Page 26 of Café Diablo

Between.

Her thighs.

My mouth goes dry, my breath shallowing it’s so damn overt! The slit of her dress has split and the tiny ruffle of her dress hardly hides her heat behind it. I have to drop my hands to my lap to cover the damn excitement in my pants.

A smile feathers her cheek as she watches me squirm—which is the point, I realize—but that doesn’t change the fact that her legs are spread and she’s offering me her dessert.

“No hands,” she says again. “Use your tongue.”

Jesus!

My eyes flash to hers and her face is flushed, her chest heaving, as if she too can’t believe she just said that. The sun highlights her thighs, her creamy skin open with that dollop of whip cream piled high between them.

“Show me exactly what kind of risks you’re willing to take, Mr. Voss,” she says, trying to make a joke of her tone, but instead it comes out breathy and turned on. The blush covering her chest is so bright she’s apparently scandalized herself as much as me, and somehow that makes her all the more enticing.

My eyes run the invisible line from the tart—with its mound of white cream—up past her open thighs, past her swelling breasts, to her face. She bites her lip and I’m certain if I leaned forward to put my mouth between her thighs, she’d moan the second my tongue darted out to lick that pile of creamy indecency.

Did she lock the door? Does it matter? I’m not really going to lick the frosting from the top of that delicacy, am I? My whole body is hot and shocked, turned on like when she reached into my pants and I realized what she was about to do with my cock.

I don’t move, my eye’s running up and down her center.

“Edwin,” Olivia breathes out my name, slow and unfettered. “Do you have any clue how hot it is to just watch you look at me like that?” The ruffles of her dress tremble behind the pastry, and the scarce glance of something lacey and red flickers in view behind them. “God, I’m just imagining your lips covered in whipped cream and chocolate, and—”

Her voice trails off with her overheated breath, my eyes snapping up and making her flush. Her desire has blossomed across her face, her eyes black with lust. Thiswasa game a second ago, but suddenly, now it’s not.

Not with that tart actually between her thighs.

Not with the sun glistening off my desk and shooting light under her dress.

Not with her dare becoming a request—a plea to give that tart a taste-test.

“I don’t know what it is you do to me,” she says breathy, placing both of her hands on her knees and slowly spreading her legs wider for me.

“Olivia,” I growl, as the fabric splits and the sun shines in to unveil her panties—red and lacy, and in full view behind a curl of wicked chocolate.

“One taste, Edwin,” she begs, her voice completely raw. “Just take that tongue and lash it through all that gorgeous frosting.”

My cock is hard. My brain is reeling. My muscles tense—arms, hands clenching my chair. Desperate. How is it possible that this is happening? How is it possible that I’m dragging myself forward by my feet and rolling my seat closer to where she’s open to me? How is it possible that there’s a tart precariously placed between the legs of the sexiest woman on the planet? And she’s begging me to lick her cream.

I can’t do this.

Someone will come in.

I’m at work.

But that doesn’t change the fact that my mouth is so dry and my cock keeps thickening against my leg, and this mischievous, gorgeous woman is begging.

“Olivia, this is—”

“Naughty?” she says hotly, one of her hands swooping toward the tart between her thighs. She dips her index finger into the cream, plunging it deep as she swipes her finger across the length of the whole tart’s surface. It’s brash and vicious, blazing a canyon through the frosting’s dollop, parting the whole pastry as she steals her prize. It’s hot and forceful and makes my tongue want to do the same—dip between those two mountains of cream to taste the cherry at its center.

Only, she doesn’t bring that frosting-covered finger to her lips and lick it off like when she teased the head of my cock. No, she uses her clean hand to pull her skirt up, so her legs are completely bathed by the sun and that strip of fabric that’s covering her pussy is sun-drenched and glistening.

“Olivia!” I growl, but she isn’t done. Shamelessly, she pulls the red fabric of her panties to the side and swipes the frosting across where she’s wet and swollen.

Fuck!

My cock wants out of my pants—right now!—because, holy shit, her pussy is bared to me and that sticky sweet frosting is lining her gleaming skin.

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