Although I could let her off the hook by ordering the first dish my eyes stumble upon, I strongly believe forcing her out of her comfort zone will do more good than harm.
“Or?” I ask like she left her comment hanging.
“Or…” she follows along nicely. “There’s an ice cream parlor a couple of blocks over. I’ve heard their vanilla cones are to die for.”
I can’t hold back my smile, so I let it free. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She bobs her head in sync with mine. “If you want. No pressure or anyth—” I steal her words by slotting the dessert menu back into its holder then standing to my feet. “Oh, I can’t leave now. I have to finish my shift.”
“I know.” I take a moment to relish the disappointment in her tone before saying, “But I see us getting out of here a lot quicker if I take care of them for you.”
When I nudge my head to the dirty dishes in her hand, her cheeks glow. “I can’t let you wash the dishes, Maddox.”
“Why not?” I ask while transferring the mess from her hands to mine. “If it’s good for you, it’s good for me.”
Demi doesn’t just cook here. She waits the tables, cleans the dishes, and turns a blind eye to the many shady deals that occur here every weekend, yet I’ve not once seen her accept a tip. Even the ones from the patrons who can’t take no for an answer are placed into the tip jar at the front of the bar.
With Demi too stunned to talk, I steer our walk into the industrial kitchen. Some of the waiters eyeball me with confusion. The twinkle in their narrowed gazes switches to amused when I fill the stainless-steel sink at the side of the large space with soapy water. They think I can’t afford the bill for my one-of-a-kind meal. If it keeps news of my backstage tour from Demi’s uncle’s ears, I’m more than happy for them to believe I’m poor.
“Is that it?”
“I think so.” Demi swings her eyes around the sparkling clean and empty kitchen before returning them to me. Even donning the apron she handed me partway through my new career as a dishwasher hasn’t stopped the front of my gym shorts from being soaked.
I take a couple of seconds to relish her hidden smile before asking, “It looks like I pissed my pants, doesn’t it?”
“No,” she replies while nodding, incapable of lying directly to my face.
When I arch a brow at her, calling out her deceit, she sets her smile free. It’s her biggest one tonight. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I whip her backside with the tea towel I haven’t been without for the past three hours. When it cracks on her backside, she squeals before darting to the other side of the kitchen. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”
“It’s not a secret if it’s untrue.” I follow her around the kitchen, playfully whipping her another two times before my campaign to whip her into line is ended by her splatting a handful of bubbles in my face.
When my exhale replicates a bubble machine on the brink of running out of detergent, the happy gleam in Demi’s eyes the past six hours amplifies. I haven’t seen her wear this look in years, and it’s taking everything I have not to ask her exactly how long it’s been. I wouldn’t hesitate if tonight were about re-hatching old memories, but I want us to create new ones.
“You know I’m going to need to retaliate, right?” I speak through the ghastly smelling bubbles coating my lips. I’ve got enough suds on my face to scrub my mind clean of the many inappropriate thoughts I’m currently having. In case you’re wondering, every one of them features Demi. “It’s a Walsh trait. We don’t let anything slide.”
Sparks of the girl I knew before her father died fire in Demi’s eyes when she takes three giant steps back. “You can retaliate…ifyou can catch me.”
When she spins and bolts, I scoop up a huge handful of the bubbles in the sink before chasing her down. I’m on her heels in an instant, and even faster than that, I have her pinned to the industrial refrigerator with my crotch and am holding a suds-soaked hand in front of her face as if it is a cream pie.
Our closeness shifts the tension from playful to lusty in an instant, and the struggle to keep things friendly is heard in my voice when I ask, “What are you going to give me to keep these bubbles to myself?”
Demi runs her finger down my sudsy nose like I did hers earlier tonight before she shrugs. “Is a free meal not enough for you?”
When I shake my head, she angles hers to the side, better aligning our lips. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, so you can imagine my utter disgust when the only thing landing on my lips is the bubbles Demi stole from my hand when my concentration diverted to ensuring my mouth wasn’t as dry as a desert.
“It takes more than scrubbing a mountain load of dirty dishes to be in myfavor, Maddox.” While giggling about my uncomfortable grab of my crotch from her husky deliverance of the word ‘favor,’ she bobs under my arm, snatches up her purse from beneath the massive stainless-steel counter in the middle of the kitchen, then struts toward the exit.
Yep, you once again heard me right. Hips swinging, tits bouncing, I’m-going-to-come-in-my-pants-like-a-dweeb strut.
For years, I’ve wondered if Demi Petretti was a tease or a straight-up pleaser. I had no clue she was a bit of both. Don’t misunderstand I’m stoked the years she spent under her uncle’s care hasn’t altered her personality. I’m just praying like fuck her slide from teaser to pleaser isn’t a month-long slip. My gym shorts don’t have a zipper. However, my cock is aching as if it does.
I push off my feet like the man at the start line fired his gun when Demi warns, “If you want dessert, Maddox, you better hurry. The ice cream parlor closes in ten minutes.”
“You’ve never seen snow?”
Demi giggles at the eccentrics in my tone before shaking her head. “It doesn’t snow around these parts, and I’ve never left the state.”
