Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Her breath hitched. I took it as an invitation. I lowered my head, my tongue tracing a path from the hollow of her throat to the valley between her huge tits. Her skin was salty with sweat, sweet with her own unique scent. I took a nipple into my mouth again, this time gently, swirling my tongue around the tight peak. Kat sighed, her hands coming up to rest on my shoulders, her body molding against mine.
“You’re insatiable,” she whispered, but it wasn’t a complaint. It was a celebration because I’ve hired this girl to come to my cabin for some dirty roleplay … and the fun has just begun.
1
CHAPTER ONE – AN AD IN THE PAPER
Kat
The espresso machine coughs, groans, and shudders like an old man with a dying lung, and I’m pretty sure it’s not the only thing about to give out in this place. The morning rush has blitzed my soul, left me with a sticky apron, sweat pooling under my bra, and the strange, persistent fantasy that if I just upend the tip jar over my head, I might get enough coins to drown in. My hands smell like burnt beans and sanitizer. Even my hair is now a pink mop sticky with steamed-milk humidity and flecks of chocolate powder. I wipe down the counter in lazy circles and count the seconds till my next break.
“Hey, Kat, you spelled this guy’s name wrong,” calls Amber, the manager, holding up a venti for some local who probably thinks barista names are just white noise.
“That’s not even a real name,” I mutter under my breath. “Xaveon? Is he a video game villain?”
But I smile and remake the drink, before carefully writing “X-A-V-E-O-N” with an extra heart for flourish. Then, I shuffle to the end of the bar, my sneakers sliding on the permanent film of milk scum. My calves burn, knees stiff from bending to the under-counter fridge a hundred times since five a.m., and the left side of my lower back is starting to throb in that way that makes you think you’ll be limping by thirty. Xaveon picks up his triple-shot with the bored disdain of a man who’s never worked for tips in his life. He nods at me—doesn’t say thank you—and turns to scroll his phone. I want to tell him he has whipped cream on his nose, but honestly, let the world have its small amusements.
The lull is brief. Next up is a mother with two cute toddlers, one sticky with what I pray is just caramel syrup, the other clutching a mutilated Beanie Baby. She orders a single cappuccino—bless her—and a cake pop for each child. Her hands tremble as she digs for her wallet, as her eyes plead with me. “Do you have oat milk?”
I nod. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank goodness,” she smiles. “Sometimes the super fancy places only do cow’s milk now. Don’t ask me why.”
I smile and quirk my chin.
“Yes, but not at the Thistle. We absolutely have oat, almond, soy, you name it. We’re not too fancy for anything.”
With that, I prep her drink on autopilot, muscle memory taking over while my brain slips into its usual loop: school, debt, the cold pit of not-enough that sits in my gut and gnaws louder with every shift. The latest tuition bill from Century College is folded in my purse, stained with a drop of last night’s cheap wine. I withdrew from school in the middle of last year and yet the bursar’s office keeps sending “friendly reminders.” Mom offered to take out another parent loan so that I could re-enroll, but after her third bankruptcy, I think it’s better if we don’t go there.
Still. There are days where I look around at the cafe and think: I could just be this. I could just pour coffee, flirt for tips, pay rent on my micro-apartment, and call that a life. But then I see a girl in a campus hoodie with a stack of textbooks, and I know I want more. I have nothing against the barista life and I love my coworkers for the most part, but I just want more. Unfortunately, what more is, or even how I’ll get there, is still unclear.
I hand off the cake pops to the two toddlers, and blow a few kisses. Then, I turn and sag against the counter, my whole body aching. Amber taps me on the shoulder and gestures at the break room. “Go,” she mouths. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
I peel off my apron and shuffle past the display case, through the swinging door, and into the back closet that someone with a sense of humor labeled “Employee Wellness Lounge.” There’s a battered vinyl loveseat, a microwave, and a poster about hydration that’s been there since 2012. I collapse into the loveseat and dig in my apron for tips. A handful of bills, mostly ones, and maybe two dollars in coins—enough for a vending machine dinner, but not enough to pay even the overdue part of my tuition.