Page 77 of Café Diablo

A new jolt of pleasure suddenly shoots through Olivia, and she moans before leaning forward and resting her gaping mouth against mine. Her hips begin ascending and descending as she feels the intimate ridges of my cock plowing her.

She wraps her arms around me and starts to ride. It’s the hottest and most wickedly loving thing I’ve ever experienced, her undulating hips are a worshiping, and her mouth a prayer, each jolt and mount of pleasure a declaration of her heart.

My balls tighten, and her eyes open to light on mine, the passion and depth and emotion in them makes my cock jerk and suddenly I’m on the brink of coming.

“Oh, God, Olivia!”

I lift my knees, changing the angle with which she takes me, her eyes glazing over in wicked heat. She’s alive and vibrant and as bright as the sun as she rocks on my body.

She’s right. I don’t have to touch her with my hands to see the nuances of how she makes love to me. I just have to open my eyes and feel the passion and the surrender and the intimacy.

And all I have to do is let go and give myself to her fully.

All I have to do is let go and trust.

So, I do.

30

Olivia

Morning sun streams in through the picture window as I lean over Edwin with giant bolt cutters in my hands.

Snap!

The chain between the two cuffs releases and Edwin moans. And boy, does hemoan! We’re talking he might be hitting the Richter scale with the level of that moan. He finally gets to drop his arms afterhoursof having them suspended over his head and I think the sensation is just shy of orgasmic.

He wasn’t cuffed for hours due to lack of trying. I’ve now watched every lock-picking video the internet has to offer and have exhausted Edwin’s entire paperclip and small-tool collection. But it turns out my future life as a locksmith—yeah, that’s definitely not happening. At some point, you’ve just got to get out the big guns—or in this case, the largest pair of bolt cutters a human can lift without passing out—and cut the damn handcuffs off.

Edwin rolls onto his side, burying his face in a pillow. Yup, he looks like he just got hit by a mac truck and he will probably be in that position for the next seven days.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, shuffling over next to him to rub his shoulders in apology. He moans again and I think he says something in another language like he’s worshiping a new god—my fingers—and has started speaking in tongues.

“Feel better?” I ask sheepishly, as if the pitching and moaning wasn’t enough confirmation.

“You know that pins and needles sensation you get when your foot falls asleep?” he asks, face-down in the covers and still completely naked. God, that ass is beautiful. I, on the other hand, am fully dressed, seeing that bolt cutters weren’t a part of Edwin’s normal tool collection. You’d think all men have toolboxes similar to Mary Poppins’ purse, with a solution and tool for every situation. Edwin is not that kind of man. If you’re looking to do a survey on Italian fountain pens, Edwin is your guy. But a screwdriver? Nowhere in sight. Heck, he doesn’t even have orange juice and vodka to make the cocktail version.

“Pins and needles, yes,” I say, running my fingers down his spine. “That’s the worst!”

“Well, imagine pins and needles on steroids and that’s my arms right now.”

“Oh damn!” I drop the bolt cutters at the base of the bed and move to dig my fingers into those arms with relentless attention. “You must be ready to sue me for damages!”

“I’d take you to the cleaners.”

“Oh, I know you would!”

He manages to twist around, grabbing me by the waist and flipping me down onto the bed with him. “I’ll take my compensation in the form of sexual favors,” he says, rolling over on top of me and wrapping his arms around my head. God, the weight of him is freaking incredible, and as he kisses me, the taste of his mouth reminds me of all the hot delicious things we did last night.

My heart blossoms under his weight, under the reality of what really happened in this bed with him handcuffed. My heart swells knowing we crossed a line that’s emotionally got me as twisted as the sheets below us—a good twisted, the kind where I want to be interlocked and tied so tight you can’t pull us apart. I moan as his kiss heats, warming to the idea that he’s completely nakedandhas the full range of his hands.

He pushes up onto his elbows to look down at me, his blue eyes sparkling with reverence and all I want to do is say the L-word over and over again like a child. Last night changed him. He looks boyish and goofy, and that smile is completely disarming. I’m used to Edwin being grumpy and frowning and calculating his next mood, but this man on top of me is lighter, less inhibited, as if he’s stopped carrying around all of those expectations he has for himself.

I reach up and brush his hair out of his face, tracing his jawline and hoping he understands he doesn’t have to be perfect and I’ll still love all the flaws he’s let me see.

“Fuck,” he moans—in pain and flopping down on top of me.

“Oh, geeez!” I gripe, all of the air whooshing out of my lungs with his dead weight.

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