by Elle Berlin
“And…” I slide my hands down her back to cup her behind. She squeaks in surprise. “You hate that you can’t resist me.”
“I have restraint!” she insists, but my hands sneak under the waves pulsing at our waist to push her skirt aside.
“Very little restraint,” I scold, my fingers tracing over her bare thighs under the water, her body quivering as her skin peppers with gooseflesh.
“Fine! We all have our vices,” she admits, losing her balance at my assault, her weight falling into me.
“So, I’m just that vice that works behind your bar and fucks you in your office and—”
“No more sex at Flambé!”
“Is that so?” Under the water, my hands clutch her ass greedily, making her whimper. “Is that your rule or Simon’s?”
“Simon’s,” she admits, breathless. “But he owns half the business. He gave me an ultimatum.”
“I guess you’re going to have to take me back to wherever it is you live,” I say, lifting one of her legs over my hip so I can gain better access to the underside of her thigh.
“I’m not taking you to my apartment!”
“Cause you’re not my girlfriend.” My fingers swirl close to her underwear, making her shudder.
“Boundaries are a good thing,” she manages.
“Because it means everything is in your control.” She kisses me to stop me from talking and I let her. My tongue lashes over her lips, assaulting her until she’s moaning into my mouth. “When are you going to give in to me?” I growl, and she kisses back in answer.
“Wall banging in my office wasn’t giving in to you?” She nips at my ear. “You need some sort of commitment from me to feel secure? It’s not enough to know I want to climb on your cock every time I see you?”
I rub her against where I’m starting to harden under the water. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“You’re a heathen!”
“Take me to your apartment and I’ll prove it.”
“Sorry, I have to go back to Flambé.”
“You said that was off limits, and—” I nip at her neck “—I don’t fuck in the sand.”
“You’re just going to have to learn how to control your urges then,” she says, but I drag my fingers across the fabric between her legs, causing her head to fall onto my shoulder as my fingers tease her through the salt water.
“What was that?” I stroke her again. “About controlling your urges?”
“Are you really going to finger me with all of Waikiki watching?” she threatens, and I pull her thong to the side to tease her naked skin.
“Does everyone watching turn you on?” My fingers tease and she gasps again. “You know, if I turn you like this …” I move her so she’s looking out at the horizon with her back to the beach. “The three hundred people on the beach will just think we’re standing here hugging. No one will be able to see your face when you’re coming.” My thumb starts to part her, only—
She pushes back and pulls away from me, practically dumping herself in the ocean as she finds her uncertain footing.
“I need to make it through this week!” she says weakly. “I need to make it through the grand opening on Friday, without you—” She points at me hotly. “Distracting me!”
“Otherwise?”
“I will fire you!” she says haughtily, throwing her hands on her hips. “I’ll send you back to your boring-ass life with the suits and the lawyers, with your brother and whomever!”
“You need me for the opening, you’ll never get through it without me. Try again.”
“Connor!” She walks up to me, exacerbated. “I promise that after a week I’m going to be so pent up I’m going to fuck you ten ways into tomorrow. Trust me, your damn head is going to spin, but I need some space for the next six days! So I can focus on—”
“Keeping your restaurant in business.”
“Exactly!”
“Okay, so, after the opening you’re going to take me to your apartment, right?”
“No, I didn’t say—”
I grab her hip and pull her back against me in the water. It knocks the breath out of her, and I can feel it.
“Your apartment,” I negotiate. “Or I make you come on the bar, and in the dining room, and on all the other surfaces that Simon said were off limits.”
“Okay, fine! I’ll take you to my apartment,” she hisses, trying to push me away without much luck. “Now would you let me go!”
I release her before she’s expecting it and a wave knocks her over, causing her to yelp as she’s doused up to her shoulders.
“Deal,” I say, walking toward the shore, my pants and shirt soaked. We must look ridiculous coming out of the water in our clothes instead of swim attire, but I don’t really care. A little piece of me whispers that I’m going to get burned. Arie is so much like Zariah, I’m going to be left jobless, homeless, and without her or my brother.
