Page 88 of Cherry Picking

I lie still and allow myself to exist in the bubble. Usually, I’d be running the numbers on the day—Murphy’s schedule, my bill rotation, whatever disaster is currently unfolding at Sutton & Sons. Instead, I match his breathing as the light changes from charcoal to lead.

Briggs surfaces gradually. His arm tightens around me, followed by a rough, low sound against my hair, his mouth finding the junction of my shoulder before his eyes are even open.

“What’s the time?” he asks, his voice wrecked with sleep.

“Early. Go back to bed.”

“Can’t.” He doesn’t move to get up, though. If anything, he hauls me in closer. “Game day. My body’s a traitor.”

“Your body seems pretty committed to staying right here.”

“He’s confused by the very pretty girl in his bed.” He presses a dry kiss behind my ear. “Sleep okay?”

“Better than I have in months.” The truth is out before I can polish it, and I tense as he goes still against me.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“I’m not.” His hand spreads flat over my ribs, warm and possessive. “I’m just filing it away.”

We stay pinned together longer than we should, morning light climbing the walls. Somewhere down the block, a garbage truck does its slow, grinding work. His thumb traces an idle line back and forth across my hip bone.

It’s nice—he’s a mountain of a man, perfectly content to lie in the dark with his hand on me, going nowhere.

But I’m more than ready for it to. I turn in his arms, fisting my hands in his undershirt, pulling him in until the shape of his mouth is the only thing I can think about. Desperately, I nip at his lower lip, and he opens for me with a groan that I feel in my teeth.

His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hair, the small of my back—hauling me against him until there’s no space left between us. He rolls his hips heavily into mine, the drag of his erection forcing me to arch up off the mattress.

I hook a leg over his as I chase the friction. He gives it to me, grinding down in a steady press that makes my breath stutter against his mouth. By the time he’s hovering over me, his eyes are dark with hunger.

I’m slick already, the ridge of him through his sweats catching my clit on every pass. He bites my lip and holds it between his teeth.

When he pulls back, I ask, “Do you think we have enough time to . . .”

His eyes go dark, and then he drops his forehead to mine and exhales a laugh. “Probably not.” He grunts, rolling onto his back as he drags a palm down his face. “I have to feed you and get to the rink.”

“You have to feed me?”

“I promised you a cortado. Food’s extra.” He’s already sitting up, all that hard-earned muscle on display. “I don’t break coffee promises.”

The coffee shop lives up to the reputation he’s been building for it. Briggs handles the order, rattling off mine before I can even open my mouth.

We make the return trip through his neighborhood with the cups warming our palms. He narrates our surroundings—a house with solid bones, a golden retriever he’s on nodding terms with, and the precise patch of concrete where he ate it on black ice last winter.

On the corner, a restaurant has a chalkboard parked out front, little hearts encircling a prix fixe menu. Valentine Specials. I stop in my tracks.

“Maxwell.”

He’s three strides ahead before he realizes the gap. “Yeah?”

“What’s the date today?”

He pivots, dragging a hand through his hair. “The fourteenth.”

“You flew me out here on Valentine’s weekend.” I aim my cup at his chest. “This was the play all along, wasn’t it?”

A small, stubborn grin fights its way out. “It’s a coincidence of the schedule.”