Chapter 8
COFFEE CONFESSIONS
Thomas
The Riverside Café sits like a slice of Vienna on the edge of the campus, squeezed between a vape shop and a frozen yogurt franchise that changes flavors with the moon.
It’s the sort of place that confuses itself for a European bistro: brick walls, steepled windows with permanent condensation, mismatched chairs from three decades of fire sales.
The air is sharp with burnt espresso and nutmeg, and every table is a stage for someone’s minor drama.
I take the corner table facing the door.
Old habit. A man who’s been in boardrooms as long as I have knows never to put his back to the room, even in a place overrun by undergrads and soft-spined humanities professors.
The daylight outside is a sheet of glare, but the lamps here are gold and forgiving, brushing everything with a haze that’s almost erotic.
I’m in my off-duty armor: light blazer, white shirt open at the throat, no tie, dark jeans that cost enough to fund a grad student for a semester.
Most people wouldn’t notice the tailoring or the shoes, but that’s the point.
You don’t impress anyone by peacocking. You win by looking like you could buy the building and then forgetting about it.
My coffee sits in front of me, untouched. Black, crema ringed, already cooling. The staff is all young women with braided hair and acrylic nails, no one older than twenty-two. They act like they’re baristas in Florence, but they can’t spell macchiato to save their lives.
I clock the regulars immediately. Two girls in XXL sweatshirts huddled over a single scone, arms linked, talking in the code of girls who need to be admitted to the “right” sorority otherwise they might as well drop out.
A redhead with headphones buried in a MacBook, lips moving to the words she’s typing, maybe writing a thinkpiece or a bitter email to her ex.
Then, a blonde near the window, in yoga pants and a powder blue pullover, FaceTiming so loud I hear every third word: “Oh my God, no, I told him, like, literally, just stop…”
They’re all technically attractive, sure. But none of them have the sheer beauty and grace that are Andie.
My finger drums the table once, a metronome of impatience, then stops.
I exhale slow, the way I do before a deal closes or a judge reads out a verdict.
I reach into the inner pocket of my blazer and lightly finger the thing that’s kept me on balance for the last seventy-two hours: a folded scrap of white cotton, trimmed in baby blue.
The scent reaches my nostrils, and I breathe deep.
They’re Andie’s panties. They’re the kind of thing you’d buy in a Target ten-pack, nothing special, but when I ripped them off, she blushed so hard it was endearing. I could have told her to keep them on, but I wanted the trophy. I always want the trophy.
The fabric is still faintly scented with her: honey, sweat, and the scented female musk that’s her.
I run my thumb over the stiff patch, remembering the way she looked bent over in the library, panties yanked to her knees, her ass high and shivering as I pushed deep into her rectum.
The jolt of surprise she gave, and then the long, low keening cry of submission and desire.
The way she began to get into it, humping her ass against me, and even reaching back with two hands to pull her butt cheeks apart, spreading herself so that I could get in deeper.
That’s my nasty girl. My filthy little whore.
I’ve jerked off with the panties wrapped around my cock twice already—once in the Four Seasons, once in my office, both times with the blinds drawn and the thought of her moaning incoherently as I flooded her asshole with come.
It should feel juvenile. It doesn’t. If anything, it feels elemental, like I’m staking a claim on a piece of earth no one else knows exists.
I gently finger the panties one more time, careful, as if they’re worth more than the watch on my wrist, and then put my hand back on the table.
Then I survey the room again, scanning for anyone who looks like they don’t belong.
There’s a student in the far corner, a guy with tattoos on every visible inch of skin, but he’s buried in a spiral notebook and not worth worrying about.
I catch the redhead watching me over her screen, green eyes speculative, but I’m not here for her.
I’m here for Andie. I’m always here for her, now.
I wonder if she’ll recognize me out of context. Will she expect a suit? Will she expect me to look like a dignitary, or like the man who pounded her into a bookshelf? I like the idea that she has no idea which version of me will show up. I like the idea that I don’t know, either.
There’s a click of the front door, a spill of cold air, and for a second everyone in the café turns to look. The girl who enters is almost invisible at first—she’s dressed like she doesn’t want to be seen, navy coat, faded jeans, a scarf covering her hair, like she’s traveling incognito.
