Chapter 17 Kya
KYA
“Everything looks perfect, Ms. Sullivan,” she says, signing off on the final paperwork with a satisfied nod. “Temperature logs are up to date, all documentation is in order, and the kitchen is spotless. Consider this matter closed.”
I’m so relieved that my knees nearly buckle. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Just keep up the good work.” She tucks her clipboard into her bag. “And between you and me? Those anonymous complaints were clearly harassment. I’ve filed a report with my supervisor about the suspicious timing and baseless nature of the original violations. I don’t abide by vexatious claims.”
After she leaves, I stand in the middle of Devil’s and just breathe. Seven days of stress, of constantly looking over my shoulder, of checking and double-checking every detail. It’s finally over.
Well, almost over.
I glance at the clock behind the bar, 4:52 p.m.
In just over seven hours, I’ll win the bet.
In just over seven hours, Lee is going to make good on every single promise he’s whispered in my ear over the past two weeks.
Heat pools low in my belly at the thought, and I have to grip the edge of a table to steady myself.
These past few days have been absolute torture.
Lee’s campaign to drive me insane has been ruthlessly effective—lingering touches that set my skin on fire, heated looks that make me forget how to breathe, and a constant undercurrent of sexual tension that has me wound tighter than a spring.
Last night, he’d shown up at my cottage with dinner and spent two hours eating me out. When I’d tried to return the favor, he’d pinned my hands above my head and kissed me until I was dizzy, then walked away to have a cold shower.
“Twenty-nine more hours, sweetheart.”
I’d nearly thrown a shoe at his head.
“Earth to Kya,” Mercy says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You okay? You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, straightening napkin dispensers that don’t need straightening. “Just relieved about the inspection.”
“Uh-huh.” She leans against the bar, studying me with knowing eyes. “So that flush on your face has nothing to do with the fact that a certain tattooed biker has been eye-fucking you for two weeks?”
“Mercy—”
“Girl, the sexual tension between you two is so thick I could cut it with a knife. Half our customers have been placing side bets on whether you’ll make it to midnight without jumping each other.”
I stare at her. “There are side bets?”
“Honey, there are side bets on the side bets. Mrs. Henderson from the diner put fifty dollars on you caving before the dinner rush.”
“Mrs. Henderson bet on my sex life?”
“She also brought homemade cookies and said to tell you that young love is beautiful and you should grab happiness with both hands.” Mercy grins. “Direct quote.”
I bury my face in my hands. “This town is insane.”
“This town loves a good love story. And you and Lee? That’s the kind of epic romance people write songs about.”
Before I can respond, the front door opens and Lee walks in. He’s wearing his cut over a simple white T-shirt and dark jeans, but the way he moves—all controlled power and lethal grace—makes my mouth go dry.
His eyes find mine immediately, and the heat in them is enough to melt steel.
“Ladies,” he says, his voice rough in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
“Lee,” Mercy replies cheerfully. “Just checking on our girl after her big victory.”
“Victory?” He raises an eyebrow, though his gaze never leaves my face.
“Passed the health inspection with flying colors,” I manage to say. “We’re officially in the clear.”
“I never had a doubt.”
We grin at each other, and I want to reach out and touch him, but I know if I do, that bet is as sure as hell not going to be won.
“Well,” Mercy says, clearly enjoying the show, “I think I’ll go check inventory in the back. Take my time with it. Maybe count everything twice. Be super thorough. Might take me a while.”
She disappears before either of us can respond, leaving Lee and me alone in the main bar area.
“Subtle,” Lee says, rolling his eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. Relieved. Ready for this whole Summit thing to be over.”
“I wasn’t talking about Summit.”
Oh.
“Nervous,” I admit. “Excited. Like I might die if you don’t touch me soon.”
His pupils dilate, and I watch his hands clench into fists at his sides. “Kya—”
“I know. Seven more hours.” I check the clock, 5:15. “Six hours and forty-five minutes, actually.”
“You’re counting.”
“Down to the second.” I move around the bar, ostensibly to clean glasses, but really because I need something to do with my hands. “Are you counting?”
“Every fucking minute.” His voice is strained. “Do you have any idea what these past two weeks have been like for me?”
I look up at him, noting the tight line of his jaw, the way his T-shirt stretches across his chest with each controlled breath. “Probably about the same as they’ve been for me.”
