Lunch Break

I’m refilling the Cokes in the refrigerated case when he walks down the aisle.

He’s older than me by a good ten years or so, I’d guess, and his skin is the delicate shade of decadent milk chocolate—just the way I like my guys. He wears pale linen slacks with a crease ironed down the center of each leg and a sharp blazer open to reveal a thin, pink, silk shirt that clings to him when he moves. Just by looking, I can see he’s not wearing an undershirt because when he turns, the silk is pulled taut along his slim torso and a hard nipple strains the fabric.

Oh my. I freeze, hands full of soda bottles that don’t quite make it into the case, legs and arms pimpling with goose bumps from the refrigerated air. I’m staring, I know it, but I can’t look away.

The light-colored clothing only enhances his dusky skin. There’s a dark shadow of hair trimmed close over the top of his head, and his full lips are framed by a manicured goatee that looks penciled in. His brown eyes are large and bright, with lashes any Cover Girl would envy. As he comes toward me, his gaze flickers over the stocked shelves, first one side of the aisle, then the other. Then he sees me and flashes a quick smile that shows a glimpse of even, white teeth.

He is, in a word, perfect.

But then his gaze slides over me as if I’m just another display in the aisle—he turns toward the cans of fruit stocked behind me and, in that instant, I’m reduced to something less interesting than shelves of canned produce. Fuck.

I hear the sough of linen on skin as he bends down for something on a lower shelf, and though I shouldn’t, I look over my shoulder for another glance. His slacks are tight over a firm, round ass.

Damn.

I’m hard just looking at him. Suddenly my mind crowds with thoughts of the two of us together, naked and sweaty and just…damn.After he leaves, I’ll have to duck into the restroom, prop up a Wet Floorsign to keep customers out, and jerk off as I imagine guiding my thick, white cock between those dark, meaty buttocks.

With a squeal of his shoe on the tiled floor, he half-turns and squats by the lower shelf. I don’t realize he’s watching me stare at him until he clears his throat.

I jump as if goosed. The bottles in my hands clatter together when I shove them hurriedly into the case. Caught looking, how sad is that?

His smile is back, faint this time, and his eyes pin me in place. “Hey there.”

His voice is deep, throaty, with a twinge of the South in it. My mouth opens to reply but there are no words waiting to be said; I’m stunned, speechless. So I exist now, do I? Is he really talking to me?

His smile widens as his gaze runs up my body, taking in my battered Converse, my torn shorts, my faded T-shirt covered by a dingy apron. I wonder if he can see what he’s doing to me, looking at me like that, because my shorts were baggy two minutes ago and now the crotch bites into my cock, my boxers too confining, and I’m pretty sure the apron ain’t covering shit.

Once his eyes meet mine again, I manage to sigh, “Hey.”

I sound like a moonstruck schoolboy but right now I don’t care. I could spend the rest of my life just staring at him, he’s that beautiful. And he’s still smiling, still looking my way, so maybe he thinks I’m something, too.

A cold draft curls around my ankles from the open refrigerator case, reminding me I should get back to work. But at the moment I can’t move, I can’t think, I can barely breathe, and there’s no way I’m going to turn my back on someone like him. I want to say something, anything, to keep him talking to me.

But someone else enters the aisle, damn it, and his gaze flickers from mine to a beautiful woman wearing a short summery dress, one of the store’s hand baskets clasped in both hands. She wafts down the aisle with an airy grace, as if she’s picking flowers. She has coffee-colored skin and hair like honey, kinked into loose curls that tumble over her shoulders and are held back from her face by a pair of sunglasses propped on top of her head.

Before she even speaks, I just know they’re here together. Two perfect people like that? They’re made for each other.

“Kevin,” she moans, giving me a distrustful glance before she stops to lean against the shelf beside the guy. “I can’t find anything in this damn place.”

With a nod my way, Kevin says, “Ask him. He works here. What are you looking for?”

She glances at me again, the prettiest pout worrying her plump lips, as if she’s not going to ask meshit. Without asking what she wants, I turn back to the case, more bottles rattling loudly as I shove them into place. Of course, he’d have a girl. Of course, she’d be some damn bitch who’d look down on me because I stock shelves here. Of course…

Another guy enters the aisle, a white kid my age, maybe a little younger. He has short blonde hair and wears a long white T-shirt over baggy jeans as if he thinks he’s the next Eminem. There’s a wicked scowl on his face completing the image. “Teesh,” he sighs. “I can’t find those damn things.”

He sees me looking and eases a possessive arm around the woman’s waist, a clear message that says this is his girl, not Kevin’s. Then he plants a kiss on her cheek so I knowshe’s his. “Do you really need them now?”

“Hello? Roddy, I needed them yesterday.What kind of store is this?”

Kevin clears his throat as he stands, tossing a jar of peaches into her hand basket. “Just ask someone already, Tahesha.”

In the reflection of the glass door I see him look at me. I feel his hot gaze on my back and butt and thighs, and I resist the urge to bend over just to see if his eyes widen or not. Kevin tells her again, “Ask him.”

Roddy smirks. “Yeah, ask him.”

She crosses the aisle to where I am; this close, her honeysuckle perfume cloying and thick. “Tahesha,” her guy says, goading her on—there’s a small smile on his face and Kevin laughs like this is some kind of joke, and I’m almost afraid of what she wants to know.

“Sir?” she asks.