Steve was more than just startled when the guest grabbed his wrist -- for a moment, he was more than even just taken aback; he was, in some deeply primal way he didn't understand, almost frightened. Which was absolutely ridiculous. But that flash, that thrill of fear, was there -- though it came and went so fast it barely had time to register in his conscious mind.
But he didn't dwell on it, because after that first bright taste of fear flared along his nerves a hot rush of desire flooded through his body, so strong that it nearly left him weak in the knees like some swooning chick in a romance novel, and that was a lot more interesting to focus on. Sure, he'd been eyeing the sultry looking guy all night, paying far more attention to him than strictly attention to him over the course of his shift, not even bothering to pay the same amount of attention to the guy's date. She was pretty, but who could be bothered to give a fuck when the guy had that -- that kind of sheer god damn animal magnetism that Steve hadn't ever thought was a real thing until just then? She was tofu, and this guy -- this guy was the finest filet mignon on the menu. And Steve, for one, was fucking starving.
Steve was, also, completely and totally over his current job as a server at the restaurant where the sexy son of a bitch had brought his light-of-love that evening. Over the asshole bosses, over the terrible customers, over the coked-out or kleptomaniac co-workers, over the suspect levels of hygiene employed by the line cooks. And when the shift lead had fired one of the pretty young hostesses earlier in the night (ostensibly for accrued tardiness, though Steve had a sinking suspicion it was really for refusing to blow him in the walk-in) he'd gone ahead and finally let himself check-out completely from the whole shit-show, amusing himself for this one last shift by sending the hot guy smoldering edroom eyes and sneaking shots of whiskey off the bartender who'd been his only real friend in the whole hell-hole.
He'd finish his shift, or at least give it a good old college-try, and then he'd throw his resignation in the shift-lead's face. Maybe even throw a punch at the asshat, too, if he got confirmation of his suspicions about trying to get one over on the hostess. And then he'd shake the dust of this place from his heels and find something else to occupy his time until he figured out what it was that was missing from his life, and a way to get it -- and the sense of balance, of purpose or meaning or intention, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it that came with it -- back.
So when the sexy, dark-haired guest who threw all kinds of fascinating signals at him started caressing the underside of his wrist with his thumb, a beautifully dirty, intimate kind of gesture that cut out the middleman entirely and sent little stabbing jolts of lusty pleasure straight to his dick, Steve didn't hesitate for a minute before replying. "I was gonna quit this bitch at the end of the night," he says, licking his lips, voice low and a little shaky. "So fuck it -- my shift ends now."
janainaart
stormborns
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
