Flambé: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Flambé Series Book 1)

by Elle Berlin

  I drop my hands to her waist, ghosting and barely touching her, feeling the force of her body under my fingertips—undulating. She’s slow at first, finding pace as she slips up and down my shaft, riding, dancing—

  Claiming.

  I slip my hands up to her tits, swollen and heavy in my grip, plucking her pink nipples with my thumbs, watching her mouth open and close as I thrum her with electricity. She whimpers and presses harder into my touch, her hips increasing their pace.

  “You’re going to make me come if you’re not careful,” I hiss, feeling the intensity build in my cock. My fingers graze her nipples—softer this time—touching her is an action of sheer perfection, her red hair a curtain around us, making this wild and intimate.

  The corners of her mouth tug up at that last comment, recognizing the conquest I expected a moment ago, only it’s softer, more subtle. She’s totally aware of what she’s done. But the moment of triumph is fleeting, her hips pumping harder as she gasps into a new angle that has her thighs trembling.

  I sit up, grabbing her neck and pulling her toward me. Our mouths connect and our bodies crash together. I taste the whiskey on her tongue as her tits drag against my chest. She pumps, not breaking the heat of her rhythm, despite how we both moan into each other’s breath. I wrap her in my embrace, clutching her ass and helping her keep pace. My fingers tickle the back of her pussy, making her a wild animal that only rides me harder.

  “Oh yes!” she cries out, bucking forward, pushing me onto my back again. Her hand flies out and smacks against the window behind me, palm flat against the glass. It allows her a new point of leverage and suddenly I’m about to explode.

  She pistons on my cock and I grab both her hips to increase the pace. Both of her arms fling out and are above me, palms against the glass, body stretched in a glorious curve, tits bouncing, her torso in an arch of building pleasure. Her hair is wild, and those ruby lips are barking orders. “Lift your hips—oh, oh, uh-huh, right like—yup, hard like—oh, God!”

  I knew she’d be a screamer.

  Her whole body is slick with sweat from the exertion. The beauty of her body glistening in the moonlight, tits damp, red hair snaked over her neck and chest, clinging to her breastbone. Her pussy ripples and her muscles contract, twisting tight like a bound fist.

  “Oh damn!” I hiss, lifting my hips off the ground and plunging into her; her pussy is so tight, clutching me. The fabric of her thong presses against my cock, enhancing the friction till I’m practically coming with the thought that she couldn’t wait to take it off before she plunged down over me. I clutch her hips, threading fingers under the thong’s elastic on each side. I tug slightly and tease her with the pressure, making her aware I could tear it off her. She bites her lip and moans as if she’s incredibly turned on by the idea. Instead, I pump deeper into her tight cunt, again and again, until her mouth slacks open, her arms trembling over me.

  “How close are you?” I ask, and she shakes her head, not answering. I pump harder, trying to push her to release, searing the image of her glistening and perfect body swaying over me.

  I slip my hands up to her tits and she inhales sharply, her whole body jolting at the connection. And then all of her is shaking, contracting, mouth, thighs, tits, cunt. I grab her torso to hold her up, her hands slipping with her release. Her eyes snap open, blue cutting straight into me with pure lust and vulnerability—and suddenly I’m coming. My cock twitching inside her as I lift my hips into her. She doesn’t smile, or gloat; she’s pure beauty, eyes locked in mine while we both come.

  I gasp as the pleasure ricochets through me, burning the image of her into my mind, knowing I’ll never be able to let anyone ride me again without thinking of her.

  “Wisconsin, you’ve ruined—”

  She lowers her weight down and kisses me, wet and delicate, the final ripples of pleasure aching through me. My hands wrap around her torso and trace the column of her spine. It’s intimate and warm and I want to keep her curled around me all night. But, I know the kiss is a present, a thank you, and a goodbye.

  I hold onto her longer than she probably expects, or maybe that’s me, memorizing the shape of her on top of me, my arms against her sides, the texture of her ribs, her thighs crouched and warm at my hips, the shape of her shoulder blades. Or the way I still fill her and how she doesn’t pull away, but stays, the two of us connected.

