Page 60 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"I love watching you discover yourself," he murmurs. "Seeing you embrace each new sensation, pushing a little further each time." His thumb grazes my bottom lip. "The way you trust me with your pleasure..."
Four days ago, I would have flinched away from such intimate words. Now, I lean into them, into him, meeting his intensity with my own.
"I never knew it could be like this."
"Like what?" His eyes darken as his hand slides to cup my neck, thumb resting against my pulse point, where he can feel my heart racing.
"So... consuming." I struggle to articulate the transformation happening within me. "It's like you're systematically dismantling every boundary I've built, every preconception I had about sex."
"And you're letting me." The pride in his voice is unmistakable. "Every time you surrender a little more, every time you say 'more' instead of 'enough'—" he presses his lips to the sensitive spot below my ear "—you become more magnificent."
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the truth of it. Each night has built upon the last—from the gentle introduction of blindfolds and feathers to the more intense sensations of leather and wax. Each time, he's challenged me to reach beyond what I thought I could handle, and each time, I discovered new landscapes of pleasure I never knew existed.
"Pancakes are getting cold," I murmur, though neither of us moves.
His laughter vibrates against my skin. "I can make more." His hands settle on my hips, drawing me closer. "Besides, I have other ideas for breakfast."
The heat in his eyes sparks something primal in me. Four days of discovering new dimensions of pleasure have emboldened me in ways I never expected. I raise an eyebrow, challenging him.
"Is that so?"
Max's hands suddenly tighten around my waist. He lifts me with startling ease, my feet leaving the ground as he sets me firmly on the kitchen counter. Jars rattle, a spoon clatters to the floor, but neither of us cares. My back presses against the upper cabinets as he positions himself between my thighs.
"I've been thinking about this since the first day in your shop," he growls, his voice dropping to that commanding tone that makes my insides liquefy. "You, on your counter, completely at my mercy."
His mouth claims mine with fierce possession, nothing tentative in the way he takes what he wants. I meet his hunger with my own, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. Four days of exploration have taught us each other's rhythms, the perfect pressure, the exact tilt of heads that deepens the connection between us.
His hands slide beneath my oversized sleep shirt, callused palms skimming up my sides. When his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts, I gasp against his mouth. He takes advantage, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting of coffee and desire.
"Tell me what you want," he demands against my lips, echoing the command that's become a familiar refrain in our nights together.
"You," I breathe, no longer hesitant about voicing my needs. "All of you."
"Good." His smile turns predatory. "That’s exactly what you’ll get."
The praise sends a shiver down my spine, a reaction he has discovered and exploited over the past few nights. Max understands my body's responses better than I do—how I arch toward his touch when he praises me, how I tremble when he whispers explicit promises in my ear.
With decisive movements, he tugs my sleep shirt over my head, leaving me bare from the waist up on my own kitchen counter. The cool morning air pebbles my skin, but Max's hands are warm as they map every curve and hollow.
"Look at you," he murmurs, eyes darkening as he takes in my exposed flesh. "Perfect."
His mouth descends to my neck, leaving a trail of biting kisses along my throat, down to my collarbone. When he reaches my breast, he pauses, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.
"Remember what I showed you the other night?" he asks, glancing up through his lashes. "How anticipation makes everything more intense?"
I nod, remembering the exquisite torture of the feather, the leather, the hot wax—each sensation building upon the last until I was desperate for release.
"I want you to feel that now," he continues, "but without any tools. Just my hands and my mouth." His thumb traces my lower lip. "And, of course, your willing surrender."
The word 'surrender' no longer frightens me. With Max, I've learned that giving up control doesn't diminish me—it transforms me, opens doorways to pleasure I never knew existed.
His mouth closes over my nipple, the sudden heat making me cry out. My head falls back against the cabinets with a thud, but the slight pain only heightens the sensation of his tongue circling the sensitive peak. His hand drifts down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts.
"These need to go," he says, his voice rough with desire.
I lift my hips, allowing him to tug the shorts down my legs, leaving me completely naked on the counter. The way he looks at me—like I'm something precious and rare—banishes any thought of covering myself.
His hands spread my thighs wider, opening me fully to his view. The hunger in his eyes as he takes in the sight of me makes my breath catch.
