Page 55 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
We sit in companionable silence, each absorbing the other's confession. These aren't casual disclosures but foundational truths—the kind that shape a person's core motivations and fears.
Max shifts closer, his thigh pressing firmly against mine. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. The simple touch carries an electric current that makes my skin tingle. His eyes are darker now, focused on my lips with unmistakable intent.
"It's late." He finally breaks the silence, gesturing to the time, though the last thing I want is for him to leave. "I should get back to The Haven, but can I walk you home first?"
The offer shouldn't make my pulse quicken—it's a simple courtesy, especially given the late hour—yet something in his tone suggests this isn't merely about safety.
"I'd like that."
Outside, the night wraps around us in crisp mountain clarity. Stars punctuate the velvet sky, impossibly bright and numerous, away from city lights. Our breath forms matching clouds in the cold air as we walk the short distance to my cottage.
Instead of walking side by side, Max places his hand at the small of my back, a possessive gesture that makes me acutely aware of his strength, his height, his control. His fingers occasionally flex against my spine, guiding me around ice patches or adjusting our pace. Each small direction sends tremors of anticipation through me.
We don't speak much, both aware of a threshold approaching that has nothing to do with my physical doorstep. When my cottage comes into view, its teal door vibrant even in moonlight, a decision crystallizes within me—clarity emerging from too many days of uncertainty and self doubt.
I unlock the door with steady hands, then turn to face him. "Would you like to come in?"
His eyes search mine, understanding the invitation extends beyond beverages. "Are you sure?"
Instead of answering, I take his hand and lead him inside.
My cottage welcomes us with familiar simplicity—the mismatched furniture I've collected piece by piece, walls adorned with coffee-themed art and vintage café signs, the patchwork quilt draped over my small sofa. The space is tiny but intentional; every element is carefully selected and arranged to maximize comfort within the minimal square footage.
"It's perfect." Max takes in the details with genuine appreciation. "Exactly what I imagined."
"You imagined my cottage?"
"More than once." His admission comes with a slightly sheepish smile.
I move to the kitchenette, suddenly nervous despite my resolve. "Coffee?"
"Lily." He steps closer, gently taking the kettle from my hands and setting it aside. There's a shift in his demeanor—something more deliberate, more controlled. "You didn't ask me inside for coffee. All I need to know is, are you ready?"
His palm cups my cheek, thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. The tenderness of the gesture nearly undoes me. I lean into his touch, eyes closing briefly as his forehead rests against mine.
"You can always say no," he says.
"I don't want to..."
His eyes darken at my words, something primal and possessive flaring in their depths. "Then say what you do want," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that commanding tone that makes my knees weak. "Be specific."
The request should embarrass me, but instead, it ignites something I've been suppressing since that night during the blizzard. The memory of his whispered confessions about control, about darker appetites, about leaving marks—they flood back with visceral clarity.
"I want you," I whisper, swallowing hard against the vulnerability of the admission. "I want... what you described during the storm. I want to know what it feels like to surrender to someone I trust."
The words hang between us, irrevocable once spoken. Part of me can't believe I've said them aloud, but the way Max's expression transforms—hunger and tenderness merging intosomething breathtakingly intense—tells me it was exactly what he needed to hear.
"Once we start," he says, his voice a rough caress against my skin, "it’s complicated going back to who we were before. You understand that?"
"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of consent, of trust, of desire too long denied.
His fingers tangle in my hair, tightening just enough to tilt my head back, exposing my throat to his gaze. "I've waited for this moment since I first saw you," he confesses, his lips hovering just above mine. "Imagined all the ways I would take you apart and put you back together again."
The promise in his words sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs, a visceral response I couldn't hide even if I wanted to. And I don't want to hide anything from him—not anymore.
"I don’t know what to do. I need you to show me," I breathe, surrendering to the current that's been pulling us toward this moment since our first collision.
His answering smile is darkly triumphant, a predator finally claiming its prey. "With pleasure."