  “As a super spy,” I whisper. “You’re bound to slip out on me, completely undetected, in the night, huh?”

  She opens her mouth and kisses me again softly. “Occupational hazard,” she says, after I’ve tried to memorize the fit of her lips against mine.

  “You’ve ruined me,” I say.

  “Mmmm?” she nibbles the corner of my mouth and I trace her shoulder blades.

  “I’m going to be imagining you every time someone else rides me now.”

  She smiles against my mouth, triumphant, and I smile back, happy to give her the compliment. But then she pulls back, sitting up so she can look down at me.

  “That’s kind and flattering,” she says, my hands on her thighs. She reaches down and takes one of my hands, pulling it up to her lips and kissing my knuckles. “But what you’ll really remember is tits and red hair”—she slides my hand down her neck to her breasts—“and how good the weight of me felt as you were gasping.”

  I squeeze her breast and she moans sweetly, leaning into the pressure of it. But then she stands up and I slide out of her, my hands falling from her skin.

  “Tits and red hair,” she says again. “Arguably my best assets other than my ability to cook.” I raise an eyebrow at her. A chef? But she’s already picking up her clothes from the floor. “You’ll remember how good it felt, but you won’t really remember me.”

  “Not true, Wisconsin,” I argue, pulling off the condom and wrapping it up in a tissue and discarding it. “I’ll remember—”

  “A fantasy,” she interrupts, slipping on her jeans and tank top. She leans over and kisses me softly again, letting me capture her face in my palms. I suck her bottom lip into my mouth and enjoy the way she whimpers at it. “I enjoyed Wisconsin too,” she says when we release. “She was fun.”

  She stands up and collects her bra from the other side of the room. I watch her in the dark, her white skin bright in contrast to everything. I prop up on my elbow to watch her find her shoes.

  “You sure there isn’t a second round in this fantasy?” I tease. She smiles, pulling her hair out of her face, those blue eyes darting at me like she might be interested.

  “You don’t want to ruin a perfect thing by trying to repeat it,” she says, turning my direction so I can see her face in the light.

  “That’s what I said, you ruined me. And I’ll be chasing you from now on. Maybe I should dash the image of perfection, just so I’m not hopeless.”

  “You? Hopeless?” She gives me a wicked stare that promises the next time wouldn’t be ruining anything. “I’m pretty sure a dragon tamer has plenty of tricks up his sleeve.”

  “How about not a trick, just your phone number.”

  She smiles, flattered. It was a lame attempt. I don’t know why I really asked for it. That’s not how the rules of a one-night stand are supposed to work. I just don’t want her to go.

  “You don’t need it,” she says, slipping into her shoes. “I know where you live.” She nods to the apartment. “And I’m a super spy, remember. If I need you again, I’ll just break in.”

  “Promise?” I throw back, wishing she’d never put such a notion in my head. Now, I’m going to spend way too many nights imagining such things.

  “I’m an international woman of mystery,” she quips, her eyes dancing over my naked body before resting on my face. “Who knows, tomorrow I might be dead. No one can promise anything. But you can always dream.”

  She blows me a kiss and heads for the door, that red hair sashaying behind her. I want to protest, but she’s right. Don’t mess with a perfect thing. Simple. Hot. It’s
the perfect fuck without any of the strings.

  “Too bad I’ve got a whole bottle of that whiskey left,” I call after her as she walks to the door. “You know I won’t be able to taste it now, not without getting hard.”

  I hear her release a tiny moan on the other side of my apartment. I stand up completely naked and see that she’s paused by the door, looking back at me, shrouded in dark.

  “Night, Wisconsin,” I say, imagining her smile, peering into the dark. She doesn’t move, doesn’t turn the knob, just stares at me from the far side of the room. A prickle of heat runs up my spine at the thought that she might stay—that I want her to.

  “Night, dragon tamer,” she says softly, slipping out the door in a flash of red hair. The door clicking shut quietly behind her. I turn around quickly and grab the bottle of whiskey, gulping down a hot, sharp swing. Immediately, I think of her hair and the rock of her hips. I look out the window, and in the moonlight I see—on the glass—the impressions of two hands with their fingers spread wide.

