5. Maris #2
We head back to the main room. Together. Still damp. Still smelling like beer.
The fundraiser's in full swing. Choir assembled on the floor instead of risers. Singing off-key but enthusiastic. Cats weaving between ankles. Donations pile up.
Nora catches my eye. Raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head. Not now.
But later.
Later we'll talk.
And I have no idea what I'm going to say.
The fundraiser wraps at ten. The last stragglers linger over cold coffee and cookie crumbs until Nora physically herds them toward the door with promises of next week's specials and thinly veiled threats about closing time.
I'm wiping down tables when the silence hits. That particular quality of quiet that only comes after hours of noise. My ears still ring with it. Phantom laughter and off-key carols and the constant hum of conversation.
Grath's in the kitchen. I can hear him moving around. The clink of dishes. Water running.
Nora snatches her coat from the hook by the counter. The fabric rustles loud in the aftermath of the chaos we just survived. "You good to finish up?"
I force my voice steady. Casual. Like my heart isn't trying to bruise its way out through my ribs. "Yeah. Go. You've done enough."
She doesn't move. Her eyes cut from me to the kitchen door and back again. Reading everything I'm trying not to show. "You sure?"
"Go home, Nora."
The silence stretches. I can feel her weighing whether to push. Whether to stay and supervise whatever collision is about to happen. Finally she grins, sharp and knowing. "Mm-hmm." Nothing hidden in that smirk. Pure satisfaction. "Lock up behind me."
The door chimes as she leaves. The sound cuts through the quiet like a bell tolling. Final. Irrevocable.
I cross to the entrance. My footsteps too loud on the hardwood. I flip the sign. CLOSED now faces the street. The word feels weighted. Like I'm sealing something. Committing to something I can't take back.
I throw the deadbolt. The metal slides home with a click that echoes.
Now it's just us.
The shop feels different. Smaller. The air thicker. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator. The tick of the ancient radiator. My own breathing, too quick, too shallow.
And from the kitchen, the sound of water shutting off.
And Pebble. The kitten's perched on top of the pastry case. Watching me with those unblinking yellow eyes.
"Don't start."
He meows. Judgy little thing.
I finish the tables. Stack chairs. Sweep flour and cat hair into neat piles. Anything to avoid walking into that kitchen. Avoid the conversation I promised we'd have.
But eventually I run out of tasks.
The kitchen door swings open before I reach it.
Grath stands there. Still damp in places. Shirt clinging. Hair pushed back from his face. He's cleaned the beer explosion. Reorganized the prep station. Even washed the dishes I'd abandoned earlier.
"You didn't have to do all that."
"Wanted to help."
I step inside. The door swings shut behind me. Suddenly the space feels smaller. Warmer. The overhead light casts harsh shadows across his face. Makes his eyes darker.
"So." My voice comes out too bright. Too sharp. "We should talk. Like you said. About. Whatever this is."
Smooth, Maris. Very articulate.
He watches me. That steady, patient gaze. "You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Your hands."
I look down. I'm twisting the dish towel into knots. I drop it. Force my fingers to still.
"Okay. Maybe a little nervous."
"Why?"
Because this is insane. Because I don't do this. Don't fall for people in days instead of months. Don't let strange orc men into my café and my life and the space behind my carefully constructed walls.
Because you scare me.
I don't say any of that.
"I don't know what this is. What you want. What I want." The words tumble out. Clumsy. "You're. I mean. We barely know each other. This whole thing is ridiculous. The timing's terrible. The circumstances are worse. And yet."
"And yet." He takes a step closer. Just one. Testing. "You feel it too."
Not a question. A statement.
I could lie. Deflect. Make a joke and dodge the truth like I always do.
Instead I lock with his eyes. "Yeah. I feel it too."
The air shifts. Charges. Like static before lightning.
"What do we do about it?" His voice drops lower. Rough.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do."
He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. Close enough that I can smell him. Salt and metal and something earthier underneath. Close enough that the heat radiating off his skin makes my pulse skip.
"This is a bad idea." The words taste like ash on my tongue. Like warning. Like prophecy I'm too far gone to heed.
"Probably." His voice is gravel and smoke. Agreement that sounds nothing like surrender.
My fingers curl tighter in his shirt. The fabric bunches beneath my knuckles, rough cotton holding me to this moment, this madness. "Terrible timing."
"Yeah." The single syllable rumbles through his chest into mine. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't stop the slow drag of his thumb across my cheekbone, tracing the arch of bone like he's memorizing the geography of my face.
Heat pools low in my belly. Spreads outward like spilled wine. Like blood in water.
