Page 53

The morning rush hits full swing, and the chaos is almost meditative. I’m grounded by the endless orders, the clanking of cups, and the warm scent of espresso.

“Not bad,” Malia calls from the espresso machine, glancing at the cup art I just managed. “Your hearts are getting better. Almost makes up for your attempt last week.”

“My leaf was structurally sound,” I protest, grabbing a tray of pastries and refilling the display.

“It looked like an amoeba,” Jenna snarks from across the counter. “And not even one of the organized ones. Like, totally chaotic-evil amoeba vibes.”

“Chaotic amoeba vibes?” I shake my head. “That’s not even a thing.”

“That’s my point,” Jenna says. “It’s worse than a blob.”

“Worse than a blob?” I take that as a personal challenge and grumble about Jenna being a perfectionist.

Customers filter in and out, Guardian operatives and admin staff grabbing their caffeine lifelines before returning to work. Our banter keeps things light, customers keep things busy, and I soon realize we’ve just served coffee to two dozen people in less than thirty minutes.

The breakneck rush of the morning finally eases into something manageable, and my shoulders loosen for the first time in hours. Jenna’s cracking jokes from behind the pastry case about how every Guardian operative thinks they’re too hardcore for flavored syrups, while Malia debates her latte art rankings like it’s a national sport.

“Rank mine below Jenna’s,” Malia warns a regular with a mock glare as she executes a flawless heart pour, “and you can handle the next caramel catastrophe yourself.”

The customer hesitates in front of the chalkboard leaderboard mounted on the wall—Guardian Grind’s Latte Art Champions scrawled on the top in bold, loopy script. Below it, sticky notes with names, drawings, and rankings clutter the surface like battle trophies.

Today, Malia and Jenna are neck and neck. Someone added a tiny crown sticker above Malia’s name. Jenna’s been pretending not to notice, but the twitch in her eye says otherwise.

“Better make your vote count,” I murmur to the customer as I pass by with a tray of mugs. “A lot is riding on this.”

He stares down at his foam swirled into what looks like a lion or a very confident cat. “How do I not get caught in the crossfire?”

“You don’t,” Jenna says sweetly. “You just pick a side and accept the consequences.”

I laugh, shaking my head as I pass another cup to the counter for pickup.

“Speaking of lifestyles…” I slip closer to Malia, “how are things with Walt? He seemed very… attentive when he picked you up yesterday.”

Malia immediately busies herself with the espresso machine, which makes a concerning grinding noise as she fiddles with it. “He was just excited about trying a new recipe.”

“Oh, a new recipe,” I repeat, voice dripping with innuendo. “I bet he was. Walt strikes me as a man with quite the… culinary repertoire.”

Jenna nearly chokes on her laugh as Malia’ s eyes go wide.

“He’s just cooking dinner,” she insists, though her blush says otherwise.

“Dinner, dessert, midnight snack,” I count off on my fingers, leveling Malia with a knowing look. “I just want to make sure he’s giving you a proper education. Sex Ed 201, not just the entry-level course.”

Malia glares, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her.

I lean in, voice dropping into something silkier, smugger. “Has he taught you about the different flavor profiles yet?” I tap a finger to my lips, pretending to consider. “You know… vanilla sex—sweet, safe, predictable. A nice, wholesome introduction.”

Malia’s eyes narrow.

I grin. “Or has he started introducing you to the dark, decadent stuff yet? The kind that melts on your tongue and makes you crave more even when you’re already full. Rich, sinful, fuck-you-up decadent, dark chocolate sex.”

Malia makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat.

I press on, unbothered. “Or maybe he’s still easing you in, just adding the sprinkles—letting you taste what’s coming before he completely ruins you.”

“Ally!” Malia glances around to make sure no customers are within earshot.

I blink at her innocently. “What?”

“You cannot just say things like that in public!”

I shrug. “I’m just being a good friend. Making sure you’re getting the full tasting menu.”

