by Elle Berlin
“My brother’s a lawyer,” Connor admits, still hovering over me and not giving me any space. “My family—mom, dad, brother—they’re all lawyers. They have a firm and I …” His head tilts down and his voice trails off, not meeting my eyes anymore. I wait for him to say more, the presence of him unavoidable. He stands in front of me, not moving, letting me sit in confusion as the heat and smell of him wafts between us. He smells dirty and sexy, like hot sun and hard work, and the bathroom is so small that he fills it all up with his balmy scent.
He lifts his head up to look at me, those hazel eyes soft and careful, searching me curiously. My hand still hangs against his shoulder, my fingertips brushing where I dented his skin from the pinch of my nails. I meet his gaze and squint at him, small pieces of understanding snapping together.
“Impudence? Sanguine? Libidinous?” I say softly, repeating the words he said to me the first night we met, when we both pretended to be somebody else. “Impressive vocabulary,” I echo, my eyes flicking to his mouth. “You didn’t want to impress me with your big law school words that night?”
He smiles gently and something boyish glints in his eyes, impressed I’ve figured this out. “Well,” he says slowly. “Libidinous seemed a lot more appropriate for the moment than Latin: habeas corpus, in forma pauperis.”
I shake my head at him. “Connor, you make one hell of a fucking drink, but why the hell are you a bartender and not a lawyer?”
I try to imagine him in a suit, standing in a courtroom but it’s difficult. He’s right, something about it doesn’t seem right. I just don’t know why.
“Mmmm.” He shrugs, reading my mind. “Maybe I like walking around shirtless too much.” His hands slip to my hips and I shiver as his fingers play with the charred ends of my shirt.
“Yes, that’s true,” I agree, sliding my hand down off his shoulder and brushing it across his glistening chest. “But that’s not how you end up dishing out drinks at a tourist bar.” I shake my head. “It’s not why you give up a six-figure salary to learn the perfect amount of vermouth to put in a martini. What really happened?”
He laughs, but it’s more of a scoff, as if he’s heard that question a thousand times already. “I’m sure everyone in my family would like to know the answer to that,” he says, his hands tightening around the base of my ribs. “If you can figure out a good way to explain it, then I’ll work here for half the salary you agreed to, no problem.”
I squint at him, catching his eye, and he knows he’s avoiding the question.
“Look, you’re a chef,” he continues. “You know that there’s a part of making food that’s instinctive. Something that’s just in your blood. Cooking, creating, it just makes sense to you, and then it obsesses you.”
“Yes,” I admit, my eyes fluttering as his fingers slip down to the top of my jeans, trailing below the bandage to trace across my belly. The burn aches, but not enough to push his hands away. “And I take it you don’t feel that way about law? Or lawyering? Or whatever you want to call it, even though everyone else in your family does it?”
“What’s your sister do?” he asks, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“She’s a masseuse.”
He turns his head to the side and almost moans. “Are you serious? That’s sinful.”
I lift an eyebrow at him, my hands finding a resting place just above his elbows. “Sinful? Cause she looks like me?” I sass and he nods.
“Yes,” he admits. “Women like you shouldn’t touch anyone naked without knowing the consequences.”
“She’s a professional.”
“I’m sure she is, that’s not the point I’m making.”
“The point you’re making is you’d have no control if my sister were to give you a—”
“The point I’m making is that I know how hot you burn, and I can’t imagine if your profession was to put your hands on naked—”
“I’m not my sister!” I snap, and Connor’s hands clutch my hips possessively.
“Exactly,” his eyes cut to mine with heat and intensity. “And I’m not my brother, or my dad, or the perfect little golden child they all want me to be. Look, it doesn’t matter what your sister does. The point is, just because she’s a masseuse doesn’t mean you’re naturally going to want to be one too. Law is fine, but it’s not what lights me up.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a few breaths and letting him simmer down a bit. “Then, if not law, what does get you excited?”
