Page 13 of Café Diablo

I concede.

She fucking wins.

“What the hell—? Who are—? What kind of demon has possessed you?” I gasp out, totally taken with her. My words don’t come out angry. No, they’re a confession, a plea for her to put my cock back between her teeth. Anything this woman wanted right now, I’d give her. She blinks sweetly, before reaching up and taking the Café Diablo goblet out of my hand and carefully placing it on the patio deck beside us.

“Just think,” she says roughly. “You could be at your office right now, elbow deep in paperwork, writing opening statements, and …working.”

“Yup, that’s true,” I gruff out, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. “And my case would be airtight if I hadn’t come to this damn party.”

The fingers from both of her hands tease across my shaft, driving me wild and making my cock twitch. Her fingertips run up and down the sides of my thickness—slowly and with infuriating deftness.

“Oh my, what a disappointment,” she mocks, opening her lips and brushing the tip of my cock against her wicked mouth, her tongue darting out to flick against me with its pink tip. Temptress! “This party has really turned out to suck.”

My cheek feathers with amusement. “Quite literally,” I toss at her and she takes the whole mushroom head of my cock into her mouth and sucks on it like it’s a tootsie-pop. “Jesus,” I curse, “you’re the devil!” I inhale sharply, which makes her smile and then suck and then take another inch. “I really don’t deserve this. I’ve been a royal dick to you all night.”

“Mmmmm,” she hums against my heated flesh. “Your royal dick is fucking delicious.”

She takes all of me then, fast and brutal, sliding me deep into her throat and making me grunt. I look out at the water, at the sparkling skyline of Waikiki as she gobbles and strokes and pumps me against her throat, making me say a hundred things I should never say in front of a lady.

The night shines in a kaleidoscope of colors, my mind blurring with turquoise and the taste of coffee and the insane heat between my legs. Her free hand sneaks around to the back of my trousers and grabs my ass, pushing me deeper into her mouth and making me see red.

“Olivia! Holy shit, you’re going to make me come!”

She doesn’t stop. She’s relentless. And she’s so fucking gorgeous and wild it makes my whole body ache. It reminds me of that Vespa ride—fast, quick, holding on for my life as she takes me in a way I never expected.

My handcuffed hand hovers next to her face because her cuffed hand is around my cock and teasing my balls and making me delirious. I stretch my fingers against the side of her cheek, letting it ghost against those freckles, barely a touch as her head bobs and my sticky fingers tangle in her raven hair. God, she’s so gorgeous! My balls tighten as she strokes and sucks and licks, and I feel my cock throb and twitch inside that soft, wicked, cavern of her lips.

“Oh, God!” I come sharply, grunting out toward the ocean. It’s raw and brutal and the hottest fucking thing I’ve experienced in, well … ever. I don’t do one-night stands, or drunken escapades in back corners, or whatever this is. But this slash of heat and release as my cock throbs inside her mouth and she takes me, sucking harder as I unravel completely, this is pure unrighteous sin.

My hand trembles against her cheek, my head bent forward and pressed against my arm on the railing. I come down from my release in waves, my mouth open and gasping as I suck down the air and humidity, the crash of the surf below us echoing.

Olivia pulls me out of her mouth softly, licking my tip several times reverently, and making me flinch with my own sensitivity. Then she tucks me back in my pants tenderly, silence and waves rolling and the soft hum of music still playing somewhere inside Flambé.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

I can’t really even believe this has happened, and she’s so gentle and elegant as she zips up my pants and rights the buttons that it feels downright intimate.

I close my eyes and savor it—this fragile connection, this moment after.

Then I feel something sticky and warm on my palm. Her fingers lace in mine, followed by a fumble and the scrape of metal moving off my wrist.

She lifts up and I’m forced to pull back as we both stand upright. My skin is sweaty and hot, my suit too thick and uncomfortable for the humid air and what she’s just done. Olivia doesn’t smirk or smile when she looks me in the eye—her face flushed and misted instead, her hair disheveled, her red lipstick smudged across her swollen lips. She looks into me with those brown eyes simmering with a vulnerability that I feel deep into my bones, both of us knowingthatwas raw and brave and private.

She looks so fucking beautiful it hurts and I don’teverwant to forget the way she’s looking at me right now.

“Edwin—” she says softly.

“Ned,” I rasp out, barely audible. “After that, you really have to call me Ned.”

“Edwin,” she repeats, lifting a finger to my lip and spreading syrupy alcohol against my mouth. My tongue darts out to taste where she’s just been, coffee and tequila and cinnamon covering me with its indecent reminder of sin.

She lifts her other hand and from the tip of her index finger, she dangles the handcuffs—open, no longer on our wrists, covered in the sticky Café Diablo nectar of blackness.

“Freedom,” she whispers, dropping the silver cuffs onto the patio at our feet with a clunk. It sends a charge of disappointment through me at the fact that I’m no longer wearing them. She leans forward and her breath exhales over my chin, hot with the scent of where she’s just been.

“Olivia,” I breathe, tilting down to where her mouth ghosts against mine—but it isn’t a kiss, so much as a softness of breath that’s filled with something else.

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