The top shelf happens to be very, very high when you are 5’2”. I climb onto the counter, but even on my knees, I can’t quite reach—

An arm wraps around my waist, and I’m supported by a warm wall of flesh from behind. “I didn’t save you from murder so you could kill yourself in my kitchen a day later, squirt.”

“Coffee,” I squeak. That’s the extent of my communication skills.

Because on top of my uncaffeinated state, the wall of flesh behind me has short circuited every nerve pathway in my body all at once.

Fletch pulls me down with one arm, his warm hand slipping under the hem of my t-shirt a bit while I slide down his body, his other hand reaching for the coffee maker. He can’t know or possibly understand how this is the most sexual encounter with a guy I’ve ever had. But my body knows. My nipples tighten, and my panties are wet.

He hasn’t stepped away, so I’m trapped between his hard body and the counter. “There.”

I close my eyes and his hand roams higher, squeezing my breast.

In my fantasy. Naturally.

Which is so much better than my old fantasy of him telling a room full of people we are dating. But also way more inappropriate. I do not need to kickstart Fletch back to the top of my fantasy list. But I’m not sure I’m going to have much control over it.

“Anything else?” he asks.

I suppose I can’t ask him to show me his penis. Or bend me over the counter and make a woman out of me. So I answer, “Please tell me you have coffee for this thing.”

He chuckles lowly, and I swear to God the sound of his voice tugs on the string inside of me connecting my nipples to my secret garden girl parts. He steps away, leaving me bereft and empty, and opens another cabinet, rearranging the contents and pulling out a red can of not exactly awesome ground coffee.

“From the look on your face, this is not the news you were hoping for.”

I try to relax my grimace. “I’m a horrible house guest. Sorry. I just...Fletch, you were brought up better than store brand coffee.” I think longingly about his parents’ espresso machine. It was made in Italy, and their dad shines the chrome on it once a week. “What happened to you?”

He laughs. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”

I gasp.

“I left that to you and my sister. And my folks, of course.”

I guess I never really paid attention to his coffee habits. Or lack thereof. “We’re total coffee snobs, aren’t we?”

“Kinda yeah.” He points to the drip machine. “You know how to use one of these?”

I nod. “Does Shane drink coffee, or am I making a small pot?”