Feels right. My eye twitches. “Coffee is a process.”
“Coffee,” she counters, “is art. Intuition. Feeling.”
She starts the grinder, the sound drowning out any response I might have made. I watch, physically pained, as she grinds the beans for what seems like a completely random amount of time, then dumps the grounds into a pour-over cone without even a cursory shake to level them.
This is madness.
I turn back to my own coffee, pouring the hot water over my precisely measured grounds in a slow spiral. I time the bloom. Exactly 30 seconds. Then the rest of the water, maintaining the perfect ratio.
From the corner of my eye, I see her pour water haphazardly over her grounds, not even using a gooseneck kettle for control. The water temperature is almost certainly wrong. The grounds are unevenly saturated. The entire process is a coffee crime scene.
I press the plunger on my French press with slow pressure. Four minutes of steeping. Not a second more or less. The coffee that emerges is dark, rich, with a perfect crema on top. A testament to my method and care.
Her pour-over finishes dripping at almost the same time. Thecoffee looks... fine. But it can’t possibly have the depth that comes from proper technique.
We stand side by side, two coffees between us. A silent standoff.
She reaches for a mug on the top shelf, stretching up on her toes. Her shirt rides up, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the curve where thigh meets ass. My hand tightens on the French press, a lump in my throat that I force down.
I force my gaze away, reaching for my own mug. But when I look, it’s not where I left it. All the mugs have been rearranged.
“Did you move these?” I ask. The words come out as a low, thick growl, my voice strained with the effort of speaking while every ounce of blood in my body rushes south.
She glances over, all wide-eyed innocence. “Hmm? Oh, I reorganized a bit yesterday. By color rather than size. More aesthetic.”
Aesthetic. I grind my teeth, forcing my thoughts away from my rising cock. I select a different mug and pour my coffee. The aroma is perfect. I allow myself a small moment of satisfaction.
Until I feel her watching me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says, reaching for the sugar bowl. “Just wondering if you calculate the optimal angle for pouring, too.”
I narrow my eyes at her. She’s teasing me. Deliberately provoking me.
And it’s working.
She turns to pour her own coffee, and I can’t help but notice again how that oversized shirt drapes over her curves, how her hair falls in soft waves just across her shoulders. The claiming mark I made on her neck should be visible just beneath those strands. I remember the taste of her skin under my teeth, the way she gasped when I bit down, the way her body yielded to mine.
The memory sends a wave of heat through me, making thattent rise higher in my pants. I shift, trying to focus on the coffee, not on the way she moves or smells or how fucking good she looks in the morning.
She turns back, mug in hand, and reaches across me for the spoon resting near my elbow. Her arm brushes mine, a light, fleeting touch that should be nothing. Means nothing.
Except it isn’t nothing. It’s everything.
A static shock jumps between us. But it’s not just electricity. The touch sends a jolt straight to my shaft, igniting something raw and hungry.
A growl escapes me before I can stop it. Rumbling up from a place I keep carefully contained. Her eyes widen, her pupils dilating as her lips part on a small, shocked inhale.
We freeze, suspended in the charged space between us. Her breathing is ragged, matching mine, the spoon forgotten between us.
I could take her right here. Lift her onto the counter. Push that shirt up her thighs. Taste every inch of her until she’s writhing and begging. Mark her again, deeper this time.
The thought hits me with such force that I have to step back, breaking the connection. Her eyes are still wide, her chest still rising and falling too quickly. The scent of her arousal hits me then, mingling with the coffee, creating something that makes my mouth water.
“Dane?” she whispers, and my name on her lips is almost my undoing.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. To regain control. When I open them again, she’s still watching me. Her throat moves as she swallows hard.
