Rescue the Barista

wrap her up and take her home. Then never let her out again. I want to tie her to my bed. Oh, my God. If I start thinking that way, I’m going to come in my pants.
She leads me out back, into a tiny kitchen. A sink and drainer is piled with dishes, plates and cups. There’s a big fridge, and a counter with cutting boards. Apart from that there’s just the table in the middle of the tiny room. Sturdy, marble-topped.
She takes a clean cloth and wets it in the sink. Damn, she can wet me. Anywhere she fucking likes. I have some good ideas of places she could start.
She turns back and her big eyes shine up into mine. With a finger, she pushes on my stomach to get me to sit up on the edge of the table. The touch of her little hand against my abs makes my pulses zing.
Intently, she dabs the damp cloth on my chest, where my shirt got sprayed. Her eyes don’t move up. She stays looking intently at my chest, as she dabs at my suit coat. It’s pretty much ruined. But I don’t care. I have plenty of thousand dollar suits.
Then her eyes flick downward. And she gasps. I think she spotted the fucking road drill trying to bang its way out the front of my pants.
As she gasps, she leans forward. Her beautiful, round, soft tits slide along the tops of my thigh. I am literally unable to resist leaning down toward her.
I’m still a proper Italian gentleman, though. I move slowly. My hand strokes her hair and she responds. I stroke the back of her neck. Run my fingers down her spine a little. I watch as her head turns up, and her eyes find mine. Her throat opens as she tips her head back. I lean down. My mouth is close enough to hers to taste the strawberry sweetness of her breath.
Her delicate, secret scents thrill my nostrils and swirl in my head. Her lips part. Wet. And her eyelids flutter. My lips find hers.
Gently, I take the beginning of a kiss. Her lips mold to mine. She responds. Hesitating. Her lips are warm. Full. Welcoming.
My arms wrap around her. Pull her closer to me. Our kiss deepens. I pull her tight. Her arms fling around my neck. I press my tongue to hers and she comes to life in my hands as she kisses me back. Eager. Electric.
Little sounds squeak from her throat as she pulls herself close against my hard chest. We lose ourselves in each other, in the kiss. It feels like forever, and it ends all too soon.
Her arms are tight around my neck as she pulls back. She looks in my eyes. She presses forward. She’s between my thighs. Her breasts are almost touching my cock. She looks down.
Her mouth tightens. She slaps my face.
Fuck, I could fall in love with this woman.
There’s a sound outside. A little bell, jingling.
“Come,” she says, turning quickly. I nearly did, too.
I follow her back out into the coffee shop. She stands behind the counter, smiling. Ready to take an order from a couple of construction workers. Their eyes are feasting on her, and I want to bash the brains out of them both. I have a range of options.
I could shoot both the motherfuckers, right here and now. That would make horrible stains on Jamie’s nice floor. I could beat the living shit out of them. That would still make an awful mess, too, though. Furniture could break.
Or, I can exercise some restraint. That has never been one of my specialist subjects. Still, as they tell her what they want, and she pulls things together for them—fruit juice, pastries, and chai—and she asks them if they want to have it in or take-out, I’m watching her beautiful ass. Full, round, and wonderful in those soft pants.
Keeping my eyes on the construction workers, I slide my hand down the back of those soft pants. She doesn’t show any reaction. I feel the hot, beautiful, round flesh of her ass. Slip my finger down through the crack. Slide along between her thigh. Feel how wet she is at the top. She’s dripping, slick, hot, eager. And ready. I press along the insides of her wings. Push at the base of her hot little bean. She clenches and trembles.
And her face is giving away nothing.
She doesn’t miss a beat. She uses long tongs to bag their pastries and she pours hot water into a paper cup, onto a bag of Chai, and sets a little bottle of juice on the counter.
All the time, her little pussy is tight, gripping and squeezing. Pulling on my fingers.
The men chat with her, passing the time of day. Trying to get her attention. But they see me. One look in my face and they know not to push it.
They’d have to be looking hard to notice her making any response to the press of my hand. All that I can detect is the way her eyes shine and her pupils widen.
That and the vibrating grip inside her wet pussy as she tugs on my hand. Her thighs and her butt clench. Thick, hot wetness slips over my hand and down her thighs. She is hot. And so wet, it merely makes me want to groan, but I keep a straight face and look the other way.
My finger slips in and out between her too-swollen petals. Inside the thin strip of her thong, my fingers press up, stroking her and rubbing her. Her voice slips just once as she says, “If you’d like sugar for your chai, it’s on the counter there, with stirrers and napkins.”
As I’m stroking up and down the front of her opening, her thighs clench and tremble when my thumb