"Then what's holding you back?" I step closer. I shouldn't. We're supposed to be having a serious conversation. "People already know about us. They saw you at the hospital. You've been coming here. This is just letting them see your work. Your talent."
"What if it changes things? What if people start treating me different?"
"Mac." I reach up and touch his face. "You're an artist. What you create is beautiful and meaningful. The people who matter already respect you."
He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then his gaze drops to my mouth. "What if they don't understand why I do it?"
"Then I'll make them understand." My voice is fierce. "But the work speaks for itself. You know it does."
The words break something in both of us. He pulls me against him and kisses me hard, desperate, like he's been starving for it. Which he has. Which we both have.
I melt into it immediately, my hands fisting in his flannel shirt. When he breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard.
"I'll think about it," he says roughly.
"That's all I'm asking."
He glances toward the front windows, then at the door to the back room.
"How long until you close?"
"Two hours." But I'm already reaching for his hand. "Or I could close early."
"Isla." It comes out strangled. "I've been going crazy. Two weeks of wanting you and not being able to touch you properly. Of falling asleep alone knowing you're across town."
"Then stop talking," I say, flipping the sign to CLOSED, "and touch me."
That's all it takes. He pulls me toward the back room like the building's on fire, and maybe it is. Maybe we both are. The lock clicks behind us, and then we're on each other like we've been separated for years instead of weeks. But two weeks without him has felt like years. Two weeks of aching, of wanting, of touching myself in bed and wishing it was his hands instead.
He backs me against the wall first, kissing me like he's trying to devour me. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding under my sweater to cup my breasts through my bra.
"Missed you so fucking much," he growls against my mouth. "Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think. Just kept imagining this."
"What?" I'm already breathless. "Imagining what?"
"You. Bent over this counter. On your knees. Screaming my name where anyone could hear."
Heat floods through me. "Mac!"
"I’ve been going to bed hard, waking up hard, working through the day with a constant ache." He bites my neck, making me gasp. "Tell me you felt it too."
"God, yes. Every night. I'd touch myself thinking about you, but it wasn't enough. It's never enough unless it's you."
He makes a rough sound and spins me around, bending me over the counter. My cheek presses against the cool surface, and I can feel him hard against my ass as he grinds into me.
"This what you imagined?" His voice is dark, possessive. "Me taking you like this?"
"Yes." It comes out as a whimper.
His hands make quick work of my jeans, shoving them down along with my underwear. The air hits my bare skin, and then his hand is between my legs, finding me soaking wet.
"Fuck. You're drenched." He slides two fingers inside me easily, and I moan.
"Please," I beg. "No teasing. I need you."
"What do you need?" He pumps his fingers slowly, torturously. "Tell me."
"Your cock. Inside me. Now."
