Her Billionaire, Her Wolf
1
His Every Desire
She saw him there.
He was in his usual place, an entire booth all to himself while the rest of the restaurant and bar was full to capacity.
Sara wiggled her way between a couple of suits standing at the bar and nodded at the barman.
He winked at her and she knew that what she thought of as her lunch would be placed before her in short order.
Her stomach grumbled but with all the hustle and bustle, the clatter of silverware and conversations fighting amongst themselves to be heard, Sara was not embarrassed over the tiny sounds her famished stomach made.
She was starving and the virgin Bloody Mary...with an extra celery stick, please...would do little to calm her hunger.
That did not matter, though.
All that mattered to her was seated not far away and had his back turned to her.
He reached for a bit of paperwork spread across his table and Sara took in how his white cotton shirt drew tightly across his back and shoulders. The shirt's cotton was pristine in its purity and absolute lack of any other color than white, appearing to be of an extremely tight weave. Probably egyptian, she thought, and probably unboxed from its packaging that very morning.
And, probably tailored to fit, too.
But the way it hugged his body as he moved made that shirt precious in Sara's eyes. It was almost better than being able to see him unclothed, in all his handsome glory. She loved the way it held to his shoulders, hinting at the thick muscles that led down to broad arms that would surely feel like heaven wrapped around her body.
There was a clinking sound just beside her and Sara was forced to turn back to the bar. The ice cubes still swirling in her tomato juice, she saw that the barman was already gliding away as if he were on roller skates, his work never done during the rush of lunch hour. Besides the present press and throng, he had learned long ago that despite his best efforts, no amount of chatting would garner a tip from Sara.
As much as she would have wished otherwise, she simply could not afford a penny more than the price of her drink. What it took for her to have the right to be at that particular bar each weekday and drink in the sight of that particular man seated alone in his booth.
With a true professional's attention to detail, the barman had left a bottle of hot sauce next to Sara's cocktail and with relish, she unscrewed its bright red cap and shook in a few drops. And while she did it, Sara lifted her eyes to the mirror that shone bright and polished behind the endless bottles of liquor and spirits lining the wall across from her.
Her place at the bar was not chosen by hazard and from her position, Sara studied the white shirted man in the mirror's reflection. Her curiosity would not let her do otherwise and it felt safer somehow, watching him in a reflection, as if looking directly at him too long would burn her eyes and leave her in tears.
The mirror was safer, and better still, with the angle of view as it was, she saw only him with no risk of seeing herself.
Her own image held no mystery for her. She knew men's eyes were drawn to her, but as the years passed it was less and less the case. She knew, too, that she was tired and that it showed in a gaze that might not have been exactly haggard, but was certainly one dulled and lacking the spark of effervescent youth.
Worrying from one day to the next about where her next meal would come from or whether she would have a roof over her head had worn her down over the past year. And while that had changed for the better only a couple months ago, a sense of precarity was never far away.
Early on, when she had first started coming in to the bar for her lunchtime Bloody Mary, Sara had quietly asked the barman if he knew who the white shirted man was.
The barman had replied that he had no idea and only knew that the booth was held open for him every day without fail and woe betide he who thought to do otherwise.
When she had asked what he meant, the barman replied that during his own training he had seen a freshly recruited waiter seat a young couple one day in that booth. It had been especially crowded and the waiter was near to his wits end trying to seat people. It was late, the white shirted man had not yet showed up to claim his daily place and the waiter did the unthinkable and put the couple in the reserved seating of the booth.
Not five minutes later, the white shirted man arrived and when he saw that his usual place had been taken, he had stared a long moment at the young couple. The barman said he was suddenly sure the man was going to throw the two out the door on his own just then, the anger burning in his face and coming off him in palpable waves.
Instead, he stood right where he was, in the middle of everything and forced the waitstaff to nearly trip over themselves as they navigated by. He calmly placed his briefcase of paperwork on the floor and pulled out a cellphone into which he held a very quiet and very short conversation.
