I don’t know who I’ve become—a woman who begs for sex in the kitchen of the café she works in, apparently—but I can’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth. My entire body is on fire for the man between my legs, but he’s not close enough. I want it to be even hotter. I don’t care if it’s so spicy it burns my mouth. I have to have him. Anyway, I’m not exactly begging, I’m just confirming that I want this, and I want it badly. 

Ryder’s shorts hit the floor with a soft thud, and I look down to the most perfect cock I’ve ever seen.

He’s hung, and it’s flawless. No strange curves, just smooth skin. I don’t have to touch him to know that it must be painfully hard.

I don’t have to touch him, but I do. I reach down and grip the length of him. His cock pulses in my hand. A low growl escapes Ryder’s mouth. 

I’m not the only one who’s going crazy waiting for this.

All at once his hands are cupping my face, callused against my skin, and he’s tipping my face up toward his. I think it’s going to be another rough kiss, our mouths colliding like they did in the dark of his front yard, but instead, he kisses me so gently that tears come to my eyes.

The moment kaleidoscopes out. My hand is still wrapped around him, but he’s kissing me like I’m a precious, fragile object, like we’ve been together for years, like we’re alone in our bedroom, the door locked behind us, and not about to screw like animals on a prep table in the Short Stack’s kitchen. It sends heat spiraling down between my legs. I’m wet for him. I’m wet for this. But there’s a strange ache in my chest. I want more than this. I want more, but there’s no way I can tell him.

Then he pulls back and looks into my eyes, a breath caught in his throat. I can’t read his expression, and for a long moment, we’re frozen.

I can’t take it. What is this, even? It doesn’t feel like a hot summer fling. It doesn’t feel like something you can just discard at the end of August like an old bathing suit.

It’s up to me to end it.

“Fuck me,” I whisper, the words harsh against the tenderness of his kiss.

Okay. Now I’m begging.

It snaps him out of whatever that fantasy was, and it could be anything—the two of us in a house with a white picket fence, some vacation in Las Vegas, I have no idea—but his eyes narrow and that sexy grin reappears. “I won’t make you ask twice,” he says, and then he comes back for more.

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

And God, do I love it.

I let myself go under the force of his kiss, raw and powerful. I let go of his cock and hang on for dear life, the muscles of his arms flexing under my hands.

Then his hands are on my waist, on my hips, pulling me to the edge of the table. Then he’s lining himself up, the thick head of his cock at my opening. I’m soaking wet, I’ve never been more ready in my life, I need him to take me, I need him to erase every last place that Conrad ever was and free me from this nagging feeling that I’ll never get out of Lakewood again, fuck me, fuck me. I beg silently, biting my lip, tilting my hips toward him.

He enters me in one long thrust.

Ryder takes up every inch of space, claiming my body for his own, but it’s such a delicious stretch that I can hardly stay on the table. I want to throw myself forward, tackling him to the ground, and ride him, but I know for a fact that Gerald would have a fit if he ever found out I’d been screwing a man on his pristinely mopped floor.

The table will be easier to clean. And we’ll have to clean it because I’m pretty sure it’s already pretty wet.

My nipples are hard. I wonder if Ryder can feel them through my bra, through the two shirts between us, because I can’t let go. I’m wrapped around him tightly, and the sensation of being filled by him is so damn perfect that I don’t want him to pull back for another thrust.

Only I do. 

Ryder makes the decision for both of us, rocking back for another powerful thrust, his hands firm on my hips. He’s so tightly muscular that I can hardly stand it. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. He gets into a rhythm with a growl that he lets out through clenched teeth.

“You’re too good for this.”

The words don’t make sense at first, and then they do. “No. I’m just bad enough.” Even through the haze of pleasure wrapping itself around all of my senses, I’m pretty pleased with that line. For once in my life, something unbelievably fucking hot is happening, and I’m enjoying the hell out of it. It feels good to be just a little bit reckless, just a little bit out of control.

I open my mouth to tell Ryder to fuck me harder, fuck me faster, to give myself over to this with total abandon. “Yes.” It’s one breathless word, and then I find my voice. “Harder. Please, harder—” 

A loud pounding on the door stops my heart mid-beat and turns the words into a shriek. 

At the sound of someone’s fist making contact with the metal storm door on the side of the Short Stack, I just react. So much for being sexy and reckless. Instead, I shove Ryder backward with all my strength and leap off the table. Only my panties are a shredded pile of cloth on the floor.

“My panties!” I cry, forgetting to keep my voice down. I don’t want to put my shorts on without them because the shorts are tight, and I’m soaked. “How am I supposed to wear my shorts?” I sweep the shorts off the floor and thrust them at Ryder like he can help me.

He laughs and bends for his shorts.

Fine. I’ll wear the damn shorts. It’s an effort to pull them up, and the fabric sticks between my legs.

Very sexy.

“Hello?” The knock comes again, along with a muffled greeting from outside. 

My mind goes into overdrive. How much did this guy hear? What is he going to do? Maybe he’ll just leave. 

But he doesn’t leave. He knocks again as Ryder zips up his shorts and does his belt. 

“I swear to God, Valentine, every time we—”

“Shhh.” I hiss at him, shooting him a look.

He laughs again. “Are you going to get that?”

I yank open the inner door, turning my back on Ryder in the process and drawing myself up to my full height. Out the corner of my eye, I see Ryder bend to reach for something on the floor and shove it into his pocket.

My panties.

Jesus.

“Hello?” The word comes out sharply, and I immediately regret it. The guy standing in the alley next to the restaurant can’t be more than twenty. You’re at work, Valentine. Act like it. I clear my throat and try again. “Hi. How can I help you?”

He’s wearing a red shirt with a red baseball cap. All of it looks company issued. Oh, shit. The meat delivery. 

I’ve just been interrupted mid-coitus by a truck full of meat. 

“I’m from Pinehill Farms,” the guy says, recovering. “I’ve got a shipment—”

“Great.” I want this conversation to be over so I can go back to doing...Ryder. “You can bring the crates in and put them in the walk-in—”

“—of sausages,” he finishes, and I hear Ryder try to stifle a laugh behind me. “I’m going to need you to double-check that the order is correct, though.” He lifts a clipboard and looks down. “Extra-long sausage links,” he says, without batting an eye. Then his face brightens. “Thick, too.”