I kiss my way down her throat, taking my time despite the urgency thrumming through my blood. I find the spot just below her ear—the one that made her gasp earlier. When my lips brush over it again, she doesn't disappoint. Her legs tighten around my waist, the movement sudden and involuntary. It presses her center directly against the hard, aching length of me.
We both go completely still.
The world narrows to the point of contact between us. Her heat. My need. The thin layers of fabric that suddenly feel like both too much and the only thing keeping us from doing something reckless.
"Grath." My name is half plea, half warning.
"I know." My voice comes out strained. Every muscle in my body is locked tight, fighting the urge to move.
"We can't. Not here. We can't."
"Why not?" It's a genuine question. Right now, I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't take her against this wall.
"Because. Because someone could see. Because it's. It's not appropriate." She's trying to sound firm, but her voice wavers on every word.
"Don't feel appropriate." I shift slightly—barely anything at all—and her breath hitches.
"No. It feels. God, it feels?—"
I rock my hips. Just slightly. Just enough pressure to make her feel exactly what she does to me. Just enough to make her moan—a broken, desperate sound that I want to hear again and again.
"Inside," she says, and this time her voice is firmer, more certain. "Now. Please."
I set her down. Gentle despite the urgency screaming through my veins. She steadies herself against the wall. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are swollen. She's never looked more beautiful.
We make it to the café's back door. I fish out the key. Drop it. Curse.
Maris laughs. The sound is breathless and wild.
"Smooth."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I grab the key. Shove it in the lock. The door swings open. We tumble inside.
The storage room is dark and cramped and smells like coffee beans. I back Maris against a shelf. Cups rattle above us.
"This is still completely insane," she says, her voice breathless and unsteady, each word fighting against the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
"You keep saying that." I lean in closer, letting my forehead rest against hers, breathing in the scent of vanilla and coffee that clings to her skin.
"Because it keeps being true." Her fingers are still twisted in my shirt, knuckles white from how tightly she's gripping the fabric. "This is reckless and?—"
"Do you want me to stop?" I pull back just enough to see her face properly. To give her space to think. To choose. Because despite everything screaming in my blood to claim her right now, I need to hear her say it.
She looks at me. Really looks at me. Her eyes are dark and wanting, pupils blown wide in the dim light of the storage room. I can see the war happening behind them, the part of her that plans everything fighting against the part that's already decided.
"No." The word comes out quiet but certain. Final.
"Good." Relief floods through me, hot and urgent.
I kiss her. Pour everything into it. All the fear and relief and desperate need. She kisses back just as hard. Her hands work at my belt. My fingers find the hem of her shirt.
Somewhere in the café, the kitten meows.
We both freeze mid-motion, hands still tangled in fabric and skin. The sound cuts through the haze of want like a bell.