  I’m never going to wash that glass.

  I never want to forget the touch of her fingertips.

  5

  Arie

  Waikiki in the morning is a gorgeous good-morning kiss. I stand outside Flambé in the rooftop walkway between the elevator and the restaurant’s front door. I close my eyes and soak in the warmth of the sun on my face, the smell of salt and persimmons, the lull of the waves. I take a deep breath and every limb—my whole body—is sated and humming. Be in the moment, that’s what my sister the new-age masseuse says, and right now everything feels calm and perfect.

  I pull the thick red hair off my neck and run my fingers through its wildness. It holds the tiniest hint of whiskey and skin in its tresses as I walk through the doors of my restaurant and scan the elegant interior.

  This restaurant is everything I dreamed it would be. There’s an allure of seduction when you first walk in and are surrounded by large, oversized photographs of flowers blooming. The delicate petals layer on top of each other in a way that’s both sensual and foreboding as they lead you into the main dining room. A hand-blown chandelier hangs in the center of the main room, vines of ironwork holding up rippled globes of color, all of which hold real candles—fire is the theme, after all. Dark walls with gold brocade accents lead to secluded booths that rim the sides of the main room, creating individual dining experiences. It’s intimate and private, and each table has its own built-in fire pit, for roasting, searing, and giving the patrons a show. Every staff member will be trained to dance with the flames, to ignite every dish, drink, and appetizer. They’ll come for the pyrotechnics, but it’s the sizzle of flavor on their tongue that will get them moaning.

  At the far end of the room is the giant picture window that overlooks the Waikiki bay. In the daylight, the ocean sparkles in a paradise, turquoise blue, but at night the city glitters and we’re high enough up that it feels like you might be star bathing.

  The whole restaurant has a hint of sin, like a faux high-end brothel mixed with fine dining. That’s how we’ll be pitching it to our investors this evening. The orgasm will be on your palate, of course. The plan is for an evening at Flambé to be an aphrodisiac and a feast for the eyes. Everything has been engineered and designed: gorgeous food, glass orbs, peonies draped in lace, soft velvet cushions, the smell of cooked syrup and raspberry fire, the tease of smoked wood and whiskey.

  I half-moan at the thought of whiskey, the taste of last night’s delicious bouquet at the back of my throat. My thighs ghost at the memory at how wicked and full I was. That’s how I want a night at Flambé to be: the hottest one night stand you can think of. Hell, better.

  Last night was definitely better.

  I take a deep breath, humming to myself at how limber and sated I am, the air fresh and salty and filled with promise. That overloaded feeling that was gnawing at the back of my neck from yesterday is gone, and my to-do list feels surprisingly manageable. In fact, I almost want to pull all the whiskeys from the shelf and start concocting something new and devious. Because damn I feel good!

  I walk behind the bar and grab our three most expensive bottles of whiskey, letting inspiration strike with its hot sizzling. This drink needs to be pure lightning, the kind of drink that punches you first, then leaves your mouth open and gasping as your tongue traces the back of your teeth for just a hint of that slick heat. Mmm-mmm, good.

  I choose a martini glass—it’s unexpected, like the lightning, seeming too tall and narrow and altogether too delicate for a drink with so much punch. This drink is meant to be surprising. I stir in some pomegranate syrup and froth up the foam of an egg white and sprinkle it with cinnamon. The rim of the glass gets a dash of Luxembourg, which I light on fire as I pour it in, crystalizing the smoke in the foam. I blow out the blue flame and add some flakes of jalapeño, just to make it burn so good.

  I lift the glass to my lips and— “oh yeah! I’m good,” I moan into the drink. It needs a little tweaking, but for my first mix, it sears and seduces at the same time. “Oh, we’re going to have to put this one on special.” I pull out my recipe book from my back pocket and jot down the measurements.

