Page 28 of The One Night Dash
I swallow, my pulse skipping like a needle stuck on a record. “I was just … serving coffee.”
He leans down, lips brushing my ear. “You were serving sin in a cup, sweetheart.” And then his mouth is on mine—hot, bold, like a triple shot of espresso shooting straight into my veins.
My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, and when he lifts me onto the counter, the cool steel meets the heat of my skin. I gasp, and he takes advantage, sliding his tongue against mine with the skill of someone who’s mastered every pour, every grind, every touch.
One hand slides up my thigh, pushing my skirt higher, and I shiver at the scrape of his calluses. He smells like caramel drizzle and steam, and when he presses against me, hard and insistent, I moan like I’ve just tasted the perfect latte. Thick, hot, impossible to resist.
“Tell me what you want, Sandra,” he demands, lips trailing down my neck. Each kiss is like foam spilling over, messy and sweet, and exactly too much. My body arches, shameless, greedy. “Say it.”
“I want you,” I gasp, tugging at his belt. “God, Emmett, I want you inside me.”
He laughs low, dark, sinful. “Good. Because I’m about to fill you up like the best damn cup you’ve ever had.”
And then he’s there, sliding into me with a slow, decadent stretch that steals my breath. Espresso-dark, thick, and filling, the kind of addiction no rehab could touch. I clutch at his shoulders as he thrusts, grinding me down in steady, perfect strokes. Steam curls around us, phantom and wild, as if the whole shop knows it’s not coffee that’s brewing anymore.
“Emmett,” I cry out, his name breaking from me like steam escaping a kettle. And then, “Oh God—yes.”
He holds me tighter, drives me harder, until I’m shaking apart, spilling over like milk foamed too high, trembling and wrecked, calling his name as I shatter.
After fixinga few tenses and reading over what I have written, I do a little chair dance, happy with what I have so far.
When I hear the bell chime above the door, I realize that it’s the first time I’ve done so in three hours, and it doesn’t worry me—it makes me excited that I was that lost in the story.
“She’s feeling inspired today—don’t go ebbing her flow,” Angie warns from below, her voice carrying up the staircase.
“Pfft, I inspire her muses.” I think it’s Sofie.
“Is that you, Sofie?” I call down, trying not to sound as giddy as I feel.
“We’re coming up.”
“No, no, no.” I shove back from the desk, tug my cardigan tighter, and shuffle toward the stairs to see the girls and baby Savannah have stopped in to see the place. “Hold on; give me a minute. I’ll be right down.”
“Noelle—” Sofie laughs, but the sound cuts off the second I start down the steps. Her eyes go wide, taking in what is probably my messy bun gone rogue, and tank top under a coffee-stained cardigan.
“Oh my God, what happened to you?” Nalani laughs.
“I am inspired,” I declare, nearly tripping down the last two steps before catching myself with a laugh. “I just need ten more hours in the day.”
Claudia looks down at her sleeping child in her arms. “Don’t we all.”
The bells over the door jingle again, and a swirl of cold air rushes through the shop, and a curtain of long red hair comes with it, wild in the breeze. The woman shakes it back and flashes a smile so big it makes her green eyes glow.
“Hi—sorry,” she says, bending suddenly. When she straightens, she’s holding a black cat like she’s scooped up treasure. “This yours?”
The cat purrs, utterly at ease in her arms. She strokes it like they’ve been lifelong companions.
“That,” I say, still blinking, “is … undecided.”
“You don’t need another cat,” Sofie snips.
The red-head laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that’s too loud for a stranger but somehow comforting anyway. Then she looks around the shop with this almost reverent awe, like she’s walked into Narnia.
“Why would you ever leave here?” she murmurs, then faces us squarely. “Hi, I’m Hildy. I’m here about the job posted online.”
Behind me, Sofie mutters, “You posted a help-wanted ad … online?”
“Maybe?” I scratch my head.
