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“Sure you are.” I don’t know why, but I lingered. For some reason, I didn’t feel ready to leave. I looked down at the bike’s front tire and casually asked, “Do you want to come up? I’m sure Larry would love to watch aSeinfeldrerun with you.”
It was impossible to see his eyes in the darkness, but after a moment he said, “I should probably head home.”
“Boo,” I said, stepping a little closer and running my fingeralong the rubber-tipped end of the handlebar. “I don’t want to be done celebrating with you.”
“Me either,” he said, reaching out a hand to grasp a slip of my blazer between his thumb and forefinger and tugging. “But nothing good happens after dark.”
“I think we both know that isn’t true,” I said, my breath stopped up in my chest from the insinuation in his words. I knew we shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it; I was hungry for more dark nights with him.
“Nothingsmarthappens forus. Is that better?” he asked, and I knew by his tone that he absolutely wanted the same thing I did but was just stronger than me.
“No,” I replied, “but I suppose it’s better anyway—it’s a work night. Thanks for the ride, Maxxie.”
There was a sarcastic grin in his voice when he said, “Anytime,honey.”
And that endearment—that stupid endearment that I’d always found so damn generic and lame when other people said it—set me on fire. I shivered at the memory of his words in that hotel room.Fuck, yes, honey, you feel so fucking good.
I watched him ride away on that stupid rent-a-bike, and then I pulled out my phone.
I texted:Do you ever think about the mirror in the hotel room?
I knew it was dumb, but we’d never talked about it. I didn’t know if it was just a weird kink I hadn’t known I possessed, or if it was actually the white-hot moment that it felt like we’d shared.
I went inside, and when he hadn’t responded an hour later, after I’d changed into pajamas, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, I assumed he wasn’t going to. He’d probably decided, in his infinite mature wisdom, that texting about our former sexual liaison was a bad idea and a slippery slope that could only lead to sexting.
Very smart.
Good idea.
Practical, practical Max.
But the minute I turned off my lamp and slid under the covers, the phone buzzed.
Max:If you’re going to ask me that, Sophie Gracie Steinbeck, you better be ready for my answer.
My breathing was immediately shallow, my pulse quickening as I read and reread the message in the darkness of my bedroom. I texted:I’m ready.
Max:I think about it all the time. I’ve literally dreamed about it. Watching you watching me was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.
I swallowed and replied:Agreed.
Max:While we’re at this—you know, stupidly exchanging sex talk like this is a good idea (it’s not)—I think you should know that there’s something about the way you bite and claw that drives me out of my mind.
I texted:I do NOT do that.
Max:No, you fucking grab and lead and are so damn intense that I can barely control myself. I cannot tell you how much I love it.
Me:I mean, I’m glad you liked it but I still don’t think I did that.
Max:Shall I send you a pic of my back?
I made a squealing noise and covered my mouth, half giggling and half dying of embarrassment. I typed:NO.
Max:Just know that I will.
I put my hand on my stomach.This probably IS a bad idea.
Max:Oh, I know that it is.
