Page 23 of One Secret

Cyrus crowds in closer and I splay my legs wider. I dive beneath his jacket and take up bulking handfuls of his sweater. Beneath my knuckles are the hard planes of his back, the bold edges of his shoulder blades.

I need to breathe, but can't bear to break the kiss. It's too consuming. Too alive. Too everything.

Heavy gasps fill the air and suddenly Cyrus is taking hold of my hips.

Fixing me in place, he thrusts up against me, his hips finding that instinctive, driving rhythm even as we're still dressed. His erection hits me hard, rubbing our clothes against my clit.

I cry out.

'Fuck, baby...' Cyrus breathes, breaking the kiss long enough to exhale. 'It's been too fucking long.'

'Your fault,' I pant, drawing him back to me. His lips are velvet soft, hot as hell, and cling eagerly to mine.

'My fault,' he agrees before entangling our tongues again, and sending us both into overdrive.

There's no reason, no logic. No small voice to remind us of the chefs on the other side of that very unlocked door.

Sensation is the only thing that matters right now. Taste. Scent. Touch... His hands in my hair. Mine working at the fly of his pants—

We both freeze as the kitchen doors are thrown wide. The bright lights of the kitchen render us blind.

'Darc—Dio santo!' Antonio sputters, standing in the rectangle of glowing yellow. Even as a silhouette, he's clearly taken aback. 'The cazzo are you—' He grinds to an awkward halt, not knowing what to say. Instead, he turns on Cyrus. 'You! Get your hands off my staff and your ass out of my kitchen!'

4

I don't hear from Cyrus for two weeks after Antonio's grand entrance interruptus.

When I do, it's a sole text sent one random afternoon:

"Tuesday. 11:30am. I'll pick you up."

With any other guy, I might have worried that his limited communication was personal. That being accosted by an angry Italian in a large, crooked chef's hat had somehow killed the mood between us permanently.

But Cyrus isn't the sort to suffer performance anxiety. Back in the kitchen stores, he'd held cool in the face of the intrusion, admitted that he had somewhere he needed to be, and—after a little forcing of his hand—promised to be in touch about the trip.

The minimalist communication since then is SOP as far as our relationship goes.

'He's not here yet,' Lily-Anne calls from across the room.

Dousing a couple of teabags in hot water, I take the pair of mugs in hand.

As I skirt the kitchen counter and head across the room, I'm struck by Lily-Anne's pose: perched cross-legged on my roll-out bed with her thumb and forefinger prying apart the slats of the blinds.

With the AC always on the blink, it's a necessity in the summer to keep the apartment in shade. Lily-Anne's nosiness is casting a guillotine of light across the dull carpet and I can't help but think she's the epitome of expectation.

Of waiting.

The concept strikes a chord somewhere in my chest. Somewhere a little too close to home.

I give myself a mental shake, hand her the mug of jasmine tea, and keep the earl grey for myself.

'He will be,' I tell her, glancing at the clock.

11:27am.

'You sure? I thought you said this guy is unreliable?' Lily-Anne scowls as she warms her palms on the ceramic.

'I said irregular,' I correct. 'I never know when I'm gonna see him but when he confirms a meet, he's never not there.'

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