Randy’s Diner is where people go to receive “service with little more than a smile”. It’s certainly not a place Amber would go if her best friend hadn’t given precise instructions, a one-hundred dollar bill for “Y’s tip” and a gift certificate for a free meal. She is shocked to find Chris, the man responsible for her demotion, working as a waiter. And that his nametag carries the initial “Y”. Upon learning her waiter has to do virtually anything she asks, Amber seizes the chance to humiliate him.
Chris needs an outlet for his masochism without cheating on his prim fiancée. The job at Randy’s is the perfect answer. Until the designer that tempted him appears. And vengeance is on her menu.
“I want you to kneel on the table,” Amber announced.
“I’m sorry, what?” Chris blurted out.
Amber turned her head to fix her narrowed eyes at him. “Kneel,” she repeated. “On the table.”
“I don’t think it will hold my weight.”
“What do you weigh?” She heard herself snapping. “Can’t be much more than a hundred and seventy pounds.”
With a derisive wave, she added, “I’m sure the table can handle it.”
“A hundred and seventy-five,” he corrected her with the haughty tone she’d recalled him using once or twice in their meeting together. But he pressed his palms to the surface as if he might actually vault atop it. Y paused to shoot her a mutinous look. “I can’t do it with these shorts like this.”
What was it with him and the shorts? She resisted the urge to shake her head in disgust.
Between clenched teeth, she replied, “Then fix your shorts so you can.”
The waiter stood upright again. His fingers lifted from the edge of the table to set at the waistband of his poplin shorts. Amber knew his eyes were on her, she could feel the heavy weight of them. But she wasn’t watching. Instead, she settled her fingers around the bun for the excuse it gave her to ignore his presence.
Again she heard what she thought was a groan from him as she lifted the burger off the plate. The sounds of shuffling of fabric soon tickled her ears. Y bent for a moment, and then his palms reappeared atop the table to her right. Seconds later he leapt into the air like a monkey then settled down atop the table in front of her.
Now she was forced to look at him in his pose knelt on the table before her. His white shirt was wide open, the edges stuffed in his armpits. A long, lean chest stretched above her. The sprinkling of dark hair arrowed down it to disappear within a white mesh G-string that left little to the imagination. The crowning detail was the clump of poplin clinging to his ankles. She supposed the shirt and shorts were both technically on.
Without the heavy, constricting fabric Amber could easily see the bulge of pastel violet skin, Pantone 5145, pressing at the thin mesh covering it. Despite the soda bath and trip to the floor, Y was hopelessly erect. That little unrepentant smirk on his lips made Amber’s teeth mash within her mouth.
She carefully set the burger down on its plate. With a deliberate motion, she reached aside to the original glass of ice water that still sat near the middle of the booth. Slowly she brought it in front of her, making certain he saw it this time. And then she took her time pouring the entire contents over Y’s erection.
His breath immediately caught. A low groan escaped him as the liquid pooled at his knees. But the important note was that he was no longer smirking.