It will only be coffee.
That's what I told myself when I stopped the seventh phone call within the hour from going to voicemail.
Its just one cup of coffee.
Is what I whispered in response to the unrelenting plea that tickled down the phone in a sinful concoction of gravelly rich audible chocolate, making me question why I had ever left.
Its just coffee, I can leave whenever I want.
Was what I told myself as I shed my black Burberry mac and hung it over the back of the tall arm chair, tucked away in the most secluded corner of the family run coffee shop. He was waiting, sat down opposite after taking the liberty to choose the seat that faced away from the lunch time bustle of people for himself. He was already fingering the rim of his coffee cup- no sugar with a dash of skimmed milk- when I ordered a cappuccino to-go.
"You look good."
"Its just coffee." I push out on the most convincing breath I can manage when my eyes rake over his devastatingly handsome face.
Slightly dishevelled and sexy as hell. The white shirt tells me clearly he has business to attend to, but the fact his mobile lies upturned and discarded on the table signifies that it can't be more important than coffee.
"Damn it Lily, you look so good."
I'm alarmed by his tone, and the way he brings a fist down to his knee before dragging it across the side of his cheek. I hear the scratch of the stubble beneath his fingers and wonder what it would feel like back between my thighs again. I was missing Ray a little more than wanted.
I cross my legs a little tighter, the stretch of my black pencil skirt riding up to my mid-thigh under the strain. Ray isn't discrete about staring. I'm about to tell him that its only coffee, but the small yet wide barista interrupts to place my cappuccino on the knee high coffee table between us.
"Come back." He states blandly, taking a sip of coffee before lowing the cup decisively back on to the saucer. For a man of apparent desperation, he doesn't show it. Not until hes naked, slick with sweat and shouting my name with any number of expletives at a time. That's usually how it goes anyway, before it was just coffee. "I need you. I need you to come back."
"This is just coffee." I state again, because they're the only four words I know how to say at the moment.
"What the fuck is that suppose to mean?" He bites back, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, elbows on knees as he lowers his voice more octaves than should be possible.
"There are no conversational rules here. It might be a coffee shop but I didn't come to discuss the fucking fine grind coffee beans of the Kenyan boarders. I'm here to tell you to come back."
I swallow, the rich agitation in his tone striking a chord with the desperate yearning unfurling below my stomach. I unfold my legs and then cross them again, but it doesn't alleviate the pressure and so all I can do is hope that he doesn't notice my nails clawing desperately at the hem of my skirt for some form of relief.
"It doesn't have to be just coffee." He murmurs, as if reading my mind. But then again, he was always good at that. I watch his forearms flex, the freshly tanned skin showcased by the sleeves of his shirt being rolled up to his elbows. "Just how tightly are you pressing those sexy thighs together right now, Darling?" His eyebrow dances in his hairline as he takes another sip of coffee, swallowing slowly with intention and when he licks his lips I know we're both imagining something else. And in that moment there are two thoughts circulating my mind.
A) I hate him.
B) I wish i had worn tights, or something, anything, to stem the thick flow of arousal coating the inside of my thigh.
