Page 51 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"Home sweet home. All nine hundred square feet of it."
"It suits you." There's no condescension in his tone, only appreciation. "Distinctive. Unapologetically individual."
We continue past without stopping, both aware that crossing that threshold would change everything. Instead, we walk to Mountain Brew, our breath synchronizing in the quiet night.
"Coffee?" I offer as I unlock the door. "I've been experimenting with a new nighttime blend."
"I'd love to try it."
The darkened shop feels intimate as I move through familiar motions—grinding beans, heating water, and preparing two mugs with a technique that falls somewhere between pour-over and French press.
"My own invention." I hand him a steaming mug. "Designed specifically for evening consumption. Lower acidity, subtle chocolate notes, a hint of cardamom."
Max tastes it thoughtfully. "It's remarkable. Complex but soothing."
"The cardamom is the secret." I lean against the counter. "Most people use cinnamon for sweetness, but cardamom adds dimension without the sugar rush."
He moves closer, setting his mug aside. "You are a sorceress."
"Just experienced."
"More than experienced." Another step closes the distance between us. "Brilliant. Innovative. Extraordinary."
Each word diminishes the space between us until we're breathing the same air, the coffee forgotten.
"Max..." The word emerges as barely more than a whisper.
His hand rises to cup my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip. The touch is gentle, but his eyes are anything but—dark with hunger barely leashed, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of blue remains. Tension radiates from him, taut as a wire about to snap.
"Tell me to stop, and I will." His voice is rough, strained with the effort of control. The power in that restraint is intoxicating—knowing what he wants, what he could take, yet holding back for my permission.
His thumb continues its path across my lip, applying just enough pressure to part them slightly. My pulse hammers at my throat, drums in my ears, throbs between my thighs.
"I told you what I want," he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. "Nothing's changed." The reminder of his whispered confessions sends heat flooding through me. His free hand moves to my waist, fingertips pressing just hard enough to hint at the strength he's holding in check.
The last threads of my resistance dissolve beneath his touch. Instead of answering, I close the final distance, my lips finding his with newfound certainty.
Unlike our previous kisses—frantic in the storm, tentative in the generator's glow—this one simmers before it sparks. His mouth claims mine, as if he's intent on tasting every part of me. The hand at my waist tightens, drawing me closer but still maintaining that exquisite control that speaks of darker promises to come.
When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for him without hesitation. He makes a sound low in his throat—approval and hunger mingled—before deepening the kiss, each movement a demonstration of exactly how thoroughly he intends to claim every part of me.
My palms glide up the solid wall of his chest, over the breadth of his shoulders. He gathers me closer, arms tightening until there's no space left, until the hard press of his body pins mine to the counter. The edge digs into my hips, but I don't care—I want the weight, the possession.
Heat blooms where his hand slips under my sweater, calloused fingertips tracing the bare skin at my lower back. The contrast makes me shiver, arching into him, craving more. He swallows the gasp I can’t contain, answering with a deeper sweep of his tongue, coaxing me open, leaving me dizzy with want.
He breaks away only to trail kisses along my jaw, his stubble scraping in delicious friction down the column of my throat. My head tips back, surrendering. He finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder and lingers, sucking lightly until pleasure sparks through me like electricity.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, anchoring him there, unwilling to let him go. His hands slide higher beneath my sweater, palms spreading wide against my ribcage, thumbs brushing the swell of my breasts. The involuntary gasp rips out of me, sharp and helpless.
That sound halts him. He lifts his head, breath ragged, eyes dark and unsteady as they lock on mine. Desire crackles between us, sharp as lightning. For a beat, neither of us moves. His question is unspoken, written in the tension of his body, the heat in his gaze—how far I’ll let him take this, how much I want.
“I want you,” I whisper, daring the words, daring him. “But…”
That single syllable stills him more effectively than if I’d pushed him away. His forehead drops to mine, both of us breathing hard, chests colliding with the force of restraint.
“That hesitation,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, taut with control. “That tiny pause tells me now isn’t the time.” His thumb traces across my lower lip, swollen and trembling from his kiss. “I don’t want part of you, Lily. I want all of you. Not just the fire you give me when passion takes over. I want your thoughts. Your doubts. Your fears. I want to know what you crave—what terrifies you. Every part.”
His words undo me more completely than the press of his body ever could. Desire knots tighter inside me, not less, because his restraint feels as dangerous as his hunger. My body screams to keep going, to let him take me against the counter, to surrender to the heat clawing through my veins.
