“You were busy.” I give her grace.
“Yeah.”
“I handed you a tip and tried turning it into an invitation for a coffee.” My own memory floods back. Her, effortless, untouchable. Me frozen, clutching rehearsed words gone stale in my mouth. “You took it and said you were late for work.’
She presses her lips together. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Silence fills our temporary home.
Hope moves and her foot slips from my grasp as she sits up. Deliberate, graceful. I remain still, afraid to shatter whatever moment she’s creating.
She closes our distance.
Her fingers brush my jaw, settling against my skin with impossible warmth.
Then she kisses me.
No hesitation. No warning. Her mouth crashes against mine, urgent and unapologetic. My mind blanks for a heartbeat beforeinstinct takes over. My hand finds the gentle curve of her waist, sinking into the soft cotton of her shirt, and pulls her closer.
She melts into the motion, her body warm beneath my palm. Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging. Not gentle, confident.
Holy hell. This is real, every nerve insists. I don’t slow down or question it. My body responds.
Her mouth moves against mine with a certainty I lack, drawing me deeper into a haze of sensation. My grip at her side tightens. Her weight shifts, heat radiating through thin fabric. Her skin smells like the faint scent of soap and sun-warmed stone.
Every dream I’d stitched together for this moment falls short.
Her hand slides from my jaw, trailing across my chest, electric with intent. Drifts lower. My cock stiffens to capacity before my mind catches up. I close my fingers around her wrist, softly but firmly enough to pause her.
She pulls back just far enough to see my face, brows knitted in question. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me?”
“So much.” Words lodge in my throat for a second. “It’s just. Um… I haven’t…” I swallow. “I haven’t done this before.”
My embarrassing confession hangs between us, raw and unvarnished.
She watches me, curious, her gaze warm. “You mean—”
I nod, heat blooming across my cheeks. I brace for distance, for rejection.
She stays. Her hand covers the bulge in my pants.
“Okay,” she says without any trace of judgment.
My chest loosens with relief. Her hand returns to my face, this time slow, gentle, her palm warm against my skin.
“You didn’t have to tell me.” She stares deep into my soul.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to screw up the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I repeat what I said earlier like an idiot.
She studies my face as if reading a map. “You didn’t. You couldn’t.”
Exhaling the tension, I shake my head slightly. This is a lot.
