“Ohh—harder—” Ben begs. His body spasms in response. God, I could come right now. Gritting my teeth, I groan as he takes me inside over and over.
My fingers are a vice on Ben’s skinny hips. I’m thrusting against him pressed over the table as bags of coffee jostle and dance and fall. His skin burns against mine like a summer sunset, or maybe this is what a supernova feels like.
Coffee beans spill everywhere. They clatter and bounce off in a million directions. As we try to keep our footing, we step on the coffee beans and it smells like French roast and Ben, an intoxicating custom blend.
The wire shelf against the table rattles rhythmically, metal jangling with the beat of us, animalistic and raw.
We’re gasping and I clutch his hair and he sobs out. God, this would be a terrible time to get caught.
I stuff a hand against his mouth to stifle his cries.
“Too fucking noisy,” I grunt against his ear. He nips at my fingers in response. It only urges me on.
And we’re locked together while I work the length of him while I ride. My clothes are suffocating, my skin damp with perspiration. Beneath me, he writhes and moans, the quickening of his breaths more ragged and more desperate. And the more incoherent he is, the more I want to make him come, to feel as alive as I feel right now as we blur together, like this is a thousand Friday nights rolled up together in one, and I can do anything, be anyone. Like I’ve stolen a page from someone else’s life.
Ben convulses back against me, thudding against the table. As he calls my name, I smother it against his lips, his breath hot in my hand, and oh the ecstasy of this moment—and hell, that’s about when he comes impressively over his black leather boots. And his jeans, and the floor, and the table, too.
About then, it’s all too much for me. My arms are wrapped around Ben, frantically pulling him upright. A raw cry escapes him, urging me over the edge at last, and I come in a blind rhythmic heat.
There’s nothing but him and me, no café, nothing else, and I chase that moment as long as I can, gasping out nonsense against the nape of his neck as his chest heaves under the wrap of my arms. His skin is hot against my lips.
My eruption at least has the decency to be contained and he feels incredible. I don’t want to break this moment. Instead, it would be better to live right here in this moment. I close my eyes.
Blood rushes in my ears and I hold on to him while I reel, still rocking slightly, the thrill of him so close. His cologne or shampoo smells of cedar and mystery.
“That’s five minutes, I think,” Ben drawls, biting my wrist, the slight pain bringing me back. With reluctance I at last open my eyes, letting reality slide in once again. Sacks of coffee, a stack of pallets, and a shelf overflowing with takeaway containers of different sizes surround us. Overhead, the lights flicker and hum. Cold starts to register against my skin, a shock compared to the warmth of Ben.
He stands in the midst of all the stockroom chaos, a brilliant sight, all mussed-up hair and rumpled clothes.
“I think… I think we might need to do that again later. Once you lick up this mess you made,” I declare, and find a tissue. We attempt to neaten up. I deal with the condom. After some quick effort, we look almost normal.
He’s flushed and grins. “Good. ’Cause I like cream with my coffee.”
“You can count on that,” I assure him breathlessly, watching him in frank admiration. “Ready to get out of here?”
“Yup.” Ben meets my gaze as he adjusts his cloud soft pullover. “Done. Till you next provide, that is.”
“If there’s anything you can count on me to provide, it’s cream with your coffee.”
“Probably not a good time to tell you I’m more of a tea-drinker,” he says.
“Probably not.”
“Still need cream, though.”
“Point taken,” I say. “Fuck, that was hot.”
I catch his jaw, a hint of stubble pleasingly rough beneath my fingers, and thrill as he leans into me, closing his eyes. His mouth melts against mine, still tasting of mint, his hands hot in the small of my back under my shirt. Having Ben so close makes it all too tempting to start all over again. Goose bumps cover my skin. Judging by the shiver that runs through his body as I hold him, he’s also caught up in the daze of our lust. I’m still trying to catch my breath.
“What time are you off?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Oh, I’d say about two minutes ago, but officially three o’clock.”
Ben straightens and I grasp his arse through his jeans. “How about you come meet me outside of our studio later? It’s just around the corner. We’ll be done by then.” He gives me the address.
There’s a split second of hesitation, but only for a split second. There was something I was supposed to do later, but it can’t be important. It’s not for hours, anyway.
Five minutes of sex only gets a man so far. And after that, it would be ridiculous to not have a follow-up, right? Then we’ll get that lust out of our systems and get on with things as usual.
