"I've lived a long time," I comment mildly after the waitress—an older woman named Olieda in a pair of faded pink leggings and an oversized t-shirt with a coffee stain on the front—takes our drink order and gets out of earshot, "and I don't ever recall eating in a diner quite so dumpy."
A lazy half-smile spreads over Dorian's handsome face and it's enough to kick start my heart.
Again.
In the empty space on the booth beside me, he props his feet up and crosses them at the ankles, then leans back on his side, stretching his arms behind his head before resting them along the seatback. For the entire seven seconds of sinuous, purely erotic, woman-porn movement, I and every other woman in the disgusting place is captivated, lost in the glory of male beauty that is Dorian.
