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He was panting behind her.
She shivered.
His forehead bent to touch the notches of her spine. He sucked in a breath, and she thought he was about to say something. But he just let the breath out and didn’t.
They were connected now. He was still buried deep inside her.
She didn’t know what to do. Shouldshesay something?
Abruptly, he pulled out of her, and the feel of his retreat made her gasp.
He backed away.
She stayed still.
He bent down and retrieved her panties from the floor and set them down next to her face on the counter. Then he slithered off.
She stayed still, breathing.
Moments passed.
She straightened up. She picked up her underwear and turned them this way and that and then stepped back into them. She had shoes somewhere. She’d taken off her shoes. They were boots, ankle boots with laces, and she’d bent down and gone to work on them and he’d pressed into her and said,Fuck, Dahlia, this isn’t happening.
And then…
She cringed.
Howhadthis happened?
She found her boots. She put them on. She smoothed down her skirt. She walked all the way to the front of the kitchen and swung open the door to the counter. They’dfuckedback here, and anyone could have come through that swinging door at any fucking moment, and whodidsomething like that?
He was standing behind the counter. He turned to look at her when she swung open the door. His expression was unreadable.
She opened her mouth to speak.
Nothing came out.
A deep flush crept up his neck. He looked away, pointedly, and now he seemed… embarrassed? Chagrined? Ashamed of himself?
She didn’t know.
She didn’t want to know.
Maybe…
“You’re going to cover my shift tomorrow,” she said in a weird, squeaky voice.
“Uh huh,” he said.
Silence.
“Thank you,” she said. Thank you?Heshould be thankingher.
“Hey, um…” He glanced at her and then at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have… are you…” A pause. “Sorry.” This was agonized.
“No, it’s… no.” She shook her head.
“Sometimes, I find myself in the middle of doing things and I—”
