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I order coffee and quickly claim my favorite table in the corner, eager to work on my column and finish it if I can before Reese is done. With plenty of notes for the day, I’m fast. Forty-five minutes later, my coffee is gone, my column is sent to my editor, and I ask one of my neighbors to guard my things while I run to the bathroom. I’m just washing up when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read a message from Reese: I’m here.
My heart starts racing just at the idea of seeing him. It’s crazy how intensely this man affects me. I open the door, and he’s standing right in front of me. “Reese.”
He answers in a quick wave of action. He walks me backward, into the bathroom, his hand under my sweater, hot on my skin. “We can’t do this,” I say, but he’s already locking the door and maneuverers me against it. “I missed you.”
“You didn’t have time to—”
His mouth closes down on mine again, and I forget what I was going to say. He’s drugging me. That has to be it. I can’t think until his lips leave mine and in the meantime, he manages to tug my shirt up to my waist. “We can’t do this here,” I say firmly this time, pushing on his chest.
“Why?”
“People—”
He kisses me again, and oh God. His hand is under my panties, sliding along the now wet seam of my body, and I’m arching into his touch. “Come for me and we will wait to fuck until we get home.”
I grab his arms. “This is wrong, Reese.”
He lifts me and sets me on top of the sink, spreads my legs, and goes down on one knee, wasting no time once there. Already his tongue is on my clit, sending a shockwave of sensation through my body. I lean against the mirror and my hands grip the sink. I have never experienced anything like this with any other man. This total inability to feel anything but him. He’s licking me. Touching me. His fingers are inside me. My leg is on his shoulder and I don’t remember him lifting it. And then it happens. Right here in the bathroom of my favorite coffee shop. That rise of bliss that renders me incapable of moving right before I quake. Oh, and how I quake and tremble and how perfectly he licks me through it all. Fast. Slow. Perfect.
I’m a limp noodle when it’s over, and Reese lifts me to the ground, pulls down my skirt, and kisses me, with my taste on his tongue. He follows that kiss with the declaration of, “That’s how I want to taste for the rest of my life.”
I take that in with a jolt and possibly another sway. Maybe it was one of those after-sex statements, but those words, “for the rest of my life,” affect me, but he doesn’t back away from them. He strokes my cheek in that gentle way he does with his knuckles and says, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let’s go get you some extra things at your apartment.”
I don’t argue. I want to be with him. How can I not want to be with this man?
A few minutes later, I’ve packed up my briefcase up at my table. In the process, I try not to look at anyone, for fear they will see “girl who just had an orgasm compliments of Mr. Hotness standing right by her” written all over me. Once my bag is loaded, Reese throws away my cup and then, to my surprise, shrugs out of his coat and slips it around my shoulders. “It dropped about ten degrees outside. You’ll need this.”
“What about you?”
Those blue eyes of his smolder. “You can warm me up when we get home.”
Home.
There is that word again. “Your home or my home?” I say before I can stop myself.
“The one we’re sharing right now, Cat,” he says, lacing his fingers with mine. “Come on, sweetheart.”
He leads me forward and we step outside, and he’s right. It’s chilly and we walk the short walk quickly, and as we do, I can’t help but feel this man’s presence next to me. I’m aware of him on every level: his smell, his coat, his energy. The world, my world, is simply warmer, no, richer, is the better word, with him in it.
Once we’re in my apartment, I pack up, and Reese calls us a car to make carrying my bags easier and traveling to his place warmer. I’ve finished packing, including enough items to get me by for a week, if necessary. Once I’ve zipped up my bags, I pull on my favorite Chanel trench coat and exit to my bedroom. Reese is sitting on my bed, looking at a photo from my nightstand of me and my mother about six months before she died. My heart squeezes just thinking about that night. “Your mother,” he says, looking up at me.
“Yes. My mother.”
“You look like her,” he says, setting the photo back on the nightstand.
“I hear that a lot.”
“How old was she when she died?”
“Fifty-five. Too young.”
“When, Cat?”
“Two years ago. Christmas week. She gave me this coat for Christmas three days before she died.”
“Right when you—”
“Broke up with Mitch and left my legal career. Yes.”
