Page 107 of Desserts for Stressed People

I kiss his lips, his taste tickling my tongue, spiced and warm and mine. It’s so silent around us that the sounds of our mouths are all I can hear. Until I hear our worked-up breaths too. In a minute, his hands are everywhere, and I look into his eyes, short of begging him to take me home.

He stares back at me, and there’s so much sexual tension between us that if it doesn’t happen now, we’ll end up doing it under the desk in his office one of these days. “Heaven,” he whispers against my lips.

I let out a shallow exhale. How can the way he says my name be so excruciating? It’s a religious, stupid name, but he makes it sound so dirty and sexy.

“Shane,” I whisper back, his lips nudging mine.

His fingers press on the soft skin of my hips, and after a few moments of silence, a tense smile bends his lips. “Let’s go home?”

“Yes, please.”

Chapter27

Home Sweet Home

Shane’s bringingme to his place. Though I can’t say I’m too pleased with the reason for it—I know he thinks I’ll freak out like last time because of my memories with Alex—I’m also looking forward to peeking into his routine, his life. Does he use shoes inside the apartment? Is there a pile of unread mail on the coffee table? All right, it’s safe to say there isn’t. Still—what does his kitchen look like, with all his baking? Does he keep any plants? Is his mattress soft and comfortable?

“We’re here,” he says as his hand lets go of the gearshift and settles on the lower part of my thighs. He squeezes gently, sending me a complicit look, and I snap my legs closed to soothe the growing ache. At least, there’s a similar impatience in his eyes as I feel within.

We hop out of the car and walk toward a tall building. It vaguely reminds me of our office complex, though this one’s made of cement instead of glass. But it’s equally cold, neat, businesslike. We step into the hall, brightly lit and minimal, though I don’t have too much time to look around as Shane drags me into the elevator.

In there too, I barely notice the mirror on one side, the hideous, red-carpeted floors, because his mouth attaches to mine and he moves forward, forcing me to back-step until I’m pressed between him and the cold wall.

I don’t even see what buttons he presses. All I know is that just as his long fingers squeeze my upper thigh, the doors open with a ding, and he moves, his lips still united with mine. It’s lucky we don’t tumble from one wall to the other like in a pinball machine, because he’s paying zero attention to where we’re going. Instead, he’s much more focused on burying his face against my neck, peppering it with scorching kisses.

“Here,” he says as he stops by the third door in the corridor. He lets me go to quickly get his keys out, then he opens the door and grabs my hand to pull me inside. Once the door is closed behind us, I breathe in the space.

It’s Shane. Just quintessential Shane. Most of the furniture is dark, and the flooring is a lovely, light hardwood. Rustic, but also fancy enough to answer my question about shoes inside the apartment. The walls are white, decorated with a few art pieces that seem carefully chosen. I can spot the fridge in the kitchen to the right, and I have to will myself to keep still. It’d be impolite to barge in and take a tour.

As his hand finds mine, I turn back to him. His gaze sticks to my lips, and after pressing a soft kiss on them, he leans back. For a second, he looks confused, then he smiles lightly. “You want to snoop, don’t you?”

Feeling warmth tickle my cheeks, I shrug. “You’ve seen my apartment a handful of times. It’s only fair.”

With a chuckle, he leads me into his living room. There’s a brown leather couch facing a flat screen TV, and most of the walls are covered in shelves filled with books, so hedefinitelyreads more than that boring manual about event management.

Next, we tackle the kitchen. I take my time, looking through expensive machines that he explains are a dough mixer, a waffle maker, a bread slicer, and loads of other stuff I don’t understand. It’s pristine. Cleaner than my standards. He must spend most of his time at home here, but it’s so neat, one would think he just moved in. It’s like he pays special attention to this space, even more so as he straightens one of the knives on a magnetic stripe by the stove. It fits him. After all, Shane is the type of person who takes good care of what he loves.

He patiently waits for me to examine every inch of his black, glossy cabinets and his baking tech, and only once I stand before him with a satisfied smile, he asks, “Bathroom?” then smirks.

Right. Only two rooms to go. Bathroom, and then...“No, tour’s over. Bedroom, now.”

He nods, his chest visibly heaving. Taking a step closer, he tangles his tongue with mine, sweeping and twirling until I’m breathing hastily in his mouth. “This way.”

When we leave the kitchen and enter the living room again, my whole body goes stiff. There’s one more thing in his gorgeous apartment that he didn’t show me.

I halt, and his fingers abandon mine as I stare to my right at the blinking lights of the night. It’s the view I saw in his picture—the one of himself he sent to Nevaeh. I can almost see it. His lazy smile, his cozy sweater. The balcony behind him and the view of the city. I was right, we’re on the top floor. It’s stunning.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” I focus on the worried brown eyes scouting my face and cup his cheek. God, why am I doing this? Why am I lying to this beautiful person who seems to care so much about me? How can I be here, in his apartment, about to share something so important, when he doesn’t know the whole truth? “It’s just, the view is beautiful.”

“Do you want—”

“No,” I reassure him. “Bedroom.”

With a doubtful nod, he takes my hand again and walks us into the bedroom. It’s on the far left side of his apartment, and is twice as big as mine. The bed looks cozy, with fluffy pillows and a thick, warm blanket in neutral colors. His slippers are on the right side, and there’s a pair of headphones on the bedside table, next to his folded pajamas. It’s his life, his routine. And though it pleases some deep, remote nook inside of me to learn bits of information about him, a sudden awareness also freezes me on the spot. I have no place—norightto be here. Not in his home, not when I haven’t been a hundred percent honest with him.

“Heaven, what’s wrong?”

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