I’ll be completely on my own.
34
Arie
It’s an hour before the grand opening and my heart is hammering like a drunk butterfly, or maybe a hummingbird on crack. Honestly, if I don’t have an aneurysm in the next twenty seconds I’ll be surprised.
“Breathe.” From behind, two hands come down on my shoulders and squeeze. I suck in a shallow breath to bark at him, but Connor beats me to the punch. “I said breathe, not give me a list of reasons for why you want to bitch me out.”
Amazingly, it makes me smile. Connor’s been doing this all week, not to mention his hands on my shoulders has been the most physical contact we’ve had since our afternoon dip in the ocean. Frankly, it’s been nice. Normal. Comfortable. Easy. None of those are normal words in my vocabulary, much less my daily life, much less words I’d want to associate with Connor. But I have to admit, he calms me.
“The menus—” I start, but Connor cuts me off.
“Are printed and perfect, and the hostess at the front desk has more than enough of them.”
“The desserts—”
“Are prepped.”
“Yes, but the table-side torches—”
“Are stocked and refilled. The table-side extinguishers are all in place. Your staff has passed their burn-safety classes. You have nothing to worry about.”
“But what about the ba—”
“The bar?” Connor turns me around to face him and gives me a wry look in his dashing suit. “Oh, you’re right, I totally forgot to wash the glasses and stock the lemons. And we’re out of vodka.” He sarcastically shakes his head. “Everything is perfect. You’re ready. That is, if you’d take a damn breath and realize you actually have this handled.”
“I have this handled,” I repeat, not sure I believe him.
“Well, I helped a little bit,” he jabs and again it makes me smile. “Good!” He tucks a knuckle under my chin and lifts. “That’s what we all want to see. More of that sexy-as-hell confidence. This is your restaurant and if you don’t start acting like it …” He takes a step closer, causing me to bite my lip. “Then I’m going to take you into the back office and make sure you remember exactly who doesn’t take any shit from anyone.”
“Oh, you think I’d let you do that?” I quip.
“Wisconsin,” he drawls, letting his cheek linger next to mine. “All I would do is walk you into the back room. You’re the one who’d turn into the secret agent lady, doing all sorts of acrobatic stunts. There’s no way I’ll be able to close my eyes without thinking about you naked.”
“Are you talking about the first time we met or something you’re about to do?”
“Something you’re about to do,” he corrects, smiling as he steps back to give me some space. “Just remember, when all those people walk in the door tonight—you own what they see, what they order, what they taste, and what they crave. Trust me …” He gives me a wink. “You aren’t easy to forget.”
Connor’s eyes dance over the gown I’ve put on for the event. It’s a racy sequin number with an open back th
at allows a feast of my skin from neck to waist. The sequins look black at first glance, but when the light hits it you get a flash of ruby as red scales shimmer. The dress truly makes me feel like the dragon Connor wants to tame.
“That dress is perfect,” he says, before walking back to his station by the bar and lighting several martini glasses on fire. He shrugs when I narrow my eyes at his extravagance, his knowing smile reminding me that I invented the inferno and that Flambé is my playground. When his eyes dance down the front of my gown again a prickle of mist covers my skin.
I did promise to take him back to my apartment later this evening, a promise I’m not sure how I feel about keeping. All I know is that right now, I want every hot and racy stare he tosses in my direction, because it reminds me of why I created Flambé— which is to bring the heat, and the heat is mine.
Our investor, Hamblin, leans back in his picture-window booth—the exact same seat we sat him in when we made him our pitch several weeks ago. He smiles lip and tooth, moonlight glimmering off the ocean, as Simon and I crowd him, waiting on pins and needles to know what he thinks about the opening gala.
