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 Floor sign 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.
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