“I’m sure you do.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you’re male. Supposedly, men think about sex far more frequently than women do, and you can’t possibly be imagining the sex taking the same form all the time.”
He piled cheese atop the sandwiches and grunted. She was right. His imagination was far too rich for missionary-style fantasies.
“If you weren’t thinking about fellatio,” she said, “then why couldn’t you imagine me eating a hotdog?”
“Because you strike me as being careful and fastidious. The toppings would be hard to contain, and would stain your clothing if they fell off.”
“Ah.”
He handed her one unimpressive sandwich and took a bite of his own before she could demand he taste the food first.
She watched him chew and swallow before taking a bite of hers.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes.
He laughed. “So, what do you like on your hotdogs?”
“Hmm. That’s complicated.”
Now that she’d broached the topic, of course he was imagining her sliding one of the messy things between her lips and biting down. He wanted to know what dripped off the end, if anything did at all. She may have been perfectly proficient in keeping every last bit of the mess from going anyplace but her mouth.
Gods.
His cock gave an insistent spasm, and he had to walk away before she glanced down and saw his aroused state. He had no business wondering if she’d take him into her mouth and—further—if when he had his release, whether she’d let him fall from her lips or if she’d swallow down every last drop of his spend.
Fuck.
He adjusted himself inside his snug briefs and regretted the action. There was no good way to tuck his shaft so she wouldn’t see it.
“Most of the time,” she said, “I like my hotdogs to have chili, onion, and mustard, but not everywhere has chili. If I can’t have chili, I take them with ketchup, mustard, onion, and relish. Sometimes a little bit of sharp cheese if I’m in a certain kind of mood.”
“And I’m sure you enjoy a nice beer when you’re eating your hotdogs.”
“Hey, if I’m going to eat empty calories, why not go ahead and have the beer, right?”
“From a bottle, I’m certain.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Closing his eyes, he groaned.
She’d likely be quite the tease as she closed her lips around the bottle’s neck, and knowing full well that she didn’t need to.
She’d probably wink at him as she lifted the bottle and poured the bitter brew down her throat, and when she righted her head, she’d likely lick the drips from around the threads, staring at him all the while.
Fuck.
“Do you drink beer?” she asked, rousing him from a daydream that was quickly devolving from a beverage tease to full-blown pornography. He hated being what he was sometimes—he hated how susceptible he was to those pervasive, sexual urges, made all the worse by the animal living inside him.
That animal wanted to see her wriggling down her pantyhose, and he’d take a long look at what was left under her skirt when they were gone.
“Well, do you?” she queried.