Page 9 of Café Diablo

It’s also clear he works out, because no one fills out a suit so handsomely (like he’s been dipped in a vat of Arie’s chocolate sauce) without a little attention to self-improvement. Plus, I’ve already had the wicked bonus of knowing how strong his thighs are when they gripped my hips and he held on for dear life on that scooter ride. Would I like more of that? Of him? Of the rush? Um, yes please, and a scoop of ice cream on the side—charred and brûléed of course, Flambéstyle.

His hand squeezes my leg and makes my neck flush something neon and obvious—because his fingers are far less than innocent. I skirt my eyes away from him because, in addition to the verbal banter, we’vealsobeen playing the handcuff version of footsies under the table all night. I focus on nonchalantly stirring the apple slice in my butter-cake martini (which is liquid dessert and sin mixed into one flaming caramel drink) as I do my best to avoid what he’s reminding me of.

When we first sat down in this booth a couple hours ago, neither one of us had any clue where to put our handcuffed hands, especially when they’re under the table and we’re squeezed tightly into this intimate booth that Arie’s designed. We tried leaving our handsabovethe table, but then we had to deal with the revolving door of questions about what the birthday boy was doing handcuffed to sweet innocent ol’ me. I kept answering the inquisition with the not-so-veiled comment that it was a “Kinky happy birthday bet” to which Edwin nearly had an aneurism, effectively hiding our hands under the table to avoid the pink color inching up his neck.

Ultimately, the only option for our hands was on top of our legs. And after Edwin’s palm was flailing around like a damn fish out of water for the first ten minutes, I grabbed it and put it on top of my hand—innocent enough. But then, I putmyhand onhisknee—less innocent. But in the name of damage control, and letting Edwin save face, I think he conceded because, at the time, it felt like the safest place to rest our hands and not garner attention.

Except, I kept drinking.

And my hand on his knee became my hand on his thigh.

And then, my hand on his thigh became a ruthless game of making him squirm and fluster. Like I said before, I couldn’t stop poking the beast … almost literally. I kept making him flinch as my fingers ran up the inseam of his slacks in search of the big bad lawyer in all its impressive glory. It was too much fun: small talk, tickle his inner thigh, smile at his employees, drink another martini.

Eventually, he growled at me to knock it off in the hottest, most unraveled voice I’ve heard from Mr. Edwin Voss. And I mean—hot! I donotwant to see how he deals with the opposing counsel when they get under his skin—cause, damn!—all my lady parts were jumping up and raising their hands, saying,My turn, my turn! I volunteer as tribute!

As calmly as possible, I pulled my black hair off my shoulders and played with the chain around my throat, trying to act unaffected by his snarl. But my heart was racing as he glared at me, his eyes flicking between where that chain trailed off between my breasts and where my mouth was faux-smiling, feathered with temptation. God, the unspoken punishment that sat in his eyes was absolutely sinful. I mean, it was impossiblenotto tempt his wrath!

Irreverently, I removed my hand from his leg and placed it on mine instead. I’m an equal opportunity gal—I tease you, you tease me. And yes, there was a lot more drinking that followed that innocent little gambit.

Innocent. Ha!

Let me clarify, I placedhishand on top ofmyknee. I placed it on top of mybareknee.

Yup, I did that.

Smart? Probably not.

Hot? You’d better fucking believe it. Because, his hand + bare knee + under my skirt + both of us drinking = you know exactly where this is headed.

I can’t quite remember ifhemoved his hand up my leg, or ifIwas the one moving it for him, but slowly, naughtily, those big gorgeous lawyer fingers slid under my skirt—inch by inch. And now I’m sitting here with the brand of his hand on my thigh and his fingers dallying against the thin strip of my panties where my pussy is in need of a very special consultation.

If that wasn’t hot enough, the sexiest part about all of this is his neck and the way the back of it heats. He’s stoic on the front, his face carved in stone with the world’s most impressive poker face. But holy shit, his fingers are dangling against my panties and he looks like he could sign documents and write affidavits like he hasn’t had five—six?—whiskeys of liquid encouragement. However, the back of his neck—oh God!—it keeps flushing like he’s going to explode any minute. Especially since all I want right now is for him to pull my panties to the side and slip his rough lawyer-fingers inside my slick heat.

In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t already done it, considering how much we’ve both had to drink and the fact that it’s dark as sin and we’re in the sexiest restaurant in all of Hawaii. Yes, it may be a restaurant I work at, and the same restaurant his brother works at, but still—this is exactly what Flambé was designed for—naughty things for which we don’t have to apologize.

A tiny moan slips from my teeth, from all my naughty reverie, and Edwin’s eyes shoot to me like a hawk. I cover my mouth stealthily, but heat streaks through my body at the look he gives me, explaining exactly why he hasn’t touched my aching pussy.

I don’t have any control.

I don’t have ten-years of lawyer training to be able to sit here in front of everybody and not make it look like I’m coming on his fingers.

I sit up abruptly and lace my fingers through his, pulling our hands away from where I’m way too high strung.

“I need some air,” I say, nudging him on the shoulder to get us out of the booth. He nods, like that’s a great idea and expertly excuses us from the people we are chatting with—whoever they are, because yeah, I’m not really sure what I’ve said for the last half hour and who I was speaking with.

I manage to smooth down my skirt in one swift motion as I get up from the table, my fingers still clasped in Edwin’s as I lead him through the dining room. I lead us to the bar because my chest is thrumming and I need one more drink before we go outside to the patio. Edwin’s eyes narrow at the detour, eyeing me darkly as his brother strolls up to us from behind the counter he’s been manning.

“Well, aren’t you two quite the pair?” Connor teases as he wipes down the bar in front of us. “Are you keeping this one in line?” Connor asks me as he nods to his brother, and I can’t control the blush that creeps up my spine. If Connor only knew where his brother’s hand has been half the night—I doubt he’d approve!

“Last drink,” I announce, even though I’m sloshed and so is Edwin—but we really ought to go out with a bang, don’t you think? “Mr. Boring over here has been drinking nothing but whiskey all night,” I complain to Connor, as I nod to the man who’s way too aware of how my breath has started to shallow. “I’m not letting him leave Flambéon his birthday without having a Café Diablo.”

“A Café—what?” Edwin asks, and a huge smile spreads over Connor’s face as if I just volunteered Edwin as a human sacrifice and he has no clue what he’s in for.

Which he doesn’t.

Connor whistles in approval at my drink choice, shooting a mischievous look at Edwin.

“Oh, you are in trouble with this one!” Connor nods to me like Edwin can’t handle the heat. “Though Olivia does have the upper hand, considering she works here and knows the whole menu.”

---