It takes me two heartbeats to realize: it’s her.
She’s come early, maybe to scope me out, maybe to talk herself into leaving.
She stands just inside the threshold, scanning the room, and somehow, she doesn’t see me.
It must be because of the crowd. The beautiful blonde hesitates, hand on the strap of her bag, then crosses to the counter, orders something I can’t hear, and perches on the edge of a high stool by the window.
She’s turned away. Her body is tense, posture perfect, like she’s bracing for a car crash.
I let her sweat for a minute. I want her to feel the anticipation, the uncertainty. I want her to remember what I did to her, and what I can do again. I take a sip of the coffee, grimace, and set it aside. The act of drinking it is enough for me.
She fidgets with her phone, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. She checks the door, then the window, then her phone again, then the door, then the window. I can see the argument playing out on her face: Stay or go? Speak or run? Let the whole thing disappear, or make it real?
I let her sit there for another sixty seconds. Then I stand, smooth my blazer, and walk to her.
She doesn’t see me coming until I’m right behind her.
By now, the scarf lies discarded on the table next to her.
The light is hitting her golden strands in a way that makes it look almost white.
Her skin is milk-pale, and there’s a band of freckles across the bridge of her nose that I never saw before.
She’s heart-breakingly beautiful in the clear light of the cafe.
“Andie,” I growl, and her shoulders go rigid.
She turns, eyes wide and blue, and for a second I think she might actually bolt.
“Thomas,” she says, voice too loud for the room, and then she laughs, a nervous, breathless sound. “Sorry. I didn’t know if you’d show.”
I lean in, just enough to make her shift in her seat. “Did you want me to?”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “I wasn’t sure. I guess I wanted to see if you were real.”
I smile, slow and deliberate. “You tell me.”
For a second, the whole café falls away. There’s just her, and me, and the memory of what we did with no names and no context.
“You look different,” she says, studying my face. “You look… softer.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”
She blushes, instantly. “I didn’t mean— I just thought you’d be in a suit, is all.”
I want to reach out, tuck her hair behind her ear, but I keep my hands in my pockets. “No suits outside the office,” I say. “Too many people know me in this town. Easier to blend in when I look like a guy on a lunch break.”
She nods, but her fingers are twisting the scarf, winding and unwinding next to her.
There’s a silence, sharp as glass. I decide to break it.
“I already have a table. Do you want to move over there?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Yes. Please.”
I lead her back to my corner table, the one with the view of the whole café and the street beyond.
She slides into the seat opposite, tucking her legs under her, and sets her coffee down with trembling hands.
Up close, I can see she’s wearing a little mascara, but it’s slightly smudged under her eyes and somehow, that makes her even more beautiful.
Vulnerable. Her lips are swollen pink, and immediately, I wonder if it’s because of my kisses.
She looks sleep-deprived, but not in a way that makes her less attractive.
If anything, it makes her more so. Like she’s seen the worst of herself and survived.
She takes a deep breath, then says, “Is this weird for you?”
I consider the question. “No. Is it weird for you?”
She nods, then laughs. “Yes. But also, it’s fine? I don’t know.”
I watch her, watch the way she avoids my gaze but then looks up, defiantly, just to prove she can.
“Did you want to see me again?” I ask, knowing the answer, wanting to make her say it out loud.
She bites her lip, then nods. “Yes,” she whispers. “I did.”
For a moment, I imagine reaching across the table, pulling her hand into mine, kissing her right here, in front of everyone. I imagine what she’d do if I fucked her in the bathroom, pressed her face to the mirror and made her beg for it.
Instead, I just smile. “Me too,” I say, and it’s the only truth I need.
We sit there, the two of us, in the bustle of the café. She sips her coffee. I stare at her lips. The room is loud and bright, but it could be empty for all I care.
I reach into my pocket and find the edge of her panties, just to make sure they’re still there.
They are.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that there is no way I’m letting her go.
I release the panties, slow and deliberate. They stick to my finger for a second, glued by some old trace of her vaginal nectar, and the animal part of me wants to bring them to my face, to inhale. But I’m a man with rules. I don’t break them for anyone.
Or, I didn’t, until now.