Connor smiles deviously and his fingers dip below the top of my jeans, searing down the sides of my hips in search of the elastic sides of my panties. “I know what gets you excited,” he says, my core heating as he finds the thin strap and hooks his fingers under them, tugging softly.
A flare lights between my legs and my breath hitches.
“We’re not talking about me,” I scold.
“We’re not?” he deflects playfully, flicking open the top button of my jeans with his thumb. I bite my lip as he leans in, his mouth so close to mine. The pulse between my legs pounds as he pushes the zipper of my jeans apart, revealing the perfect V at the front of my black panties. He strokes the fabric softly as his tongue clicks a disapproving tsk, tsk. “Was I unclear last night when I explained that if you want me to fuck you, you shouldn’t wear these?”
My anger bristles as his fingers trace over the fabric salaciously. “And was I unclear,” I toss back, “the three hundred times I’ve said this is a classy restaurant? The last thing I’m ever going to do is cook commando! And don’t forget that Simon is getting a suit made for you. So, whether you’re standing in a courtroom or behind my bar, you’re going to fucking wear it!”
“Huh,” his lips brush against mine, his hot breath damp and teasing. “Interesting.” His fingers spiral over the mound of my panties making me squirm and ache, which makes him smile, overly aware of how responsive I am. “You know, if you weren’t wearing these, my fingers would already be inside you.”
My pussy clenches, loving how dirty he likes to be. Not to mention how downright angry my nether regions are at me for not meeting his heat with my own obscene gesture of yanking them off for him.
“You know,” I practically hum, leaning in so my mouth and tits brush against him. “It seems you’ve missed the fact that women like a little foreplay, and it’s hotter than hell to be undressed by someone, so …” I nod down to where he started the job but left it unfinished.
“And yet, the last time I didn’t even get your dress off,” he counters. “You were too impatient.”
“It’s against the health code to not wear panties—”
“It would also be against the health code for your sweet, wet pussy to be coming on my tongue right now, which is what would be happening if you weren’t wearing these—” He pulls my jeans down my thighs, making me shiver.
“Well, you have a pattern Connor,” I pant. “I’m not the only one who’s impatient and I’m sure this tiny bit of fabric won’t keep you from what you want.”
“What I want, huh?”
Suddenly, Connor lifts me onto the marble counter behind me and pushes my legs open. My knees only spread so far because my ankles are still caught in my jeans, but I preen, excited that he’s dropped the game and is now on his knees. His sweat-slicked shoulders push my thighs further apart as his face moves closer and closer to the tiny strip of fabric that covers where I’m throbbing. My heart pounds, my body feverish and ready for his mouth, his fingers, his tongue.
Connor hesitates, and I growl when he doesn’t pull my panties down.
“Connor,” I warn, my thighs and stomach flush. His breath dancing over my sex. “If this is another stunt like in the elevator …” I angle my hips, needy. “If you walk out on me again, I swear to God I will—”
His mouth covers my pussy and I gasp. His tongue lashes up and down the drenched silk, teasing me more than satisfying my need for him, making me bray like an animal.
“Take them off,” I snarl, as he blows and sucks and
assaults the fabric. I need to feel his lips on my bare skin, need him to taste my sensitive trembling. He nibbles and tugs at the fabric between us, but he doesn’t remove it. “Connor,” I moan. “Take them—”
He pulls back rashly, his eyes cutting up to me with devious intent. “If you want them off,” he says hotly, “you can take them off! That’s what I asked you to do in the first place.”
I glare down at him, completely flushed and hot, the burn under the bandage on my stomach throbs, but it doesn’t throb as painfully as my needy pussy. Shamelessly, I reach down and pull the fabric of my panties to the side, exposing my slick rose to him. His eyes dilate wickedly, but—
He shakes his head.
