Page 8 of Bastard In A Suit, Vol. 3

“The cocktail chefs are very particular about the way each drink is presented,” he says. “It’s more than just enjoying a refreshment…it’s an experience. The ice makers have their own room in a special section downstairs.”

Goosebumps ripple along my skin. “You’ve seen it?”

“Would you like a tour?”

Maybe the vodka has gone straight to my head, but my pulse thrums with anticipation. It’s like Willie Wonka has just handed me a golden ticket and a private tour of his chocolate factory. Still, I hesitate. “I wouldn’t want you to impose.”

Duke’s mouth quirks in an arrogant smirk. “I am never imposing.”

Of course he would say that. “I would very much like a tour.”

He downs the rest of his drink and flags over the waitress. She leans in and he whispers something in her ear. She smiles, nods, and turns to me. “Please, won’t you both follow me?”

We’re led down a dark hallway, and then to a long flight of stairs. “Turn left at the bottom,” she says. “Bradley will take you inside.”

I’m grateful for Duke’s hand on the small of my back, keeping me grounded as I resist the urge to bounce on my toes, as excited as a small child. He slides his hand a little lower, and it hovers just above my ass, warm and teasing.

When his finger hooks under my waistband and sweeps across my skin, my step falters. I am completely under his spell. How did this happen?

“Ice maker Brad” is a freckle-faced red haired man in a black suit and peach dress shirt. He shakes Duke’s hand and welcomes us both to the ice room, explaining with practiced ease how ice is manufactured, coddled, and worshipped.

“You have to start with good water to make good ice,” he says. “In our case, it’s reverse osmosis. Highly-filtered water.”

The ice room is more like a studio kitchen. Stainless steel sinks gleam as though just polished, and stacks of molds and containers rest on shelves high above bank of freezers. We’re introduced to the other “ice artist” who explains, with a wry grin, that his whole job is to “freeze things.”

Duke trails a finger along my arm, heightening the goose pimples already cresting my flesh.

“All of the pearl ices have custom molds,” Brad says, taking one of the rubber sheets off the shelf so I can see it. He opens one of the freezers to display rows of hollow ice eggs. “I believe you both ordered your drinks In The Rock this afternoon.” He takes one out for me to inspect, hold in my palm.

“It’s light,” I say, surprised.

I hand it to Duke, who rolls it around before giving it back. “Intriguing.”

Brad moves on to the next freezer. Duke grips my hips and pulls me into him, his groin pressed up against my ass. I go very still, trying to concentrate on Brad’s next words, but when Duke’s cold fingers slide under my shirt and brush against my rib cage, I cry out in shock.

“All good?” Brad says.

“A little chilled,” Duke says.

“I should have worn a sweater,” I say, blushing.

“This is the Clinebell Machine,” Brad says, moving on. He points to a large stainless steel contraption. “It’s the same machine that’s used by ice carvers to freeze the big three hundred pound blocks for their sculptures. Every glass of water here gets a hand chipped piece of ice.”

He nods to a tray of ice spheres and squares, and then the chillers at the far corner of the room. The blast chiller, dry ice maker, nitrogen storage…

“There are certainly a lot of toys in here,” I say.

Duke’s hand slides down to my ass. He cups one butt cheek and squeezes, and I feel my nipples tighten and my center moisten.

Fuck. This is getting crazy.

But I have to admit, I’m turned on and I don’t really want Duke to stop touching me.

If Brad notices, he doesn’t say anything. “They’re all important to creating a perfect experience,” he says. “We want you to smell your drink, interact with it, see it boiling, or smoking. We’re hitting on sight and sound and obviously taste…”

Duke nestles his chin into the crook of my neck. “I can think of a few ice experiences I’d like to try,” he whispers.

My body ignites and suddenly, I can’t wait to leave this room.