Page 45 of Gin and Lava

Rather than heading for the restrooms or the exit, she veers behind the bar and turns into the kitchen, leaving me to chase after her.

“Hey? Naomi? What are you—?”

I bust into the kitchen where Brad and the day-cook are both looking at Naomi like she’s a sexy apparition that’s interrupted them.

“Mason’s office?” Naomi asks, and Brad points to my office door in the back like a zombie who’s never seen a pretty woman before. Brad’s eyes flick up to me when he realizes I’m trailing after her, his brow furrowing with confusion, questioning if he’s done something wrong.

“I need you back out front,” I bark, picking up my pace and catching up with Naomi who’s already opening my office door and slipping inside it. Brad and my cook don’t budge, both gawking at us as if this is an episode of a reality television show. “Bar, thank you.” I point, shutting the door to my office with a loud thud.

I turn to Naomi, who’s on the far side of my office looking through the shirts I have hanging up in an open closet.

“That’s phallic Hawaiian couture,” I say, locking the door behind me. “There isn’t a collection like that on this side of the hemisphere, so be careful.”

The hitch of a smile plays on her mouth at that comment, but I can tell her amusement is about to be short lived.

“We’re somewhere private, Princess,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. “Whatever it is, you’d better pull the band aid off—swift and painless.”

“It’s nothing bad, Mason,” she says, pulling out one of my shirts and flashing it at me. “Got Crabs?” she asks, reading the speech bubbles from the hundreds of printed crabs on the fabric.

“Got herpes?” I toss back.

“Do you have a shirt that says that?” she asks, replacing the first.

“No, but if I ever get a dog, that’s what I’m going to name him. I’ll get something cute and adorable like a Teacup Dingle-Doodle.I love you, Herpes,” I say, pretending I’m talking to the dog I don’t have. “You’re so cute, Herpes.”

“Youwouldname your dog Herpes,” Naomi comments, smiling again as she walks away from my shirts and starts looking through the items on my desk. What the heck is she up to? “And there’s no such thing as a Dingle-Doodle.”

“Wiggle-Diggle, whatever,” I reply, watching her stack things on my desktop like she’s that Thai-chi lady with that TV show about tidying up.

“Yorkie, Poodle, Pomeranian.”

“I’m not getting a dog.” I shake my head at her. “Are you about to drop the I’m pregnant bomb on me, or whatever we-need-to-talk-in-private-BS you’re avoiding right now? Or would you like to clean my office?” I point to how she’s moved everything on my desk to one side and stacked it in order of smallest to largest.

She leans casually against my desk and smiles. “You were pretty clear about wearing a condom, Mason,” she says, her body language way too comfortable for whatever conversation this is. “So, no, there won’t be any baby Masons running around in nine months.”

“Thank God,” I say sharply, tapping my foot.

Naomi bites her lip and something mischievous flits through her expression. “You locked the door, right?”

“Yes. Why?” I ask, before defaulting to the only way I know how to deal with situations like this: I make a joke. “Does the door need to be locked because you’re about to tear off your clothes and beg for me to eat your pussy, Tate?”

I’m joking, of course, but Naomi’s eyes glaze over with heat and she turns around and bends over my desk.

“W-what are you—?”

She lifts her ass up and opens her legs like an invitation, the shadows of her short skirt barely hiding the red thong she wears under it.

“What is happening right now?!” I blurt out, my cock starting to harden, because this is the kind of shit that happens in pornos and not real life—and it’s Naomi!

Naomi reaches back and inches her skirt up higher, revealing her creamy white ass that’s begging for me to spank it.

“Isn’t that obvious?” she asks in a husky voice, nodding to her long bare legs and the red slice of fabric that hardly covers her pussy.

“I … uh—”

Damn, she looks so hot and dirty right now, and mycockis definitely getting the message, even if my brain is flipping out.

“I thought we made a deal,” I deflect, not sure how this is happening. “We don’t fuck unless it’s a special occasion—weddings, holidays. You realize, it’s a normal Wednesday afternoon.”

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