  “What is going to be on special?” Simon pops out of the kitchen and struts up to the bar as I finish writing down the ingredients. He grabs the glass from the counter and admires it like an appraiser inspecting a precious jewel. “Is this a new Arie-original? Don’t mind if I—”

  He tosses back a swig just as I’m clipping out, “It’s got bite, I wouldn’t take a big drink like—!”

  “Oh, hello!” Simon coughs with the rawness of air scraping up his lungs. He steps back from the drink, his eyes watering as he puts the glass back on the countertop. “Oh Jesus, that’s—”

  “Probably going to need a warning.”

  “And yet …” He leans back, taking in the flavors, now that the initial punch has subsided. “It’s got complexity, and something sexy I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s Flambé perfect. Is that your first mix?”

  “It needs some tweaks,” I admit, nodding.

  “Yup,” Simon concludes, boldness inching into his voice. “I knew I went into business with you for a reason. You’re a damn genius.”

  I roll my eyes. Though I have to admit, Simon has one of the best palate in the business, almost as good as mine. He’s a great second opinion. If we both like a drink, we know it’s a winner.

  “What’s it called?”

  I bite my lip before a devious smile cracks my lips. “The Dragon Tamer.”

  “Sexy! I like.” Simon steps back and looks me up and down. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone took my advice.”

  “And what advice would that be?” I ask, playing coy and dumping out the drink before I clean the glass.

  “Is this the refreshed, relaxed, post-fuck Arie I know—with a little spring in her step? Monsoon of gnarly knots out of her back? Actually inventing new recipes?”

  “I have a sister who’s a masseuse. If I need knots out of my back, I can call the spa on the second floor.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think what you needed is something your sister could give you.”

  “Definitely not,” I confirm, my cheeks heating.

  “Is that a blush upon fair young maiden’s cheeks? Arie the conqueror never blushes. Do tell? Who exactly got into you last night?” Simon struts around to my side of the bar, bending forward with playful accusation.

  “Got into me?” I toss back at him, lifting an eyebrow. “I see what you did there. Little play on words.” I pick up my three-ring binder of vendors, needing to start making calls to the menu printer and distributer.

  “From the post-fuck glow that’s shining off you like a good morning beacon of light, I wouldn’t say little,” Simon teases and I smile slightly, not trying to give too much away, but Simon’s eyes go wide with surprise. “Okay, first you’re giddy like a schoolgirl, which is decidedly not Arie. Then you blush—strike two. And being coy about cock-size?
What happened to you last night?”

  I grab the number for the printer and pick up the phone. “I did exactly what you told me to do. I got my mojo back. End of story.”

  Simon stares at me with eyes narrowed. “The words coming out of your mouth make sense, but everything else—” He points to my coy demeanor. “There’s more to this story that you’re not telling. I’ve seen you in good moods, but not goooood moods.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just been a while since I …” I make a swirling motion with my hands.

  “Got pussy-pounded into tomorrow?” Simon states crassly and I swear my face burns even hotter. He’s right, I never blush about sex.

  “It was nothing special,” I insist. “A one-night stand.”

  “The one-night stand, if you ask me, from the spectacularly inhuman fuchsia color of your skin.”

  “I’m back in my groove.” I point to the glass I just washed. “Don’t question a good thing.” Simon frowns, not satisfied. “I took your advice, Dr. Phil, now don’t over analyze it and turn into Dr. Freud. Your internet doctorate can only withstand Dear Abby level of advice.”

  Simon raises his hands and backs off. “No problem. I will take the giggly, pink-faced innocent when I can get it. Lord knows, the second you’re back in the kitchen, flames are gonna roll.”

  “That’s the name of the damn restaurant,” I say, pointing at the Flambé sign, and he smiles.

  “Speaking of which,” Simon points to the end of the restaurant, near the picture window. “You’ve got three interviews for waitstaff piling up.”

  “Right,” I put the phone back on the hook. “By the way, did you finish the proposal last night? We’re meeting the investors at 7pm, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Simon nods. “Everything is absolutely ready. Oh, and go home before the meeting and put on that hot, black dress you own, the one that screams dragoness.” He nods to the drink I just made.

  “I’m not sleeping with our investors!”