“This place is spectacular!” Hamblin croons, picking up the goblet of fire that’s just been unveiled before him from under a bell jar of chartreuse smoke. The waitress holds the smoking cloche above Hamblin’s four counterparts—rich businessmen who sit at the table with him, brought in to test out our den of decadence and undoubtedly report back to Hamblin later in the evening.
The waitress bathes all of the men in the emerald mist as they take their goblets, her ruby smile revealing itself as the smoke dissipates like a wicked version of Alice in Wonderland. All the men are clearly taken by her sensual dramatics, and I make a note to myself to consider changing the name of that cocktail to “Drink Me” in homage.
The restaurant is bustling. All of Waikiki’s elite are here tonight and every table is full. Fire flickers from all the corners of the room and my staff is on-point. The waiters and waitresses light torches in sync, they serve up ice cream topped with sparklers, they follow every protocol. Each shriek of excitement as someone’s dinner bursts into flame adds a surge of pride in my step. Everyone’s been trained impeccably, making sure the flames come close enough for the patrons to feel the heat on their faces without burning a single hair on their head. It’s a carnival of food and fire, just like I dreamed it would be.
Simon stands beside me as we hover over Hamblin’s table. Our investor and his friends watch their waitress like they want to eat the chocolate terrarium dessert they ordered off of her stomach—if I’d allow them such an indulgence.
“She’s not for sale,” I whisper in Hamblin’s ear. “Just the food, remember.”
He almost whimpers in response, before collecting himself and complimenting me on my ability to make every waitress at the restaurant as enticing as I am.
“And Connor, behind the bar …” Simon chimes in, nodding to the lynchpin that sealed our deal. “He’s been a nice addition as well.” Hamblin nods in agreement, pointing out the swarm of women by the bar, each of them ordering drinks, like Connor’s their own personal messiah. Connor doesn’t even have to be shirtless, like at the Gin n’ Lava, to have all those women eating out of the palm of his hand.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t like the idea initially,” I say, speaking of Connor. “But he’s … grown on me.” Simon pinches my side to make sure I don’t say any more than that. Then, almost on cue, Connor lights up a string of drinks, causing all the women at the bar to squeal and jump back from the flames. “He has a certain magnetism, it’s true,” I agree, and like an avalanche, Connor’s pyrotechnic explosion causes the next round of women to get up from their tables and head toward him, ready to stuff hundred-dollar bills in his pocket for the experience of having their cocktails lit on fire.
“I told you he’d be worth his weight in gold,” Hamblin gloats, before turning his attention back to the waitress who’s serving their dessert. She leans forward and lights the brandy-soaked pears on fire.
The pears are poached, lying belly up in a cast iron skillet at the center of the table, sizzling in a bath of vanilla cream. The fruit has been halved, making their cored and pink flesh look devilishly like the soft delicacy between a woman’s legs. Intentional? Oh, yes. That dessert will inevitably become a ladies’ favorite. I guarantee it will make every woman’s date associate the most delicate part of her body with that mouth-watering soaked pear. Before I know it, I’ll be getting online reviews about how the dessert helped my patrons’ lovers suddenly understand … the proper way that a woman should be eaten. I haven’t dared show that dessert to Connor, because frankly, I don’t think I could handle what it might inspire.
“You should’ve brought a date,” I whisper in Hamblin’s ear as he eyes the soft folds of the cream-drizzled pear. “Or at least start evaluating which women at the bar are single, because, I repeat, the waitress is not on the menu.”
“This place is sinful,” Hamblin grumbles, swallowing hard and watching the poached pear crystalize as the waitress brûlées it with splashes of sugar and brandy.
“That was the goal,” I say smoothly, patting Hamblin on the shoulder. “Sin is going to make us a ton of money.”
Hamblin looks at his constituents and nods, agreeing wholeheartedly. Triumphant, I turn to Simon with a wicked grin, before indicating that I’m going to do my rounds. Introducing myself to the tables each night is part of the normal gig, but doing it with Waikiki’s rich and elite will cinch Flambé as the next hot thing.
