Dishing Up Love

Curtis, I want to take home with me, introduce him to the sanctuary of my room, and for him to never leave. I want to let him pull me to him like he’s been doing all night, curl up against his tall, strong body that makes me feel oh so safe, even in the presence of what could be evil spirits along the tour in the dead of night, and just stay there for hours, days, weeks even. I want to binge watch our favorite shows, let him cook me any meal he can think of, and then make a dessert out of his deliciously masculine body. He makes me feel a hundred percent all woman, even though a very vital part of what makes me female does everything in its power to make me feel less than.

I love and hate a certain part of Curtis I’ve picked up on with my psychological brain. He’s very, very observant. I can tell when he catches a peek behind my strategically placed defenses before I can reinforce them. But thankfully, he hasn’t questioned me. He’s smart, choosing to let it go, probably building a list inside his beautiful mind so he can ask me about them when we’re alone or whenever, if ever, I choose to open up to him. Even with his towering size, there’s a definite gentleness about him, in the way he handles me physically and mentally. It makes me appreciate him, but at the same time, it scares the shit out of me.

I have very strict rules I’ve placed on myself. I don’t get close to men. I don’t let them get close to me. There is no depth to the time I spend with any of them. It’s just better this way. Then my heart doesn’t have to get broken when I’m not good enough, just me.

“Sugar, sugar.” Curtis’s hot breath sends chills down my neck as he whisper-sings in my ear before taking the stool next to me.

“Oh, honey, honey.” I shake my head, using the lyrics to the oldie as I cross my arms on the bar top and lay my head down, facing him. “You think we have enough time for me to take a powernap?”

“You think you could sleep in this haunted creepy-ass hotel bar? Go ahead and we’ll catch up to the tour group later.” He chuckles.

“I’m so tired I probably could,” I say, and he reaches over to rub my back in soothing circles. I fight with all my might not to purr like a fucking cat in heat.

“How about… another drink? This one with a pick-me-up,” he suggests, and I nod. When the bartender makes his way over to us, I order a Red Bull and vodka, even though I can’t stand the taste of the energy drink.

“Which flavor?” the bartender asks.

“Flavor? You mean which flavor vodka?” I ask, confused.

He shakes his head. “No. Red Bull.”

I sit up straight, my eyes widening. “Red Bull comes in flavors now? O-M-G, this is a game changer.”

“Did you just say O-M-G out loud?” Curtis questions next to me, and I use my fingertips to gently pinch his lips closed.

“Shhh,” I direct at him, but my eyes don’t leave the bartender’s. “What flavors do you have?”

“Well, there’s original…” He opens the sliding door on the refrigerator in front of him behind the bar and takes a closer look at the cans inside. “Cranberry, grapefruit, blueberry, tropical fruit, orange, kiwi-apple, coconut berry—”

“That one!” I interrupt his list.

“Are you sure? I have a few more.”

“Yep. Positive. Nothing beats out coconut,” I reply, and I feel and hear Curtis sniff out a chuckle, his breath coming out of his nose and hitting my fingers where I still have them clamping his lips closed. I let him go, take a moment to gently pat his cheek before reaching for the drink the bartender was kind enough to pour for me quickly.

“So coconut, huh? I’ll have to remember that. I have a damn good coconut cake recipe that will blow your mind,” Curtis murmurs close to me before turning to order another Hurricane.

“You shut your filthy mouth, Curtis Rockwell. Don’t you talk dirty to me in public,” I scold, taking a sip of my drink. My head tilts back and I close my eyes. “Holy shit. This is amazing. Can I get one of these in a to-go cup please, good man?”

“Sure thing, dollface,” he says, grabbing a large plastic cup from the wall behind him and mixing me up another Red Bull and vodka. I pour the rest of my glass I’m working on into the cup and mix it all up with my straw.

“That’s one thing I could definitely get used to about this place,” Curtis tells me, and I lift a prompting brow at him. “Getting to walk around with open containers of alcohol. So weird, but oh so cool.”