“I doubt that.” He leans against the bar, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “I’ve been taking cold showers three times a day and still going to bed rock hard.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Lee, I—”
“I’ve been dreaming about you every night. About the sounds you make when you come, about how you taste, about all the things I’m going to do to you when this bet is over.”
My breath catches. “What things?”
His smile is pure sin. “You’ll find out. Soon.”
The next few hours pass in a haze of sexual tension so thick it’s practically visible.
Lee helps with the evening crowd, and every accidental touch—his hand brushing mine when he hands me a glass, his body pressed against my back when he reaches around me for something—sends electricity shooting through my nervous system.
By 9 p.m., I’m ready to climb the walls.
By 9.30 p.m., I’m seriously considering forfeiting the bet.
By 10 p.m., I’m vibrating with need and Lee looks like he’s barely holding on to his sanity. Finally, as the clock ticks over to 11 p.m., I reach for the bell on the counter to call last drinks—it is a Wednesday after all. But Lee beats me to it. He rings that bell like he’s calling for help.
“Pay up,” he bellows. “And get the fuck out!”
The locals ignore him, taking their sweet time. When the last customer leaves at 11:23, I flip the sign to CLOSED with hands that aren’t quite steady.
“Mercy has already left,” I say, not turning around. “Said she’d come in early to clean up after tonight.”
“Smart woman.”
I can hear him moving behind me, his footsteps deliberate and measured. When I finally turn, he’s standing in the middle of the bar, hands loose at his sides, watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Thirty-seven minutes,” he says.
“Thirty-six,” I correct, glancing at the clock.
“You want to wait?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility. We could wait. We could honor our bet, sit on opposite sides of the bar and count down the final minutes like civilized people.
Or…
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”
Something snaps in his expression. In three long strides, he’s across the room, his hands cupping my face as his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is desperate, hungry, two weeks of pent-up desire exploding between us like a dam bursting.
I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as I kiss him back with everything I have. This is what I’ve been craving, what I’ve been dreaming about—his hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, the solid heat of his body pressed against every soft curve of mine.
“Fuck the bet,” he growls against my lips. “I need you. Right now.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
He lifts me easily, setting me on the bar as his hands work at the buttons of my shirt. I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrists.
“Not fucking yet,” he says, his voice rough with control. “I’ve been waiting for two weeks to get you completely naked. Don’t you fucking dare deny me this.”
“Lee—”
“Trust me.”
I do. Completely and without question.
Every brush of his fingertips leaves goosebumps in their wake. When I’m finally naked, perched on the edge of the bar in nothing but a flush and the shimmer of neon light, he steps back.
His gaze drags over me slowly. Possessively. Like he’s trying to decide where to start the feast.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, voice hoarse. “Look at you.”
Then he’s on me—mouth at my throat, lips parting over my skin, tongue dragging slow and wet across my collarbone before trailing lower. He palms my breast, squeezing just enough to make me gasp, then sucks my nipple into his mouth with a low groan.
My head tips back as he sucks harder, teeth grazing the tender peak, tongue swirling in maddening circles. He switches sides, pinching one nipple while he lavishes the other with his mouth, and I cry out.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, heat laced through every syllable. “Make those fucking sounds. I want this burned into your memory.”
He kisses a line down my torso, stopping to flick his tongue into my belly button. My thighs shift open, desperate, slick. I can’t stop moving, my hips rocking, aching to feel him anywhere.
He kneels, hands curling under my thighs and pulling me to the edge of the bar until I’m spread wide, open, throbbing.
“Look at this pussy,” he groans, running his thumbs through my slick folds. “So wet. So perfect. You want my mouth, baby?”
“Yes—please, Lee.”
He dives in without mercy.
His tongue licks a long, slow stripe up my center, from my entrance to my clit, and I jolt like I’ve been struck by lightning. He flattens his tongue and grinds into me, moaning as he drinks me in.
Then he zeroes in on my clit.
He circles it with obscene precision, gentle flicks followed by devastating suction, alternating pressure until I’m writhing, legs locked around his shoulders.
Every time I start to come down, he switches it up, sucking, teasing, tracing patterns over the throbbing bundle of nerves until I’m on the edge again.
“Fuck, Lee, I—”