"Completely reckless." My pulse hammers against my throat. Betrays me. Proves every word a lie even as I speak it.
"Mm-hmm." The sound vibrates between us. His other hand settles at the small of my back, broad palm burning through the thin barrier of my shirt. Anchoring me. Claiming me.
I should mean it. Should pull back. Should listen to the warning bells clanging in the back of my mind.
Instead I arch closer. Close enough to feel his heartbeat thundering against my ribs. Close enough to taste the want rolling off him in waves.
This is how it starts, I think. With all the reasons it shouldn't.
His hand comes up. Slow. Giving me time to pull back. Fingertips brush my jaw. Rough skin against mine. Gentle despite the size. Despite the strength I know is there.
I should step back. Be reasonable. Be smart.
I lean into his touch instead.
His breath catches. I feel it more than hear it. See the way his eyes darken. The way his thumb traces along my cheekbone with devastating tenderness.
"Maris."
My name again. But different this time. Hungry. Wanting.
I fist my hands in his shirt. Pull him down.
Our mouths meet. Crash together. Nothing gentle about it now. His hands frame my face. Mine grip his shoulders. Teeth and tongue and the taste of him flooding my senses.
He lifts me. Sets me on the prep table. Steps between my knees. I wrap my legs around his waist. Pull him closer. Closer. Not close enough.
His mouth moves to my jaw. My throat. Kissing. Biting. I gasp. Tilt my head back. Give him access.
He groans. Deep. Primal. Hands sliding under my shirt. Calloused palms against my ribs. My skin burns where he touches.
I yank at his shirt. He helps. Pulls it over his head. Tosses it somewhere.Too busy mapping the planes of his chest. The old scars. The impossible heat of him.
My shirt joins his. Then my bra. His hands cover my breasts. Thumb circling. I arch into the touch. Bite back a moan.
"Don't hide." His mouth finds mine again. "Want to hear you."
So I don't hide. Let the sounds escape. Let myself feel without filter. Without the careful control I usually maintain.
His hands move lower. Unfasten my jeans. I lift my hips. Help him peel the denim away. Underwear too. All of it discarded in our wake.
Cool air hits my skin. Then his hands. His mouth. Kissing down my sternum. My stomach. Lower.
"Wait." I grab his hair. Tug gently. "You too."
He straightens. Unfastens his belt. I watch. Heart hammering. As he strips away the last barriers between us.
Then he's back. Hands on my thighs. Spreading them. His eyes meet mine. Dark. Intense. Asking permission without words.
I nod.
He enters me. Slow. Careful. Stretching. Filling. The sensation borders on too much. My nails dig into his shoulders. He pauses. Lets me adjust.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Move. Please move."
He does. Pulls back. Thrusts again. Setting a rhythm that scatters my thoughts. Builds heat low in my belly. Tension coiling tighter with each stroke.
I lock my ankles behind his back. Meet him thrust for thrust. The prep table creaks beneath us. Metal rattling. I can't care about anything except this. Him. Us. The way our bodies fit together like they were made for this.
His forehead drops to mine. Breath mingling. Sweat slicking skin. The angle shifts. He hits something inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"There. Right there. Don't stop."
"Not stopping."
His pace increases. Harder. Faster. Chasing the edge we're both racing toward. I can feel it building. Pressure mounting. Pleasure spiraling tighter.
My vision whites out. I shatter. Clenching around him. Crying out. He follows. Groaning my name. Hips stuttering. Fingers digging into my thighs hard enough to bruise.
We collapse together. Tangled. Gasping. Heartbeats thundering in sync.
From somewhere overhead, Pebble meows. Loud. Insistent.
I start to laugh. Can't help it. The absurdity of it all catching up. "The kitten's judging us."
Grath lifts his head. Looks up at where Pebble's perched on the shelf. Watching with those unblinking eyes.
"Probably deserved."
"Definitely deserved."
He helps me sit up. Hands gentle now. Tender. Brushes hair from my face. Kisses my forehead. My nose. My mouth. Soft. Sweet.
"We should—"
The back door slams.
We freeze.
Footsteps. Heavy. Unfamiliar.
"Hello? Anybody here?"
Grath moves fast. Grabs his shirt. Tosses me mine. I scramble to dress. Fingers shaking. Heart racing for entirely different reasons now.
"Storage check. Monthly inspection."
Oh god. The building inspector.
Who has a key.
Who's early.
Who's about to walk in and find us half-naked and guilty on the prep table where I make pastries.
Grath's eyes meet mine. Wide. Panicked.
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.
The inspector doesn't find us.