An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 12

I took my time scrubbing Theo's pots and pans, drowning in my own cognitive dissonance. After our sinful act in the coffee shop, I'd grown confident enough to follow through on Baker's suggestion—or so I'd thought. But that was before Theo had invited me to his house and cooked me a delicious meal, absent of alcohol, absent of sex. That was before he'd told me he wanted to hang out more often in that warm, non-sensuous tone.

Despite my best efforts, the doubt had found its way in through the cracks of indecisiveness and inexpression, and now I was left treading water in a tumultuous sea of confusion.

What did this man want from me? What was he after?

When my fingers began to prune, Theo appeared behind me and reached over my shoulder to turn off the faucet. His body was close enough to test a platonic boundary, and he smelled like a coffee date on a back patio—like a percolator on an autumn camping trip.

I lifted my hands from the sink, searching for a means of drying them, but he'd already snatched a towel for me. "Here," he said, dropping the cloth in my hands. His voice was deep in his throat. Scratchy, like he'd been waiting to say something for a while now, but he wasn't sure how.

I dried my hands, still facing the kitchen sink, my shoulder blades just inches from his chest. He lingered behind me, trapping me against the cabinets, trapping me in my head, and my pulse throbbed in my fingertips.

Oh...Jesus.

Slowly, I set the towel aside, and my arm brushed against the firm stretch of his stomach. But instead of backing away to grant me more space, the barista maintained the pressure, leaning into me to chase the contact. I refused to retreat from him, and as he shifted his weight forward, we found ourselves in a very familiar position to our ungodly coffee shop interaction.

Okay then.

Perhaps he wasn't seeking friendship after all.

I held my breath, too focused on the heat emanating from his chest and abdomen to think rationally. And then, just as Theo placed his hands on my waist, I rocked backward into his frame—gently, but with unmistakable yearning.

We waited at the crossroads in silence, unmoving, unbudging, and upon every exhale, my back grazed his chest, sending a burst of delicious sparks throughout my body. Theo's warm breath fell across my neck, tickling my ear, and I felt like he'd set me aflame.

The tension brewed in the narrow space between us, and apprehension gnawed at my skeleton. There was a sense of reservation in both of us that hadn't existed before, and I sensed Theo's hesitancy in his palms, in the nervous shudder of his breast. Deep inside, I felt the schizophrenic desire to want something so, so badly, and yet not at all.

We stood there at a stalemate, stuck in a Chinese thumb cuff and unsure how to remove ourselves from this enclosure.

Snap out of it, Moe.

Don't make this mess any stickier.

I turned around to face my host, and Theo's hands released me for a few seconds before settling back on my hips, this time above the rim of my jeans and under the hem of my sweater. His palms were hot against my skin, and he slid his knee between my legs—casually, smoothly, unhurriedly—bringing his groin dangerously close to mine.

At this point, my heart was pounding so hard, I was sure he could hear it, and I didn't dare meet his eyes. "Theo," I began, my throat dry, my tongue too heavy. "What...is this?"

His confidence wavered, and his hands halted in their ascent up my waist. "What?"

I finally mustered the courage to look at him, and the confusion in his eyes made me feel like an asshole for even asking. "I...was this supposed to be a date?"