Gunsmoke » B. Hargrove

sixteen

Zara's chirpy tone responds before Billy can, her hands scooping up the generous little bowl of cherries and began dunking them in the mountain of whipped cream that settled at the top of her shake. "No, thank you! Everything looks delicious."

She wasn't wrong.

The towering club sandwich Billy had ordered was made thick; delicious heaps of turkey and crispy bacon smushed between fresh lettuce, tomatoes and toasted bread—not to mention the fresh batch of golden brown fries that were just itching to be dipped in ranch and shoved into his mouth.

Zara beats him to it, fingers fast as lightening when sneaking a few fries; he'd only let it slide because her toes were back on his groin, dropping slightly from the length of his dick to wrap around the heavy sack of his balls—the tiny little digits tugging and tapping at him through his jeans so passively as she moved on from savory to suck down her sweet drink. "I'd say I've let you play this little game for long enough," His hands move her feet from him, his legs closing and dick throbbing as he willed himself to focus on his food—later, he promised himself.

"You're no fun," Zara taunted, tucking her toes back into the safety of her flip flops. Her lips wrapped around her straw, lashes fluttering deviously as her eyes bore into Billy's. "—and to think I blew off Harrington for this."

Maybe it was too far.

It was definitely too far.

Billy had peered at her over his sandwich, mouth moving mechanically as he chewed the fat bite he'd taken seconds before she'd decided to run her mouth. The club sandwich hit the plate with a thump, a hand reaching out to grab at his napkin and wipe the corners of his mouth and clean the sauce that had leaked onto his fingers. The playfulness in his eyes had fully died out, a hand raising to gain their waitresses attention and signal for boxes and the bill.

"But, I'm not done with my milkshake."

He doesn't acknowledge her even speaking to him, his muscles moving swiftly to tuck his food neatly in the to-go box, capping his ranch and even stacking a new set of napkins inside for later. He barely waits for the bill, forking out the total and a few bucks tip to leave under the salt shaker.

The confidence in Zara's tone depleted in an instant, her brows furrowing with worry that she'd just fucked up beyond belief. She was mentally rehearsing a thousand apologies when he slides from the booth, his box in hand and jacket tossed over his forearm. His cock is fucking threatening to break the seams of his jeans and when he stands before her to grab her from her seat—she nearly lingers; the thought of letting him fuck her face in front of everyone as a punishment for forgetting to think before speaking. "Get up."

"Billy, I—"

"Zara," The way he says her name makes her nervous, any care his tone once held was now buried deep with little hopes of returning. "—go to the car, now."

She listened like a wounded puppy who'd been scolded by its owner, her hands fiddling anxiously before her as she glanced over at him in a feeble attempt to reach his eye.

She didn't.

He wasn't looking at her at all, his pretty eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses he'd been wearing earlier.

The door to the car unlocked and the moment they're inside, Zara half expects him to promptly drive her back home and never look back. "Billy, I'm sorry. I really wasn't trying to be rude, I promise."