Page 59 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
This man—brilliant, driven, accomplished—chose to share not just his body but his fears with me. The past that shaped him, the insecurities beneath the confident exterior. In return, I've given him access to parts of myself I locked away after BrewTech—including a side of my sexuality I never knew existed.
The realization settles over me with both warmth and apprehension.
My cottage feels different with him in it. His presence fills spaces I hadn't realized were empty. His clothes draped over my reading chair, his watch on my bedside table, his scent mingled with mine on the sheets—all create an impression of belonging I never anticipated.
The rising sun gilds the mountains outside my window, painting the snow-capped peaks in shades of amber and rose. The beauty that first drew me to Angel's Peak now serves as a backdrop to a more immediate wonder—Max, sleeping peacefully in my bed, integrated into my world as if he has always been part of it.
I’m suddenly faced with a terrifying truth. What started as an attraction is becoming something far more dangerous. Something that won’t end neatly when his time is up.
Chapter 20
Max standsat my tiny stove, spatula in hand, concentration evident in the slight furrow between his brows. The domesticity of the scene—him making breakfast in boxers and a t-shirt, coffee already brewing in my French press. It all creates a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the mountain sunshine streaming through the window.
"You don't have to cook every morning, you know." I wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. "Cereal exists for a reason."
"Cereal isn't breakfast." He flips a perfectly golden pancake. "It's a sad approximation created by people who don't understand the importance of proper morning nutrition."
"Says the man who survived on caffeine and protein bars during coding marathons."
"Exactly." He turns in my embrace, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. "I'm speaking from hard-won wisdom. Besides, your pantry is begging for intervention."
Four days of this new routine—Max staying over, mornings together before opening the shop, evenings returning to my cottage—and already it feels like a natural extension of my life rather than a disruption. The ease of our togetherness shouldterrify me. Instead, it feels like discovering a puzzle piece I hadn't realized was missing.
I lean against the counter, watching him move through my kitchen with the ease of familiarity. His confidence is intoxicating—not just in how he navigates my space, but in how he has navigated me over the past four nights, each night revealing new depths to desires I barely knew I had.
The first night after we finally crossed that threshold, tangled in my sheets, breathless and sated, he traced patterns on my bare shoulder and whispered,"That was just the beginning."The promise in his voice sent shivers cascading through my already sensitized body.
He has been faithful to his word. Each night since has been an education in sensation and surrender. The second night, he blindfolded me with one of my silk scarves, his fingers alternating between the ticklish sweep of feathers and the firm stroke of leather against my skin. The contrast was maddening, building a sensitivity I never knew possible.
"What are you thinking about?" Max asks, his voice pulling me from my reverie. The knowing glint in his eyes suggests he's already guessed.
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Nothing."
"Liar." He sets a plate of pancakes on the counter, stepping closer until I'm trapped between his body and the kitchen island. "You're thinking about last night."
Last night.
My body flushes at the memory—the slow drip of hot wax across my stomach, my thighs, the exquisite edge between pleasure and pain as Max controlled each drop to land and sear exactly where he wanted. Each hiss of my breath seemed to please him, his mouth curving against my ear as if he planned every reaction.
The sting faded almost instantly, replaced by a flood of heat that spread low and insistent. I writhed, arching, begging for more without words, but he made me wait.
Every drop became its own torment, its own promise.
He wasn’t just touching my body—he was unraveling my mind, teaching me how to crave the anticipation as much as the release.
And when he finally moved over me—skin against skin, heat sliding into heat—the sensation of him, the slickness of my arousal against the faint tack of cooling wax, sent me spiraling. My body was already on edge, primed and desperate from his control, and the rhythm he set tore me apart ruthlessly.
The wax made me his canvas.
The sex made me his possession.
And the way he whispered against my throat, voice rough with hunger, made me his completely.
I never imagined finding such freedom in surrender, such pleasure in the careful application of sensations that danced along the borders of comfort, but he has shown me the decadent delight hidden in ceding control.
"Maybe," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
His fingers brush my collarbone, tracing the exact spot where a drop of wax fell just hours before.