“I want you naked. Commando,” he says gruffly, indicating that I should tear them off myself. I glare down at him scandalized, realizing the power play and how easily he has me exactly where he wants me—slick, delirious, in a frenzy. If he was anyone else, I honestly wouldn’t care, I’d tear them off right now and straddle his face and not worry if Simon or the waitstaff could hear me coming in the bathroom. But Connor? Oh no, I’m not going to give Connor the damn satisfaction of making me beg, despite how badly I want it.
I cover myself up again, the wet fabric clinging to my swollen folds. I have far more control than he thinks. I may burn hot, but I can stand in that heat till I burn to ash and am born again.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, pushing him back with my foot, before sliding off the side of the sink and standing up. “For a second there it sounded like you forgot who’s the boss here.” His eyebrows go up like he can’t believe I’m actually doing this, but I make of show of pulling my jeans back up over my hips. “Obviously, hiking those chairs up thirty-two flights of stairs has left you a little lightheaded and confused. So, let me clarify for you. When I want something, I’ll tell you—when I want it, where I want it, and how I want it.”
Connor sits back on the floor and looks up at me, a smile curling over his face like he’s more than ready for whatever challenge I’m about to give him. It’s infuriating.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says hotly, the undertone of his words promising that I don’t have that kind of conviction.
“Thanks for the bandage,” I say curtly, stepping over him and heading toward the door. “And you’re right, you should probably chat with Simon about training the staff in proper burn care. That’s an excellent suggestion. Though, I’d probably take a minute to deal with your…” I nod to the very obvious erection in his pants. “Simon may come off as gay sometimes, but he’s not. He’ll definitely think you’re making a pass at him if you come out like that. Or better yet, just take the rest of the day off. You’ve already spent enough of the day lugging around wood.” I motion through the walls to the chairs and the patio furniture he’s been carrying.
He frowns, but before he has a chance to say anything, I unlock the bathroom and walk out—worked up, perturbed, and totally unsatisfied, yes—but this is the last time Connor makes me so hot I want to beg.
Oh no, this is my kitchen, and if I get burned, then I’m taking him down with me. I’m the one who controls the fire. I’m the one who’s going to turn the heat up so high, he’ll either cower or be smoked out. Because I’m the boss, and he’d better damn well get used to it.
25
Connor
It’s been a week and I’ve mastered Arie’s entire bar menu. I’ve thrown in a few of my own sizzling sidecars for “off-the-menu” requests, for which I was given approval from Simon, because—surprise, surprise—the less I tell Arie about my own additions to her menu, the better. She’s gone from dragon to ice queen in the last six days, giving me little more than two-word answers wrapped up in her best ‘don’t piss me off’ glare. Even when I think one of my adorable grins might be melting the abominable ice-queen’s heart, she practically turns incandescent and throws expensive glassware at me to make me pay for it.
Saying that Arie is a control freak is an understatement. There’s a magic and precision to everything at Flambé. There’s a proper way to smoke the food when you cook. There’s a posture to your body when you serve a drink. There’s timing for when you light the Flambé torch and when you toss a shy patron a flirty wink. She’s even had all of the waitstaff bring in their wardrobes so she can approve their outfits. She’s a dictator, but also surprisingly good at making everything work together and feel cosmopolitan and upscale. Half the girls who work here have me shaking my head at just how well Arie’s taught them to sway their hips in a way that’s sexy, but not too overt. She has impeccable attention to detail in the design, in the dress, in the posture, and in the way you greet a guest—and I haven’t even talked about the food yet.
Oh man, the food! Let’s just say that tasting Arie herself (in that most intimate and delicate way) was a delicacy only half a tick higher on the pleasure scale than tasting her food. That woman can cook, and when she cooks, damn she cooks. It may seem crass to suggest her food can make a man hard, but … this woman surprises me every day.
This restaurant is a damn masterpiece.
