11. Breathless
brEATHLESS
Holy shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Owen’s hands are on my face. His mouth is on my mouth.
My lips part willingly, but I’m too stunned to do anything except surrender to the feel of them. To the scratch of his beard against my chin. The rough drag of his callused fingertips as they slide up into my hair.
The tenderness of it sends want and heat and something dangerously close to hope crackling through me, racing up my spine until my whole body feels too big for my skin. My jeans pull tight at the front, the discomfort of my need only secondary to the way my chest feels like it might split open.
He keeps the kiss slow. Controlled. Guiding it. Guiding me, like he knows that if he doesn’t stay in charge of it, we both will drown. His mouth moves against mine with careful pressure, deepening until my lungs burn and I’m gasping. Whether for air or him, I couldn’t tell you.
And then, as quickly as it began, he pulls back.
Yanking himself away like I’m a live wire.
My limbs are loose and useless, delayed in their understanding of what just happened.
I stumble forward half a step before catching myself on the edge of the nearest table, staring at him as he puts too much space between us.
“Shit, Finley. I’m so sorry. I—”
I open my mouth to tell him it’s okay, to tell him to come back. All that comes out is a pathetic whimper and a frantic, “Why?” I mean it in every way except the way he interprets it, and a look of shame flashes across his face.
“I read the moment wrong,” he mutters, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to get rid of the taste of me.
It’s then that I realize how I’m standing.
How I’ve been standing since the moment he touched me.
Completely frozen. Hands out at my sides, palms splayed like a petrified starfish.
It’s not hard to understand why he thinks he went too far.
If I kissed someone and they reacted by tensing up the way I have, I’d be begging for forgiveness too.
I make a conscious effort to shake out my arms, to loosen my shoulders, and take another step toward him. “I was surprised, that’s all.”
I hold out my hand in what I hope reads as an invitation to come here and kiss me again. He looks at it cautiously, like the second he gets within reach, I might use it to slap him.
“Don’t come any closer,” he whispers, and his voice sounds so unlike himself. There’s none of the steady, self-assured man who’s become my rock this last month. The quiver in his tone makes him seem almost frightened.
No. That’s not right. Off balance, maybe. At war?
“I need space, so I don’t fuck up and do that again.”
Thirty minutes ago, those words would have cut me to the bone. The past tense version of myself would have presumed he was calling the kiss a mistake. Me a mistake.
This version of Finley can see the conflict in his face—the way his jaw is set tight, even though his eyes are full of wanting. He thinks he crossed a line. Why? I couldn’t tell you, considering I’ve been advertising in bright neon for days how badly I want this.
Owen is nothing if not a gentleman.
I take another slow step, followed by a few slightly manic, quick ones, closing the distance before he has a chance to move. Even if he had seen me coming, there’s nowhere for him to go. His back is against the counter, eyes wide.
This isn’t like me. I talk a big game in my head, letting my fantasies of this man run wild. Because that’s all they were—fantasies. There’s no way this perfect man would ever give me a chance. So, I let myself dream. Let the ideas of everything I would do to him run rampant.
Until he kissed me. Until he pressed his body to mine and held my face like I was something precious. Until I heard that tiny breathy moan he let slip. Fin. The sound of my name falling from his lips like a prayer will forever haunt my memory.
Now the moment is here, however, I find myself woefully inexperienced.
I’ve been with men before, but I’m never the one to ask for what I want.
To take what I need. To demand he kiss me again.
And yet, the fear in Owen’s eyes makes it clear: if I want this—everything I’ve been dreaming about for weeks—it’s time to pull my big-boy panties up and say it.
“Do it again.”
His gaze drops to my lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, feel his body twitch as he struggles against the urge to grant himself what he desires.
“Owen, please.”
“I’m too old for you.”
Everything inside me wants to scream. Not because he’s wrong, but because—
“I don’t care.” I’m not a child. I know this is more than a fleeting crush.
“You’re my employee. It’s inappropriate.”
“Not if it’s something we both want,” I try to reason, most of my conviction getting lost in the way my voice splinters.
“You’re too young to be tied down.”
I can’t stop the eye roll that escapes me. “I’m not asking for you to tie me down.” Although I’ll file that imagery away for another time.
He growls a low, urgent sound I’d never expect from him. It makes my blood run molten. “What are you asking for, Finley? Be very clear. Don’t leave anything open for interpretation.”
I want to be yours, in every way you’ll allow me.
I can’t say that, though. It’s too much.
If I let all my wild dreams spill, I might lose the little I already have.
So I strip it down. I aim for the one thing I think I can ask of him without completely destroying this.
The thing men are only ever interested in when it comes to me.
It’s not even the thing I want the most—doesn’t even make the top three.
But if I’m interpreting the hunger burning in his eyes correctly, it’s probably the only thing he’d be willing to give me.
“I want you to fuck me.”
His eyes darken, and in that fraction of a second before he speaks, I realize what’s coming next. I’ve seen this moment in countless movies. The excitement of it has every cell in my body vibrating in anticipation.
This is the moment where his fragile control snaps.
Where he twists us until my back hits the counter.
The moment where his mouth crashes down on mine and we lose ourselves to that unrestrained, reckless hunger romance novels promise is inevitable.
His tongue will slip past my lips, and I’ll pull him closer, and closer until there’s no space left between us.
Owen will murmur something rough against my mouth. We should take this upstairs.
I’ll shake my head, breathless and so fucking desperate. No time. Right here.
He’ll turn me, broad hand firm on my spine, pressing me forward until the counter digs into my stomach. One strong hand, a bruising grip on my hip. His mouth will drag down my neck while I fall apart under him.
He’ll try to slow it down, because that’s the man he is. But, I’ll beg. I’ll tell him I can handle it. Tell him I need him. That I’ve got this. That he can take me right here. That I want him to.
Owen, please. Give it to me. Make me see God.
“No.”
The word cracks like a gunshot, and I’m left blinking and confused. I’m still standing exactly where I was. The only part of us touching is his palm flat against my chest, pushing me back.
“I can’t do that,” he says, voice tight. Then, firmer, like he needs to convince himself as much as me, “I won’t do that to you.”
He steps sideways, slipping past me and disappearing into the kitchen without looking back. My heart shatters so violently, I hear it break into a million pieces. “Fuck,” I scream at no one, before turning on my heels and high-tailing it through the cafe’s front door.