He grabs the fridge, and his other hand slides under my ass, and he fucks me until all I can do is feel, and hold, and fall apart.
When the orgasm hits, it's brutal. My vision whites out, and my head thuds back against the fridge, and all I can do is ride it.
He fucks me hard, his mouth hot on mine, and groans against my lips as his hips jerk and his cock pulses inside me.
We collapse, a sweaty mess, and the fridge shudders under the impact.
I can't catch my breath. My heartbeat slams through me, echoing between my thighs, still full of him.
He buries his face in the side of my neck.
"Wow," he mumbles. "I can see why you wanted this fridge so much."
The laugh startles out of me, and he smiles against my skin, nipping at the tender skin just below my ear.
"We could christen the tables next," he suggests.
"Ben."
"Just the worktables. Not the display cases. We're professionals."
I bury a hand in his hair and pull his mouth to mine. "Professional? We just fucked on my workbench."
He grins. "Only a little. It was mostly against the fridge."
I sigh. "You are an incorrigible sex fiend."
He winks. "You love it."
He's not wrong.
I do love it.
I love him.
And that scares me.
Chapter Thirty Six
Ben
I unlock the front door for the lunch rush, and the bell jingles as the door opens before I’ve even made it back to the bar.
That’s when it starts.
Two women push in with yoga leggings under jean jackets, sunglasses perched like crowns. They drop their voices at the host stand and glance toward me like I’m an exhibit. Charlotte is two paces ahead of me with menus; she flicks a look my way that says, ‘Heads up, it’s going to be a busy one’.
I give her a small nod. Wednesdays can be busy, but something about this one feels different.
The women take a high-top by the window, and one of them does an exaggerated casual lean to see across the glass toward Sweet Confessions. The other checks her phone and shows her friend something on the screen.
I know that posture too well: did you hear?
Gossip is the lifeblood and fuel of a town like this. I shouldn’t be surprised.
By 11:10 there’s a buzz in the room that isn’t coffee. Two contractors nurse pre-lunch beers at the far end and keep side-eyeing me.
Mark clocks in at 11:30, slides behind the bar with a clean apron and a smile I can tell is braced.
