Wrangler Read Online Free Page A

as me and sooner or later, she’s going to get a good look at just what her dimple does to me.
    “Chad.”  Roger’s laughter shakes me from my trance.  “You going to order or just make the poor girl stand there being uncomfortable for the rest of the night?”
    She’s fighting another smile and I don’t see discomfort. I see tiny sparklers lighting up her chocolate brown eyes.  She’s magnificent and I take another step forward to which she counters back.
    “Do you want a drink or not?”  She loses the smile and I see her swallow.
    “No, I don’t want a drink.  I want your number.”
    Roger lets out a hoot then interrupts. “Sorry. Look, Lori, he’s been in a secluded mountain cabin for a few too many years so his social skills, although lacking before, now seem non-existent.  He doesn’t bite though. Well, not unless you want him to.”  Roger licks his lips and the thought that he’s looking at her with anything but the purest of notions makes me want to level him.
    “Okay.”  She tips her head trying to establish if we are done here. 
    She lets out a little girlish giggle and I lose my fucking mind.  All that sexy with an innocent sweetness on top and drops of cum begin to soak my boxers.  It’s like I’ve been saving up every lustful thought I should have had over the last God-knows-how-many years and they are all coming to call right now inside my fire-seared brain.
    I don’t want her to walk away, but I’m not sure I can tie her ass up and sling her over my shoulder without raising some eyebrows.  So I just soak her up and smile.
    “Well, I’ll be back with your drinks.”  She turns away, and my eyes follow. 
    Her waist is the perfect size for my hands, her ass is the perfect size for fucking, sucking, biting and watching.  In fact, there isn’t a part of her that isn’t the perfect size.  She’s all slow s-turns and deep valleys.  Who wants a boring straight-away; I’ll take all she’s got and make the most of every luscious inch.
    I tilt my head to get a better angle watching her move through the crowd. She’s wearing these shiny ballet flats the color of an Oklahoma spring sky, not boots or high heels like the other waitresses.  Her matching baby-blue skirt hits her mid-thigh.
    My eyes follow the curve down her inner leg, past her knees as she bends them and walks up on her tip-toes like she’s being careful not to disturb someone, sidestepping a couple of Barbie-bar flies with makeup so thick it looks like they’re wearing Halloween masks. But the way she walks, it only gives me a better perspective, and all I can think is just how much I want to trace those curves, memorizing them with the tip of my tongue, then start all over with my fingers.  Rinse and repeat.
    I’d never considered what my ‘type’ might be, but seeing her it dawns on me that there’s a reason for that.  I don’t have a type.
    It’s her.  She’s it.  My type is this one girl.  Ripe and lush and as sweet as apple pie.
    I don’t know if she has a boyfriend, if she’s married or hell, she may have a wife for all I know.  But one thing is clear in my mind, whatever she is, there’s part of me that’s already decided I need to be part of her life.
    She makes her way past a group of five city boys wearing jeans without a Levi’s or Wrangler label.  In fact, I think they may have taken a wrong turn and shopped in the women’s department for those fancy pants.
    There is something about a dude that cares a little too much about his appearance that ruffles my feathers.  Like they don’t have enough to offer from the inside and that makes them a bit too concerned over what they look like on the outside.  Doesn’t send up real-man signals as far as I’m concerned.
    Whatever, what they wear is none of my concern, but what is my concern is the way the fuckers eye her as she tries to squeeze through and don’t give her the goddamn courtesy of stepping aside and giving her room to get