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When it was finally ready, she showed him how to use a pastry wheel to cut the dough into thin triangles, which she then rolled gently around a nib of chocolate.
“Now, we bake them?” He desperately wanted to taste anything that took this much work.
“Not yet. They need to proof.”
“Proof?”
“Sit for a while and rise. If we try to rush the process, it won’t work. Good things require time and patience.” She carried her coffee mug to the curved booth in the back of the dining room where his coat draped.
He wondered how long she planned to stay at the café but figured they still had a few hours before dawn. He scooted into the booth beside her and sipped his macchiato.
“What’s New York City like?”
Her question sent his mind to another place and time. “Loud. Alive. Fast. Gritty on the ground floor, and polished at the top.”
“I’ve never been in the actual city. I’ve just passed it on the highway.”
“You could come visit me.” The offer escaped before he actually considered what it was he was suggesting.
“Really?”
“Sure. We could catch a Broadway show, if that’s something you’d like, or we could visit a good steakhouse, have drinks on a rooftop bar—whatever you want.” He wanted to show her something impressive, something to help her understand the lure, but at the same time he didn’t want to overcomplicate his life.
“I bet you look natural there.” Her fingers brushed over the sleeve of his cuff. “You’re different now. You look like a New Yorker.”
“I’ve changed,” he agreed. “But I’ll never forget where I came from.” He’d tried several times and failed.
Her body rested in the curve of his arm, her touch slowly exploring. “I wish you didn’t have to leave again.”
Afraid of what he might promise, he kept quiet and turned her face toward his. He hadn’t meant to do more than kiss her, but her body welcomed him with hungry invitation as she twisted and sank her tongue into his mouth, demanding he give her more.
Straddling his lap, she deepened the kiss and he cradled her hips. Her hands rode over his dress shirt, searching for skin and pulling at his buttons.
They were hidden in the shadows at the back of the café, but if anyone were to walk by and actually look inside, they would see them.
“I want you, Harrison. Right now.”
He yanked down the front of her camisole, freeing her breasts and capturing a nipple in his mouth. Unraveling the apron strings around her waist, he tugged at the knot. She grabbed his hand, guiding it under the material to the front of her jeans where the zipper was already down.
“Jesus, Mariella.” Warm heat met his fingertips as she rose on her knees and pressed his hand inside her panties.
Desperate kisses urged him on as she ground herself against his touch. Her fingers were in his hair, her mouth at his racing pulse, and his cock was about to burst.
“This booth’s too small for all the things I want to do to you.”
Shoes dropped to the floor and she kicked off her pants. “Plenty of room.”
She unlatched his belt buckle with insistent fingers. The tight grip of her hand around his flesh had his hips lifting toward her.
“People might see,” he warned.
“Let them. I don’t care. They don’t exist.”
She stroked him greedily, aligning their bodies and rubbing his hard flesh along her most sensitive places. She was a wild riot of feminine moans and heated need. At that first tremble of bliss, her muscles clenched and her head fell back. He hadn’t even entered her yet and she was already coming.
Grabbing her hips, he thrust into her heat and growled as her channel clenched and fluttered around his pulsing cock, gripping him tight. “Kiss me.”
Her mouth smashed to his and he groaned, thrusting his hips and pounding into her. She cried out, taking every inch of him but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted all of her. Every moan. Every cry. Every deeply buried desire. He wanted her fucking soul.
Fisting her hair, he filled her to the hilt and breathed hard against her throat. She was a drug he’d never overcome. He simply didn’t know how. Didn’t want to.
Drunk on her existence, he reveled in this madness only the two of them could create. She was fire in his arms. Heat in his veins. And the withdrawal he knew would come might kill them both, but goddam, he never wanted to quit her. Not yet.
Loose chestnut waves tumbled around her face, framing her unmatched beauty as she steadied him. How did she do that? How did she always know when a storm was building inside of him and somehow quiet the riot with only a look? Their connection was almost spooky at times, but he loved how fluently she could read him.
