I moan into his mouth.
“Do you like that?” he asks between kisses, applying more pressure through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I nod.
“Should I keep going?”
“Please.” It’s the only word I can say as he removes my clothes and places his hands immediately on mine.
When his lips find my nipple, I want to cry out. I want to scream. But I don’t.
My daughter is sleeping down the hall. And she doesn’t need to walk into what’s happening here.
Instead, I bite my lip as his tongue and lips toy with nipples while his fingers find the apex of my thighs.
My fingers slide into his hair. Gripping tightly as the first tremblings of ecstasy shoot through me. Fast. Like lighting.
My first non-self-induced orgasm in years flows through me hard and fast. Twisting and turning my world upside down.
As my legs wobble, Brendon rises, lifting me once again and carrying me to my bed.
The aftershocks are still flowing through me as he removes his clothes. His eyes are steady on mine. But I can’t resist looking at his body.
The last time I saw him like this, his figure was still more boy than man. Oh, he’d had chiseled muscles thanks to his years of playing every sport.
But now he’s all man. A dark smattering of hair on his chest. Healed scars showing a lifetime lived serving his country.
I shake off the pang of sadness that shoots through me and I reach for him. He settles between my thighs. His condom-covered cock presses against me.
“Abby,” he whispers, cradling my cheek in his palm. “You’re like heaven.”
My heart aches at the words. We’re getting a little too close to breaching the wall I still have built around my heart.
So I do the only thing I can. I raise my hips and take him into me with one thrust. He fills me completely. Stretching me. Filling my body and my heart.
And as we move together, my name whispered on his lips, I focus on the pleasure he’s stirring inside of me, instead of the emotion growing in my heart.
If I let myself think about it too closely, I’ll panic.
So I don’t.
Instead, I focus on the small things. The manageable things. The way the café smells like cinnamon and espresso and warmth when I unlock the door in the morning. The way the bell above the door sounds exactly the same as it did ten years ago. The way Brendon’s truck is already parked outside when I arrive, like he belongs there.
That last thought is dangerous.
I shove it aside and flip the sign toOPEN, telling myself this is just logistics. He offered to help with the loose shelving behind the counter. I said yes because it needed to be done and because I trust him with a drill more than I trust myself.
That’s it.
Nothing more.
He’s in the back when I come through, sleeves rolled up, toolbox open at his feet. The sight of him in my café hits me harder than it should. This place has been mine for years now. I built it from early mornings and second jobs and stubborn refusal to quit.
Letting him into it feels intimate in a way I didn’t anticipate.
“Morning,” he says, glancing up with a smile that still feels like a secret meant just for me.
“Morning,” I reply, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
