Page 6 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

He chuckles and leans over to grab the leftover paper film, which is all that remains of the dessert in question. “Delicious as always,” he says in that delightful, southern drawl. “I think I’ve become a bit addicted to the likes of your goods, honestly. Not one thing I’ve tried that I haven’t scarfed down, chef.”

Alana beams at the words of praise despite her futile efforts to seem nonchalant. This bakery is her pride and joy. It’s always a nice feeling when her hard work goes acknowledged.

“Oh! Thank you. I didn’t go to culinary school, actually, so I probably can’t call myself chef. But I’m hoping to expand and be able to serve meals next summer.”

Cyrus eyes her with a raised brow before shaking his head. “Not sure I like that doubt in your voice just then, sweetheart. Fancy cookin’ schools don’t always mean something. The fact that you pulled all this together without that experience? Well, now I think you earned whatever title you want to give yourself.”

There’s a sense of pride in his voice that turns Alana’s bones to jelly and sends an unfamiliar warmth weaving through her ribs.

“Oh, and if I might add…” Cyrus says. The rumble of his laugh effectively pulls Alana back into focus. “Should you need someone to, you know, test recipes for when you expand, I’d be happy to oblige.” He cracks a grin, a shimmer of something playful showing behind the golden undertones in his eyes.

It elicits a snort out of Alana. “Oh, really? You ready to be put to work, hm?” She puts a hand on her hip and looks him up and down.

The corner of his mouth lifts just enough to expose a sharpened canine. “See, now I’m what they call a working man. And for you? Well, give me the word, and you can put me to work for as long as you need.”

There’s something about the way he says that last line that makes Alana feel perverted beyond repair. There’s no way it meant anything other than exactly what he said, but the inappropriate thoughts flood her mind regardless. She takes one look at his sharp teeth and sculpted hands and knows there are a few ways she’d like to put him to work that have little to do with her cafe, that’s for certain.

Before Alana can try to formulate any kind of response, a forced cough from beside her cuts her off. She startles, then turns to the woman she most definitely didn’t notice until now, her over-plucked brows furrowed.

“Oh, excuse me, sorry.” Alana apologizes, but the other woman just stares with a measure of annoyance that creates an uncomfortable twist in her throat. When she steps aside, she realizes it’s because she was blocking the seat beside Cyrus.

“It’s fine.” She takes the seat with haste. The movement sends a waft of perfume in the air—cloyingly sweet and artificial. It reminds Alana of those old taffy candies she’d find at the bottom of her grandmother’s purses. “Do you work here? I’d love a cappuccino. Oh! No, no. Actually, a dirty chai.” She doesn’t so much as look at Alana while she asks. It’s Cyrus whom she smiles at, her voice switching to something far more polite. “Sorry I’m late,” she tells him. Freshly manicured nails twirl around her thin hair. “Traffic was, like, so atrocious.”

Alana bites the inside of her cheek. Were it not for the stunned, apologetic look Cyrus sends her way, she’d be tempted to cause more of a scene. “We do, but we’ll have to get you rung up at the counter. I’ll be there to take your order whenever you’re ready.” She forces a customer-service smile and points to the growing line at the register. With that, she excuses herself, ignoring the offended scoff from behind as she leaves.

Alana’s stomach tightens as she steps behind the counter to help Citlalli with the orders piling in. Was that… a girlfriend? Partner? Had Alana lingered for a few seconds longer, she half expected the lady to crawl over the table and make out with the poor man, just to be sure her point was clear: he’s spoken for. Alana glances over at the pair while she plates up a couple of pastries for the next guests. She’s sure she’s seen the woman a time or two before. Rancid personality aside, she’s pretty. Thin platinum hair with an even thinner frame, dressed in one of those atrociously overpriced luxury tracksuits.

Reality crashes back down on Alana, hard. If there’s anyone a man like Cyrus would be statistically more likely to end up with on his arm, it’s probably someone like that.

Alana shakes her head. It’s fine.

She still has a date with a werewolf to look forward to, after all.

CHAPTER FOUR

ALANA

“Well, damn.”

“I know….” Alana clutches a throw pillow to her chest and groans as she spills her guts to her neighbor and recently turned friend, Nakita. She had stopped by on her way home to drop off some leftover baked goods. She hadn’t planned on staying, and she’d certainly had no intentions of telling anyone about her plan to hire an anonymous werewolf sex worker. However, after being prompted into a few glasses of wine, she began blabbering about her recent life events, as if the portion of her brain responsible for discernment had shut down.

“Wow. A wolf-type, hm?” The vampire gives a rich, throaty laugh and takes a sip from her wine glass. Viscous red spills from the corner of her lip when she does, and she’s quick to lick the mess clean before it drips too far down her chin. “Are you sure you can handle all that? Those guys are hung as hell.”

Alana whines, and her face blooms with heat as she hugs Nakita’s throw pillow tighter. She’s tested out toys of various sizes through the years, but those were usually only comparable to human genitalia. A werewolf dick? That would likely send her to the grave. The twisted side of her thinks she’d be okay with that. At least she wouldn’t die a sexless virgin.

“I don’t know! I kind of just plan to figure it out as I go.” Alana confesses, unable to meet her friend’s gaze. “But Nakita, is this…crazy? Paying some guy to have sex with me? If anything, it feels like it should be the other way around. I’ve heard people make serious bank doing that, actually.”

Gods. Had she been using her head, maybe that’s the route she should’ve taken. Auction herself off to some rich old pervert, then sit back and enjoy the fruits of what was likely to be a solid thirty seconds of labor.

Nakita eyes her with a wicked smile, then checks underneath her tapered, glossy nails. “Nah, I don’t think so. The way I see it? You know what you want, and you’re going for it. You’re taking charge of your own happiness. There’s no shame in that. Besides, this could be good for you. After the first time, I think it’ll be easier for you to put yourself out there sexually without the looming pressure to make the experience something super special. I know you want a grand love story and everything, but maybe it’s okay to just have fun.”

Alana catches her bottom lip between her teeth. Taking charge. That’s exactly what she wants to do. Citlalli was a prime example of someone who took what she wanted in life. It’s served her well, too, even outside of romance or sex or partnership. Hells, a case could be made about the woman who just about knifed Alana for getting too close to Cyrus the other day. There was something to be said about staking a claim for something you want. Or, rather, someone.

When Alana doesn’t respond, Nakita reaches beneath her chin and tilts her head upwards, a gentle reserve in her expression. “What’s really stopping you from going all in with this? I mean, what really, really has you hesitant? I know you mentioned your grandma before, and the stuff you grew up with. Is it like…a purity culture thing?”

Alana rubs the back of her neck. “Maybe? I don’t think so. I mean, you know I don’t agree with that kind of thing, obviously. Whenever someone tells me about their sex life, I get excited for them! With me, it’s just…” She sighs. “Like, I’m going to tell you this, and you’re going to think I’m stupid. But when I was, I don’t know, ten? My Nana did that whole rose analogy thing. And I think it gave me some kind of complex or something that

I haven’t been able to get rid of.”