After amusing—or seducing, take your pick—the closest tables, a thirty-something gentleman near the door catches my attention. He’s pure Armani elegance with light hair that’s perfectly coiffed, set atop dark eyes and a firm jaw. He scans the room looking for his party, the rigidness of his posture giving off the impression that he’s a no-nonsense businessman, the kind that screams ‘I have more power than you want to mess with.’
Only, he just walked into Flambé, and this is my playground. He may have put that suit on this morning for business, not pleasure, but now that he’s walked through my door, he’s going to learn how to cower.
I roll my shoulders back, push my tits out, and head straight for him. Something oddly familiar flits through his gaze, and I can’t quite place it; perhaps I’ve seen him at one of the city offices downtown. Nevertheless, I move in like a panther, and when his eyes catch the sheath of sequins that hug my body, his eyes darken. He looks unamused, but only to mask the fact that no man can deny the precarious way this dress hangs from my breasts, promising—if I turn just the right way—that he’ll get a full view of more than I intend. Oh man, no matter how much power this man has at his day job, he isn’t ready for what I’m selling.
“Welcome to Flambé,” I say, swooping into his personal space and standing deliciously close for his comfort, my tits practically brushing against his chest as his eyes skate over the red scales that threaten to devour him. He doesn’t move, standing his ground despite my overt entrance. “You strike me as a whiskey man, yes? Something expensive, neat?”
He angles his head toward me. It’s the closest thing I’m going to get to a yes behind that practiced poker face. I smile softly. The uptight ones are the most fun, the more you piss them off, the more they’re going to return—buying drinks, bringing their friends—showing up again and again, because they don’t like the feeling of not being the one to win.
I lean in to whisper in his ear, my chest brushing his elbow. “Of course,” I breathe hotly. “Nothing at Flambé is served neat. Not even our whiskey. We like things a little messy around here.” I take a hold of his tie and start to slowly loosen it. He stiffens and I make even more of a show of toying with the strip of fabric. “Relax a little, unwind.” He eyes me like that’s the wrong thing to say to him, but he hasn’t pushed my advances away yet. “By the end of the night, your hands are bound to be sticky—with whiskey, meringue, maybe something new you haven’t tried yet.” My mout
h ghosts the edge of his ear. “At Flambé, that’s the way we like it.”
He releases a hot, shaky breath and I know I’ve gotten under that tough-man exterior of his, if only for a second. My guess is the second I step back that frown and rigidness will be back, but at least he’s human under all that stoic bravado. Oh yes, this kind of man can be the most fun; they don’t want to let down their guard—especially to a woman—which makes for a special challenge.
Just as predicted, when I drop my hands from his collar and give him some space, his eyes get steely and calculated. This man definitely needs to get laid, and not just laid, but done in, the Flambé way, where he surrenders to all the senses have to offer him.
“Let me guess,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. “You’ve had one drink your whole life. Whiskey, neat. You like it that way and it’s perfect?”
An eyebrow feathers above his glare, it doesn’t make his eyebrow raise, but it’s enough to give him away.
“Good,” I say, brushing my red hair back off my skin. “Then a night at Flambé is exactly what you need. We’ll show you exactly what you’ve been missing.”
“You’re overconfident,” he says in a voice that’s low and commanding, built from the kind of timber that’s used to getting what he wants. “You assume to know everything about me, when you haven’t a clue.”
“And you assume, simply because something works, there isn’t anything better,” I shoot back, not giving him the upper hand. “Or are you going to tell me you’re the type of man who’s happy to settle?”
His eyes darken at that comment. Maybe he’s a lawyer, someone who’s used to negotiating and leading his opponent into his clutches. Which is also when I see it—the resemblance—in the shape of his eyes and the crinkle of crow’s feet as he squints.
This is Connor’s brother!
It’s Connor’s brother the lawyer, the one with a stick up his ass, the one who thinks I’m dangerous.
Oh, and I am.