His Every Desire
She saw him there.
He was in his usual place, an entire booth all to himself while the rest of the restaurant and bar was full to capacity.
Sara wiggled her way between a couple of suits standing at the bar and nodded at the barman.
He winked at her and she knew that what she thought of as her lunch would be placed before her in short order.
Her stomach grumbled but with all the hustle and bustle, the clatter of silverware and conversations fighting amongst themselves to be heard, Sara was not embarrassed over the tiny sounds her famished stomach made.
She was starving and the virgin Bloody Mary...with an extra celery stick, please...would do little to calm her hunger.
That did not matter, though.
All that mattered to her was seated not far away and had his back turned to her.
He reached for a bit of paperwork spread across his table and Sara took in how his white cotton shirt drew tightly across his back and shoulders. The shirt's cotton was pristine in its purity and absolute lack of any other color than white, appearing to be of an extremely tight weave. Probably egyptian, she thought, and probably unboxed from its packaging that very morning.
And, probably tailored to fit, too.
But the way it hugged his body as he moved made that shirt precious in Sara's eyes. It was almost better than being able to see him unclothed, in all his handsome glory. She loved the way it held to his shoulders, hinting at the thick muscles that led down to broad arms that would surely feel like heaven wrapped around her body.
There was a clinking sound just beside her and Sara was forced to turn back to the bar. The ice cubes still swirling in her tomato juice, she saw that the barman was already gliding away as if he were on roller skates, his work never done during the rush of lunch hour. Besides the present press and throng, he had learned long ago that despite his best efforts, no amount of chatting would garner a tip from Sara.
As much as she would have wished otherwise, she simply could not afford a penny more than the price of her drink. What it took for her to have the right to be at that particular bar each weekday and drink in the sight of that particular man seated alone in his booth.
With a true professional's attention to detail, the barman had left a bottle of hot sauce next to Sara's cocktail and with relish, she unscrewed its bright red cap and shook in a few drops. And while she did it, Sara lifted her eyes to the mirror that shone bright and polished behind the endless bottles of liquor and spirits lining the wall across from her.
Her place at the bar was not chosen by hazard and from her position, Sara studied the white shirted man in the mirror's reflection. Her curiosity would not let her do otherwise and it felt safer somehow, watching him in a reflection, as if looking directly at him too long would burn her eyes and leave her in tears.
The mirror was safer, and better still, with the angle of view as it was, she saw only him with no risk of seeing herself.
Her own image held no mystery for her. She knew men's eyes were drawn to her, but as the years passed it was less and less the case. She knew, too, that she was tired and that it showed in a gaze that might not have been exactly haggard, but was certainly one dulled and lacking the spark of effervescent youth.
Worrying from one day to the next about where her next meal would come from or whether she would have a roof over her head had worn her down over the past year. And while that had changed for the better only a couple months ago, a sense of precarity was never far away.
Early on, when she had first started coming in to the bar for her lunchtime Bloody Mary, Sara had quietly asked the barman if he knew who the white shirted man was.
The barman had replied that he had no idea and only knew that the booth was held open for him every day without fail and woe betide he who thought to do otherwise.
When she had asked what he meant, the barman replied that during his own training he had seen a freshly recruited waiter seat a young couple one day in that booth. It had been especially crowded and the waiter was near to his wits end trying to seat people. It was late, the white shirted man had not yet showed up to claim his daily place and the waiter did the unthinkable and put the couple in the reserved seating of the booth.
Not five minutes later, the white shirted man arrived and when he saw that his usual place had been taken, he had stared a long moment at the young couple. The barman said he was suddenly sure the man was going to throw the two out the door on his own just then, the anger burning in his face and coming off him in palpable waves.
Instead, he stood right where he was, in the middle of everything and forced the waitstaff to nearly trip over themselves as they navigated by. He calmly placed his briefcase of paperwork on the floor and pulled out a cellphone into which he held a very quiet and very short conversation.