Malia groans, covering her face with both hands, but the blush burning across her cheeks says everything. Then, from behind her fingers, she mutters, “I bet you don’t even touch vanilla sex. I bet you go straight for the sinful kind.”

I bark out a laugh, leaning against the counter, entirely unrepentant. “Oh, honey.” I lower my voice, grinning. “Hank and Gabe are the darkest, most sinful, ruin-your-life kind of chocolate. The kind that melts slowly and lingers long after you’ve had your fill. Rich, indulgent, and designed to leave a mark.”

Malia groans again, but now Sophia’s eyes gleam with interest .

“Oh, now I have to know,” Sophia muses, propping her chin on her hand. “What exactly qualifies them as sinful, ruin-your-life chocolate?”

I smirk. “Let’s just say… their appetites are very dark. And very, very demanding.”

Malia grabs a dish towel and whips it at me. “You’re impossible.”

I laugh, dodging easily, but before I can fire back, the air shifts.

A new presence.

Heat slides up my spine, something predatory curling in my stomach as I glance over my shoulder?—

And find Gabe standing there, arms crossed, watching.

His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his dark gaze. “Dark and demanding, huh?”

My stomach flips.

Malia, meanwhile, chokes on air. “Oh my God—how long have you been standing there?”

Gabe steps closer, gaze locked on me now, voice dropping to something sinful and smug.

“Long enough to hear about my flavor profile.”

I grin, entirely unbothered. “Well, I’m not wrong.”

“No, sweetheart. You aren’t.” Gabe’s smirk is slow, dark—dangerous.

The heat in his gaze coils low in my belly, sending a shiver racing up my spine, but it’s not just his amusement that has my pulse hammering.

It’s the warning.

He steps in closer, his fingers curling around my wrist, firm but not tight, just enough to let me feel the control radiating off him. His voice drops, smooth as sin but edged with something rougher.

“We’ll be discussing this later.” A pause, long enough for my breath to catch. “This penchant you have for oversharing.”

His thumb brushes my pulse point—like he’s testing it, savoring it.

“Or maybe,” his lips barely move, but the sheer promise in his tone makes my stomach flip, “I should give you something good to share—since it appears our entire sex life is an open book.”

My thighs press together involuntarily. His smirk deepens, catching it.

Noting it.

He leans in just a fraction more, his breath hot against my ear, his next words dripping with command.

“Either way, sweetheart—you’re getting punished for this.”

The air leaves my lungs.

Malia mutters something about needing to flee the scene, but I barely hear her over the roaring in my ears.

Gabe steps back, his hand dropping away from me like he’s already decided my fate, and it’s just a matter of when.

He glances at Malia, unbothered. “Walt wanted me to grab a coffee before he finishes up in the training bay.”

“On it.” Malia blinks, looking like she’s desperately trying to switch gears.

When she hands Gabe the coffee, he chuckles—low, knowing. His gaze flicks to me once more before he turns.

“See you tonight, sweetheart.”

The way he says it makes my entire body flush hot.

He walks away, whistling.

The silence he leaves in his wake is almost suffocating.

I exhale shakily, dragging a hand through my hair, pretending my legs aren’t shaking.

“You. Are. So. Lucky.” Malia lets out a strangled sound, clutching the counter.

Sophia fans herself with a napkin. “I swear to God, if Blake ever spoke to me like that, I’d be in a coma.”

Mia stares at the door, looking dazed. “I don’t think Rigel knows how to talk like that.”

Rebel smirks. “At least Ally won’t have to wonder about tonight’s plans.”

Sophia hums, tapping a finger against her lips. “We could all take bets on what kind of punishment he’s got planned.”

I groan but can’t stop the grin spreading across my lips .

Mia cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “I’d put money on some kind of sensory deprivation.”

“Nah, I’m thinking orgasm denial. He looked way too smug for anything soft.” Sophia shakes her head.

“Why not both?” Rebel leans against the counter, grinning.

“Oh my God, stop.” Malia covers her face.

