Dusty & Daddy by Savannah May & Sassy Day

Author:Savannah May & Sassy Day [May, Savannah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter FOURTEEN

Dusty Rose

My sheets seem to come alive like the roots of a magical tree, having knotted themselves around me during the night. Sleep crusts my lashes and I know I slept really badly.

I'm horny as hell and the loneliness is driving me out of my mind, straight through every pore. Plus- I'm out of freaking coffee.

I pick up my phone but I don't have Killian's number. Shit, how have we not done that? Exchanged numbers and stuff.

Maybe he won't even allow me his number. He said something about not being able to email or contact me at all. I lift my hand to throw the phone across the room but control my temper and instead, I text Vick, the other waitress from the club. She's basically the closest thing to a friend I have now, the only one, and I ask her to meet me.

Vick walks into the coffee shop looking all around and blinking like she's woken up in a foreign country. She does look out of her element here if I'm honest. At the club, she's the oldest in years and amount of time served. She dominates the roost and keeps control of the johns, as we refer to them, even without help from Nero. It's like her private domain.

Here she's just another girl wondering what the fuck to do with her life.

“I got you a pumpkin spice frappuccino, extra whip,” I tell her, indicating the two cups on the table.

She looks at the drink like it's a bucket of slime and sits down, looking around like she's waiting for the feds.

Shit, I wish that analogy hadn't come to me.

Killian's perfect rugged face soars into my mind, launching an army stamping through my heart. His handsome features battered by the pain I put him through. I can't even imagine what being locked in a rat pen must have been like for him, the man-god with the fabulous life.

Or at least it was until showed up. The rich and stunning man that could have anything ruined. I wriggle in my seat to eradicate the throb between my thighs and focus on spending this time with my new friend.

“Try it, you'll like it,” I say. “Are you okay? You look, I don't know, disoriented.”

“It's eleven o-fucking-thirty,” she says. “How am I supposed to look. I never been in one of these places.”

“You've never been in Starbucks?” I repeat, getting a glare in return. What rock has she been snoozing under?

“More to the point, are you okay?” she snaps, but not unkindly.

“I'm fine. I'm fantastic.”

She looks at me dubiously and takes a tentative sip of her drink. She wrinkles her nose, then sticks her finger in the whip and licks it off.

“I am,” I insist. “Why do you ask?”

“You popped your cherry last night,” she says bluntly.

“Ohmigod was it written all over me?” First everyone can tell I'm a virgin, then it's blatantly obvious to the entire club that I've been carded. I'm a walking freaking billboard, advertising my sexual status.

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