“Let me help.” I step forward, water soaking through my designer shoes, and grab the mop and bucket near the door.
“I can’t let you. It’s my fault. I left the water on and forgot all about it.” He walks forward and reaches for the mop, his hands brushing mine in the exchange.
“I insist.” My fingers tighten before he can pull it out of reach. “I want this.” I intend to be firm, decisive, but somehow my words come out throaty and sensual. As if I’m asking for more. But aren’t I?
The tiny gold flecks in the brown of his eyes seem to intensify with each passing second. “This?” He takes another step forward, his hands releasing the mop handle so it drops and slaps against the flooded floor. But even that doesn’t deter his gaze. It’s steady and focused. “Can I?” His thumb skims along the side of my neck and stops at my jaw as he dips his chin.
My breath falls in bated pants anticipating his next move.
He pauses and I am confused until I realize he’s waiting for me. My consent. My choice. It’s unexpectedly endearing.
“Yes,” I whisper and close the space between us to press my lips against his. He tastes of caramel and coffee. My two favorite things. The kiss is sweet. Unhurried. Swoonworthy. If I could, I would stop time and stay in this moment forever.
His groan cuts through the silence of the empty room and his hands go to my hips, pulling me against him as he hurtles our kiss from classic movie sweet to blood-rushing five-alarm fire. We’re a battle of lips, touches, and groans. We can’t seem to get close enough.
I take back my earlier sentiment. I don’t want to freeze time. Not as long as this man doesn’t stop doing what he’s doing.
His hands trace the shape of my body over the material of my dress until they reach the hem. Only then does he slide them under the fabric. With an achingly slow movement, his fingers brush their way up the sides of my thighs. He stills when they reach my hips.
His lips leave mine on a groan and he buries his face into the crook of my neck. “You’re not wearing—”
“Panties? No.” I wait for him to meet my gaze. “Is that a problem?”
“Is that . . .” His hands leave my hips to lift my chin. “Are you for real?”
My pulse thrums with the power of his compliment. My body aches for his touch. Here I am, Cora Bentley, Oscar-winning actress and self-made success story, ready to give it up in a coffee shop kitchen to a man whose name I don’t even know. And yet nothing feels wrong or rushed about this. It’s as if this moment is meant to be. “I want you.”
His lips crash on mine. He walks us backward, not stopping until my back hits the wall.
My hands trace every inch of his exposed skin and my tongue battles with his, an orchestrated dance that pools more desire between my legs. This floor isn’t the only thing wet.
His hands push the fabric of my dress up so it bunches at my waist and he drops to his knees without regard for the flooded concrete, or anything for that matter, as he stares at my center and licks his lips. “Te deseo.” I don’t know what that means, but the way he says it sparks heat in every fiber of my being. Careful not to knock me off balance, he lifts one of my legs and settles it over his shoulder. His mouth meets my sensitive flesh, his tongue and lips moving with the same passion as before.
My fingers work their way into his hair. Yes, yes, yes. Oh, Lord, he’s good at this. I tug him closer and brace myself for the orgasm that builds deep in my core. Like a man starved, he doesn’t let up once, and when he adds not just one finger, but two, I tip over the edge and lose control. Pleasure bursts from inside and my body spasms with my release.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful when you come.” He sets my leg on the floor, making sure I have my balance, and pushes back to his feet to claim my mouth.
Tasting myself on his lips enhances the lust pulsing through my body. I want more of him.
“Isaac?” a woman’s voice calls from the other room.
Isaac. My hot coffee guy finally has a name.
“Shit.” His gaze darts to the doorway that separates this room from the shop and then back to me. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t be.” I push my dress back down and straighten the fabric. I don’t want an apology. Not for that.
“Has it been sl—” The woman pushes through the door and stops short, her eyes bouncing from the flooded floor, to a shirtless Isaac, and then to me. “Oh, I didn’t realize you weren’t alone. Sorry I’m running late. Sitter didn’t show on time.”
“Late?” Isaac tilts his head in question.
“It’s after six. What happened here?”
“Shit!” He swears again but this time it’s filled with panic. He races toward a wall of lockers, grabbing what I assume are his personal items, and bolts for the door. “I’m sorry, I can’t help clean this up, I’ve got to—”
“Go!” She shoos her hands toward the door. “Rita will be in soon. We’ve got this.”
He stops at the door and turns back to meet my gaze. “I’ve got to run.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t realize the time.”
It’s awkward, parting in front of his co-worker after something so intimate, and when he’s obviously in a rush. There’s so much I wish I could say, but at the same time, it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t make this more than what it is, a late-night hookup between two strangers. “Go.” I drop my gaze and force a smile as I wave him toward the door.
“When will I see you again?” His words hold everything I wish I was brave enough to hope for, but he deserves the truth.
“I don’t know,” I admit, and brace myself so I don’t give away even a fraction of my heart as he turns to walk away. I won’t fall for another bad boy. I won’t do it. My chest aches and my eyes sting as I walk out to gather my wallet and keys. Looks like my heart missed the memo. Damn it, I’ve done it again.
Three
Isaac
Shit! Hell!
What the fuck is wrong with me? Not only is Marlena gonna kill me when I get home late—again—but there’s a good chance Rita fires me tonight when I clock back in to the coffee shop. If the flood doesn’t seal the deal, going down on a customer surely will. Fuck. What came over me?
The actress. That’s who. She’s the reason I look forward to my graveyard shifts at the shop. Sad as it is, I always hold out hope she’ll stop by and treat me to one of her late-night conversations. Her smile. The laugh that bursts from her lips when I catch her by surprise with our banter. Goodness radiates from her every move, and it’s always been enough. My shot with a woman like her is more far-fetched than that fantasy action blockbuster she starred in last year. Still. I take what I can, and enjoy it for what it is. Innocent flirting and conversation.
Until this morning.
I don’t know what came over me. Was it the later than usual hour? Too much sleep deprivation tainting my otherwise solid decision-making skills. Or that I flooded an entire kitchen just by her distraction?
No.
I’m lying to myself if I accept any of those reasons. I wanted her. I’ve been wanting her. Last night was the first time she gave me any indication she desired more than a cup of coffee and my company, and I lost all sense of reason.