Clearly, Arie has been planning Flambé her whole adult life. Everything is double and triple checked. Everything is made again and again until it’s perfect. She’s a freaking culinary genius. Not to mention, it’s sexy as hell to watch her do it, despite the fact that if you measure something wrong, she blows up. Or, if the gold-plated silverware isn’t in the right place, she blows up. Or, if the ahi is sizzling on the grill a little too long, she—you get the picture—volcanos and detonators and raging balls of red-headed delight. Sure, coming to work each day is a game of Russian roulette and I don’t know if I’m going to make Arie explode or if she’s going to feed me something that’s going to make me reevaluate my entire relationship with octopus. It’s true, normally, octopus is not on my to-be-consumed list, except there it was covered in butter and garlic and some crème fraîche holy-shit-I-didn’t-know-tentacles-could-melt-in-your-mouth-like-that amazingness, so—now I’m that guy, the one who talks about cephalopods like they’re God’s gift to taste buds. Yup, working for Arie is both transcendental and the gateway to the underworld.
And I freaking love it.
I love watching that red-headed control-freak-gone-postal cook food, and train her staff, and run around like a sexy dragon with her head cut off. Call me a masochist, but my life has never been this much fun.
Despite how much Arie micromanages the rest of the staff, she’s almost entirely hands-off with me. She threw three suits at me a couple days ago and has yet to coach me on the proper way to fold a pocket square or blaze a cherry so that the patrons get that perfect splash of juice at the back of their throat—sweet and not too syrupy. She only takes one sip of the drinks I make—to double-check the mix is right—and usually she nods stiffly before dumping the rest of the drink and walking away. I expected her to bitch me out and have me redo each drink half a dozen times until they’re perfect, but it turns out I’m pretty good at this game too. I can also measure and perfect and make sure something is impeccable before it graces her lips. I get a little surge of victory every time her eyes flash up to me, angry that the drink I’ve made is just as good as if she were behind the bar igniting it.
“Tips? Suggestions?” I pry, as she dumps the remainder of a coconut-charred piña colada and skewers me with her eyes. “Tell me what you’d like, and when you’d like it, and how you’d like it, boss.”
Sparks fly in her gaze, her frown turning black and murderous. I really shouldn’t throw her own words back at her, but it’s just too easy.
“This is fine,” she hisses, and I grab the glass, uprighting it again.
“Oh no,” I shake my head, reaching for the jar of fresh coconut flakes. “You know, saying fine to me is a downright insult. Nothing I do is just fine. Especially when you’re the one tasting it. I’m going to perfect this, until you’re begging me to—”
“It’s fine, Connor!” she snaps, the fire under her collar flushing her neck, the sh
ort emerald dress she’s wearing contrasting against her bright hair and blushing skin. “If you waste anymore of my alcohol, it’s coming out of your paycheck! Now work on the flaming absinthe one.”
“The flaming green fairy, right …” I give her a hot once-over, letting my eyes linger on green fringe of her dress that’s tickling her thighs. “For one flaming green …”
Arie cuts a glare at me and leans forward over the bar before I let the word ‘boss’ slip out again. She’s deliberately giving me an eye-full of the bountiful treasure that her leprechaun of a dress is practically spilling out in the open, making sure I look at, but don’t touch. It’s a low blow, but I deserve it.
“Connor, if you can make a flaming green fairy in less than sixty seconds and it tastes like the three-orgasm licorice dream it ought to, then maybe I’ll say something more titillating than ‘fine’ to you.”
I smile, knowing that’s a challenge I’m happy to accept. I match her lean across the bar so I’m only inches away, making a show of raking my eyes over those perfect tits that she put on display. “Does the drink,” I whisper softly, “have to actually make you orgasm? Or can it just remind you of how hot it was when you were on my cock and calling out all sorts of compliments—of which ‘fine’ wasn’t one of them?”
“I’m not going to beg, Connor,” she says smoothly, even though a ripple of goosebumps puckers her skin.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of you requisitioning me.” She lifts an eyebrow, annoyed at how I’ve pulled out my bigger, fancier, more satisfying vocabulary. “Except—oh yeah, that’s right—I’ve already seen you grovel. And frankly, remembering you begging for my cock is almost as hot as remembering you riding it.”