Page 61 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"Beautiful," he murmurs, one finger tracing a teasing path up my inner thigh. "So responsive to my touch. So ready for me."
When his finger finally makes contact with my center, I jerk at the intensity, already slick and ready for him. He chuckles, thesound vibrating against my skin as he presses kisses along my stomach.
"Eager?" He circles the sensitive bundle of nerves with maddening restraint. "What happened to my cautious coffee shop owner? The woman who insisted on taking things slow?"
"You happened," I gasp as he slides one finger inside me, curling it expertly to hit the spot that makes me see stars. "Max, please?—"
"Please what?" His thumb replaces his finger on my most sensitive point, maintaining the perfect pressure as he works a second finger inside me. "Tell me exactly what you want. Be specific."
This too has become part of our dance—his insistence that I articulate my desires, teaching me to voice what I need without shame.
"I want your mouth," I manage, the words coming easier now than they did the first night. "I want to feel your tongue?—"
Before I can finish, he drops to his knees, his shoulders pushing my thighs further apart. His hot breath against my core is my only warning before his mouth replaces his fingers, tongue flat against me in a broad stroke that makes me cry out.
My hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as he devours me with single-minded focus. The sight of him between my legs, fully clothed while I'm spread naked across my kitchen counter, adds another layer of erotic intensity to the sensation.
He works me with deliberate skill, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks of his tongue, building a rhythm that has me teetering on the edge within seconds. When he adds his fingers back into the equation, curling them inside me as his tongue circles my most sensitive point, I'm lost.
"Max—I'm going to?—"
"Come for me," he commands against my flesh, the vibration of his voice sending me over the edge.
The orgasm crashes through me with stunning force, my body arching off the counter as waves of pleasure radiate outward. Max doesn't relent, drawing out every aftershock with gentle suction and careful strokes of his tongue until I'm trembling, oversensitive.
When he finally pulls away, his chin is glistening with evidence of my release, his eyes dark with unfulfilled desire. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that should be crude but somehow manages to be devastatingly sexy.
"That was just the appetizer," he says, voice rough as he stands. His hands make quick work of his pajama bottoms, pushing them down his hips along with his boxers. His erection springs free, thick and ready. "Ready for the main course?"
The playful question breaks through the intensity, making me laugh even as desire coils tight in my belly again. This is what I've discovered with Max—that passion can be punctuated with laughter, that surrender can coexist with joy.
"More than ready," I answer, reaching for him.
He steps between my legs again, positioning himself at my entrance. With one smooth thrust, he fills me completely, both of us groaning at the perfect friction. My legs wrap around his waist, drawing him deeper as his hands grip my hips.
"You feel incredible," he breathes against my neck, setting a punishing rhythm that has the cabinet doors rattling behind me. "So tight, so perfect for me."
Each thrust pushes me closer to another peak, my body still sensitive from the first orgasm. Max seems to sense this; his movements become more controlled and deliberate. One hand slides between us, his thumb finding my center again.
"That's it," he encourages as I tighten around him. "Let go for me again. I want to feel you come around my cock."
His words are my undoing. The second climax hits even harder than the first, my inner muscles clenching around him as pleasure spirals through me. Max follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep, my name a reverent curse on his lips as he finds his release.
For several heartbeats, we remain locked together, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us. The kitchen is silent except for our ragged breathing and the distant ticking of the clock.
"Well," he says finally, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I think we've thoroughly christened this counter."
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere light and free inside me. "I'll never be able to make coffee here again without thinking about this."
"Good." His possessive tone sends a pleasant shiver through me. "That was my plan all along."
He helps me down from the counter, my legs wobbly as they take my weight again. We clean up quickly, exchanging small touches and heated glances that promise more to come.
We've established a pattern—beginning and ending each day wrapped in each other, with the hours between spent casting longing glances across my coffee shop. It should feel rushed, this rapid acceleration from reluctant attraction to consuming passion. Instead, it feels like we're making up for lost time, like we've been circling each other for much longer than the few weeks he's been in Angel's Peak.
As he retrieves his discarded pajama bottoms from the floor, I'm struck by how naturally he fits into my space, how easily he's dismantled the barriers I spent two years constructing. The thought should terrify me, but as he turns and catches me watching him, the smile he gives me isn't the calculated grin of the tech executive I first met—it's something softer, moregenuine, something that makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, this isn't as temporary as I feared.
"Tonight," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear, "I want to try something new."
