Rescue the Barista

I hear the little bell and I see someone coming in. I look up and find that I’m locked, straight into his mesmerizing, golden-brown eyes.
I’m not prepared for how big he is. Or how absurdly self-confident. He has a take-what-I-want swagger, even standing still. With his head slightly on one side, a long curl of his black hair dangling over his forehead, he looks at me like he’s deciding how to have me. Like a predator watching a small animal. Wondering whether to eat it now, or play with it some first.
His Adams apple cocks and he asks me, “Your fucking coffee. Is it good?”
I flinch. A voice like bourbon over sweet molasses. Strong, low, and thick. And dirty.
“The best,” I’m straightening up. As I do, he watches every part of me.
The white shirt that I wear for work with the long points on the collar is not too revealing. But then, I do have a lot to cover. I thought about it enough times before and I’m sure it’s perfect. Well, I was sure. Now I’m wondering if the neck was too far open while I was bent over the table, polishing.
Although, if anything, I’d say he was looking at my ass more than peering down my cleavage.
Whatever he was looking at, his lip is curling in a way that suggests he wants more.
“Wait while I get behind the counter,” I tell him, turning awkwardly while I’m still locked in his eyes.
I never once felt so self-conscious, tripping across the tiled floor of my own coffee bar. I feel like he’s watching my curves, through the soft silky pants. Sizing me up. I feel his eyes all over me. My skin prickles. The insides of my thighs tremble. My mouth dries a little.
Behind the counter, and feeling a little better protected, I ask him, “So, what can I get you?”
“What’s good?” The twist of a sardonic smile that plays across his lips really begs for an open-handed slap. I so want to reach across the counter and show him what a good slap feels like.
“Everything is great,” I tell him. I try not to be distracted as his eyes roam over my curves.
I ask him, “What do you like?”
“I like all of what I see.”
Without missing a beat I look behind me. The pride of Jamie’s Rise and Grind, my Italian espresso machine and grinder. I look back at the man. Angelo. No, definitely no angel. “Espresso, then?”
“That wasn’t what I was looking at.” His grin is sly and unmistakably filthy. Little pulses begin to rumble up at the tops of my thighs. “But, sure,” he says, “Why not? Espresso. Make it a double.”
I tell him the price and he smiles, “Lot of businesses around here,” he looks around, twirling a finger in the air, “They like to make us feel welcome.”
“I aim to make all of my customers feel welcome. And you are. Very. I hope you’ll love the coffee. I’ll make it for you with the greatest love and care. And I hope I’ll see you return for many more.” I give him my most winning smile. “Card or cash?”
My breath halts as he narrows his eyes. Putting a twenty on the counter he says, “I don’t carry change. So keep it.”
I pull out one of our Rise & Grind cards and mark all eight little coffee cups with the rubber stamp.
“Next one is on the house,” I tell him.
“So you want me to come back.”
“Of course. That’s why it’s called a loyalty card. I want you to buy all of your coffee here.”
“Fucking A.”
I’m not at all sure what that means. I have to make the espresso with my back to him which makes me more self-conscious than ever. I’m resisting the urge to prattle away nervously at him. The temptation to talk a mile a minute about nothing whatsoever. Giggle and make a fool of myself. Somehow, I manage not to do any of that and I’m feeling pretty proud of myself for it.
The double shot of espresso pipes perfectly into the little demitasse cup, and as it pours, I turn the cup to make my signature logo heart shape in the thin foam of golden crema on the shiny surface of the dark coffee.
I turn to the side of the counter to serve the coffee, put the demitasse onto a saucer, by the sugar and napkins and stirrers. As he comes around to collect the espresso, the cup he sees the heart. That sarcastic little look in his eye gleams as he peers at me down through his long lashes. “That’s kind of forward, isn’t it?”
I laugh nervously, a lot more than I mean to. Well, I don’t mean to laugh at all. Not nervously. Especially not that. And as I’m turning, my elbow bashes the lever that controls the steam to froth the milk.
Of course, there is no jug of milk under the nozzle. So I blast a jet of steam halfway across the coffee bar.
And it sprays a foam jet of water vapor with a little hot milk, straight at his beautiful silk shirt, and over his tailored silk coat.

Chapter 2 Angelo
When she turns, I see something every bit as arousing as the innocent glow that lights her face. And that’s the filthy little wiggle of her ass. In those soft, silky pants, I could just grab that and eat it whole. Her thighs are not so clear, because the pants are loose. Since the material is light and soft, they give me thrilling glimpses of the curves underneath.
Those are definitely woman-shaped thighs. My cock is already aching and stretching the fabric at the front of my pants. My pulse is hammering for her. She’s a woman-shaped woman, all crammed in a petite, curvy package. I want to