The kiss is unhurried at first, all testing and teasing. The kind of lip-to-lip connection that makes you ache because it’s not trying to steal breath, it’s offering you a choice: lean in, or walk away.
My hands slide up his chest, exploring the planes, tracing the curves of muscle beneath his shirt, then higher into his hair. I curl my fingers in the dark strands and tug, just enough to pull a groan from deep in his throat.
That’s when the kiss shifts.
He strokes my tongue with his, coaxing a response that coils heat deep between my legs. One of his hands fists gently in the fabric at my lower back. The other is already reaching up, brushing the side of my breast with knuckles rough and unrepentant.
Neither of us is pretending we care about lunch anymore.
He shifts forward, forcing our bodies flush. Then, he sweeps the plates across the bar in one swift motion. No care as to where they land. A fork skitters. My breath hitches as he hooks a finger inside my waistband. A question.
“Yes,” I manage to whisper.
I want him to.
Because something in me is snapping. Not from fear.
Fromfreedom.
All my life I’ve followed rules. I’ve been polite, responsible, measured. I’ve kept things together, even when I was falling apart. And what did it get me?
Pain. Betrayal. A ten-year stretch of pretending fine was enough.
I’m done being fine.
I’m done being careful.
Hex presses a kiss to my jaw, then another to the spot below my ear, and murmurs, “Let me take care of you, Legs.”
My body answers before my mind can protest.
I nod. Just once.
And in that single movement, I say everything I’ve never let myself say out loud:
I don’t want to think.
I don’t want to lead.
I want to break something inside me that’s always stayed too controlled. And damn it, I want him to be the one who does it.
He eases my pants down, slow enough for the fabric to drag across my skin, creating a teasing friction that makes me shift against him and pulls a quicker breath from my lips. My thong, while basic—black cotton—is appropriate for a Friday lunch date. I did not try too hard, thank God.
Hex then lifts me onto the bar as if my five-foot-ten-inch frame is weightless in his muscular arms. The wood is cool beneath me and in stark contrast to the heat building between us. His hands trail back up my thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, parting my legs just enough to fit his body between them.
I lean down, my palms cradle his jaw, fingers skimming the coarse stubble like I’m memorizing the texture of power held in check. He tastes like want and bourbon, and when our lips meet again, it’s gentle only for a second. Then it’s hungry. By thetime he pulls away, I’m wrecked. Mouth parted, breath ragged, thoughts unraveling like ribbon between his lips.
I hesitate at what comes next, pulse thumping between my legs. His hand splays across my stomach, pressing just so—proof he can feel the tremor I can’t hide.
“Lay back,” he murmurs, not a suggestion but a command. “I’ve got you.”
And I do, I believe him, so I listen. My spine arches as my elbows reach for purchase on the polished wood behind me.
He watches the whole time, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—because he does know.
“Now slide your panties to the side,” he says, voice rough enough to scrape down my spine. “And spread those pretty lips for me.”
Oh my God.