I snort, punching in a drink order with unnecessary flair. “Please. Hank and Gabe don’t believe in orgasm denial.” I glance over my shoulder, lips curving into a knowing smirk. “If anything, they believe in the opposite.”

Sophia raises a brow. “Meaning?”

I flash her a slow, wicked grin. “Double the men, double the orgasms.” I click my tongue. “Though, realistically, it’s usually a lot more.”

“Damn.” Rebel whistles low.

“That sounds… excessive.” Mia shakes her head, eyes wide. “

I laugh. “Oh, it is. But according to Gabe—” my voice dips, recalling the words he murmured against my skin, the dark promise laced in every syllable, “if I take an ounce of his pain, he’ll give me a pound of pleasure.”

A beat of silence.

Then—Sophia fans herself with a napkin. “Okay, that might be the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Rebel looks mildly impressed. “That’s almost poetic.”

Jenna snorts from the pastry case.

I turn, striking a mock-heroic pose. “I am the sacrificial slut of the sisterhood. I take the orgasms, so you don’t have to.”

Malia groans.

Sophia smirks. “You know we’re going to want updates.”

And judging by their eager faces, they fully expect a detailed recap.

Which, honestly?

I’ll give them.

“It’s hard work being the group’s sexual overachiever, but someone’s got to do it.” I pluck a spoon from the dish rack.

“You know,” Rebel says dryly, though there’s amusement in her eyes, “some people would consider three orgasms in one night a success.”

“Three?” I scoff, shaking my head in mock pity. “That’s just Hank’s warm-up routine. That’s not even counting what happens when Gabe gets involved.”

Malia makes a strangled noise that’s half fascination, half embarrassment. “I don’t think—I mean, I couldn’t even?—”

“Trust me,” I say, patting her arm consolingly, “you could. Walt just needs the right motivation. Maybe a little competition?” I waggle my eyebrows. “I could always have Hank give him some pointers.”

“Don’t you dare,” Malia gasps, but she’s laughing now, her initial embarrassment giving way to genuine amusement. “And for the record, Walt is a generous lover.”

“Just think about it.” I wipe down the counter a little too cheerfully. “A little friendly competition never hurt anyone. The guys already compete over push-ups and target practice—why not give the girls something to track?”

Jenna eyes me warily. “Oh no. What now?”

I grab a chalk marker and stroll over to the café’s big leaderboard—the one usually reserved for latte art bragging rights—and start sketching a new column labeled “O.”

Malia squints. “O… for what?”

I grin. “Orgasms, obviously.”

Malia chokes.

Jenna drops the tongs.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, completely unbothered, “we keep track. Quietly. Casually. And we don’t tell the guys. Let’s see how long it takes them to figure out what the board’s actually measuring.”

“And when they do?” Jenna asks, still half-laughing, half-horrified.

“They’ll cry foul,” I shrug. “Claim it’s not fair because I’m blowing everyone out of the water.”

“Because you are,” Malia mutters, then slaps a hand over her mouth .

I wink. “I’ll take a penalty count. Even the playing field.”

“You’re going to start an actual war,” Jenna says, crossing her arms—but she’s smiling now.

“Then I suggest you start racking up points,” I reply sweetly. “Game’s on.”

“Some of us,” Malia says primly, though her eyes dance with suppressed laughter, “prefer quality over quantity.”

“Who says you can’t have both?” Sophia chimes in, shooting me a conspiratorial wink. “Blake’s very thorough. And very competitive.”

“I plead the fifth,” Mia murmurs, but her small smile speaks volumes. “But this sounds fun. We should start a betting pool. See how long it takes them to figure it out.”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” Rebel says. “And we should bet on which of the guys figures it out first, but no one can spill the beans. We have to swear on it.”

“Look at you all,” I say, gesturing around our little circle. “Charlie’s Angels, indeed. Though I’m not sure Charlie knew what kind of heavenly experiences his team would be providing.”

Malia’s fascinated expression is worth every second of this conversation. She might act scandalized, but I can see the questions forming behind her eyes. Good. Walt better be ready for what’s coming his way.