard and clear my throat, attempting to speak like a functional human being, but Kane speaks before I can.
“Fix it how you like it,” he says, with what I can only describe as the cockiest head nod in history.
The sexy look on his face is a mix of intrigue and lethal interest that should deter me for so many reasons.
Everything about this man is a warning, from his dark gaze to his sharp jawline to his tight jeans and studded boots.
His perilous gaze feels dangerous; maybe even slightly possessive, which is a definite red flag for sure.
“Yes, Sir.” I say the words and instantly regret them, because while they are just normal words, maybe even professional in some sense, to me those words mean something else completely.
I can’t help the way my cheeks heat from my word vomit, so I turn around quickly in an attempt to hide my stupid blush.
God, this guy probably thinks I’m an absolute imbecile.
This isn’t one of Claire’s dark romance books. I don’t know this guy, don’t know anything other than his name, so for all I know he could be one of those straight assholes who get offended when a guy flirts with them.
Or worse—he could be a serial killer who only goes after blushing baristas with degradation kinks.
I don’t fucking know. New York City is full of bad men who prey on desperate people.
Men who wouldn’t blink twice at the thought of hurting you because you look wrong, or because they feel threatened by you no matter how unassuming you are, or because you just fucking exist and that’s an issue.
Or my personal favorite, because you say something wrong or come on too strong, and suddenly their masculinity is challenged and then you’re nursing a black eye with a frozen bag of peas instead of getting some well-needed aftercare and cuddles.
But that’s my problem, my curse in life, I guess.
We’ve all got flaws, and mine is that I like bad guys.
The ones you can see a mile away that you know you should steer clear of; the ones you know will break your spine the first chance they get and leave you sore for days; the ones who will twist and tear you apart from the inside out whether you want them to or not.
The ones that will use you and leave you a hot mess afterwards, praying for absolution, and won’t be sorry about it one bit.