Page 21 of The One Night Dash
I gasp, every nerve sparking like foam bubbling over, every inch of him addictive, caffeinated heat. He pours himself into me like the perfect shot—rich, strong, and just enough bite to make me moan for more.
He moves with the rhythm of a barista who knows his craft, grinding me down in perfect strokes, pulling me apart until I’m nothing but froth and fire beneath him. I clutch at his shoulders, desperate, wrecked, unable to imagine starting a morning without this man, this body, this coffee-made-flesh buried deep inside me.
I sit back, blinking at the screen. My cheeks hurt from grinning. It’s absurd. It’s corny. It’s possibly the worst thing ever written.
Hemingway purrs louder, as if in smug agreement, before pawing at the edge of my keyboard.
“Don’t get greedy,” I warn him, nudging his tail away from the space bar. “You don’t get co-author credit.”
I keep typing. Because, in this world, Emmett-the-barista can be as whipped-cream ridiculous as I want him to be. He’s not Dash Sterling. He’s safer. Easier. And tonight, he’s mine and, hopefully, by next fall, he can be everyone else’s, too.
His breath is hot against my ear as he murmurs, “You want it sweet?” The rasp in his voice could melt sugar by sound alone.
My body arches, begging for more, and he chuckles low, the kind of sound that belongs in the back corner of a café, where forbidden things brew stronger than espresso.
He doesn’t wait for my answer. He grabs the whipped cream, cold metal nozzle hissing, and drizzles a line down the curve of my stomach. I shiver as he licks it away, every lap of his tongue a perfect swirl—slow, deliberate, like latte art no one will ever see but me.
My laugh bubbles out, breathless and needy, because it’s ridiculous and obscene and exactly what I want.
And then he’s inside me again, relentless, each thrust a dark roast hit to the chest, each groan a shot of caffeine keeping me wide awake.
My nails dig into his shoulders, my thighs tremble, and I swear I could grind myself to dust against him and still come back begging for one more pour-over.
He whispers my name like it’s a drink order he’ll never get wrong, and I break apart, spilling over in waves, too hot, too sweet, too much—and not nearly enough.
I lean backfrom the keyboard, staring at the screen, cheeks warm and heartbeat tripping like I just downed three mochas in a row. It’s indulgent, it’s ridiculous, it’s … fun. And maybe that’s enough.
I read it over again, wincing and giggling at the same time. It’s like hearing myself on karaoke night after too many glasses of Chardonay—painful, but also kind of electric.
“Okay,” I mutter, tapping the screen with one finger. “This is bad. Like, paperback-in-the-clearance-bin bad.”
Hemingway lifts his head, blinks at me, then promptly yawns in my face.
“But also,” I whisper, leaning closer to the words, “this is kind of good?”
Because the truth is, the ridiculousness is half the charm. I can see it so clearly—the books that have lined my shelves, the women who’ve come into Pembrooke Books asking forjust one more book boyfriend before the holidays,the girls who stay up until three a.m. with a pint of ice cream and a book. They’d eat this up. They’d laugh with me, swoon a little, maybe text their best friend thatthey’ll never look at a latte the same way again.
The thought makes my pulse trip. Because this isn’t the book I’ve been laboring over—sanding down tenses, tightening prose, rewriting sentences until they gleam.
This is different. This is messy, indulgent, a little embarrassing. And yet … it’s alive.
Every writer of romance judges themselves on the same impossible scale:Can I make someone feel?Can I make them laugh, blush, sigh, ache? Can I pull them through the page and make them believe—for a heartbeat—that love really is out there waiting for them?
That’s the holy grail. Not the perfect plot arc, or the clever metaphor, or the line polished within an inch of its life so that they no longer seem realistic. It’s that moment when a reader closes a book, presses it to their chest, and whispers,God, I needed that.
I’m that girl, who sat next to their father, knowing there was little to no hope, for days, and read romance to feel anything.
And I know this isn’t Austen. This isn’t Elizabeth Bennet’s wit or Captain Wentworth’s letter—the lines may not reach into readers’ souls, and make them cry for decades.
I’m just frothing milk. Spraying whipped cream. Spinning out metaphors so ridiculous that they make me laugh while I type them.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe readers don’t only need the kind of love they’ll swoon over forever. Maybe, sometimes, they just need a love that makes them giggle, makes them gasp, makes them forget the ache in their chest for one night.
And if Emmett, the barista, can give them that? Then maybe,just maybe, I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to.
But the idea of actually … showing it to anyone?
My stomach flips. People wouldknow. They’d see straight through me to the part that secretly likes being ridiculous, the part that secretly thinks a man pressing you against a counter with espresso-dark eyes isn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon.
