Maybe making an iced coffee this late was a bad idea because I’m definitely going to combust. Before I decide to do something truly insane like pulling his hair and pressing him to my needy core, he pops up with two more pints of gelato.
“There we go,” he says, setting them on the counter.
He grabs one of the spoons and dips it into the open tub of black raspberry chip. I’m definitely salivating right now and that gelato has very little to do with it because my eyes are glued to his forearms. His muscles ripple when he spoons out a bite of it and I can’t look away. My lips part just thinking about what it felt like when he had his hands on me, remembering what those fingers can do.
“Here.” He takes the spoon and lifts it toward me.
“What the—” I can’t finish that question because there is an ice cold spoonful of berry deliciousness in my mouth. My eyes instinctively close when it hits my taste buds and I moan around the spoon. I take back being let down because holy shit this is good. This is the best ice cream—or gelato, or whatever he wants to call it—that I’ve ever had.
He chuckles because I must look ridiculous. My eyes open to see him grinning as he slowly pulls the spoon out of my mouth.
“You like that?”
I glare at him playfully, trying to hide just how much I enjoyed it and how desperately I want to feel his hands on me again. “Do you always spoon feed your employees after hours?”
“Never, and you’re not my employee.”
I give him a confused look while he opens another container and I note the deep brown color of the contents.
“You work for Rich, not me.” He takes a spoonful of it and eats it, humming to himself. “And Rich works for my brother, not me. He has the bar, I have the kitchen and dining room.”
“Oh.” I watch as he spoons out another bite of the brown gelato.
He brings the spoon to my mouth and I press my lips into a line. He tilts his head and raises a brow. I roll my eyes and open my mouth for him and damnit—it’s just as good the last one. This one is a rich coffee flavor and I already know from the subtleties of it that it’s one of our roasts.
He smiles and reaches for my face. The pad of his thumb runs from the corner of my mouth and along my cheek. His hands are worn but he’s so gentle that I lean into his touch.
“You missed some of your coffee.” He grins and lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks on it.
Shit. Why is that so hot? Watching his lips and how his tongue darts out over them makes my core clench.
“Fucking cinnamon.” He shakes his head and mutters to himself. I don’t know why cinnamon is important right now, but I don’t care.
It must not matter too much, because he goes right back to what he was doing. He palms the third pint in one hand and pops the lid off with his thumb. When he reaches to grab the spoon again, I know what he’s going to do.
This time, I stop him. I grab his forearm and my body instantly thrums as I feel his warmth in my hand. He freezes at my touch and his eyes lock with mine.
The spoon clatters to the counter and he looks at me with those eyes, those damned blue eyes that do unmentionable things to me. Maybe subconsciously, that was half the reason I avoided him for so long. Somewhere deep down I knew that if I looked into those eyes for one second too long, all my misplaced anger would melt away and I would be left where I am right now—painfully wanting him.
I sit on the edge of the counter and he takes one step, positioning himself between my legs. The way his eyes focus on me makes my mouth go dry and I can feel my pussy clench. With him standing like this, I can’t squeeze my thighs or do anything to dull the ache that he’s causing.
“Sutton.” My voice is a breathy whisper.
He doesn’t move, but his pupils widen and flit back and forth, searching my face. I feel his gaze scorch over me, just like the night we walked around town, when he plucked me from the street. It feels just as good to have him look at me like that now. Maybe even better.
Fuck it.
I give into the charged air and my body’s demands. I decide to do something selfish—something for me because I want it.
I lean forward to close the distance between us but he’s already moving with me. Our lips meet in a forceful kiss. I don’t know who moved first because clearly neither of us had the will to fight this.
And it’s perfect.
It’s hot and needy. Both of us grasp at each other’s bodies and I run my hands up his stomach and over his chest, my fingertips already remembering the subtle dips and ridges of his body. He lifts his shirt over his head before grabbing my waist and pulling me to the edge of the counter, bringing the bulge in his jeans frustrating close to my wet thong. His hands run up my side, over my dress, and he drops his mouth to my neck. I melt into him and throw my head back, whimpering when he nips just under my ear.
It feels so good, but one nagging thing won’t disappear from the shadows of my thoughts. How many times could we have done this if things worked out differently? And how much of that is my fault for being so stubborn about something he didn’t even know about?
In my typical self-sabotaging way, I spew my thoughts between wanting pants and breaths. “I’m sorry, Sutton. I was wrong.”