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I shrugged. “I admit defeat.”
“Thank fucking God.” He put his own cue down and grabbed my wrist. “Let’s go.”
Well, damn—it looked like I’d already won. I tried not to laugh in triumph as he led me out the door.
We went back to his apartment, which was what I wanted. My place was nicer, but it was tiny, and somehow Max didn’t belong there. Besides, against all odds I liked Shady Oaks, with its cracked concrete, empty pool filled with leaves and old beer bottles, and undeniably criminal neighbors. I liked Max’s place, full of his personality, his well-read books and his t-shirt tossed over the back of the sofa. I didn’t want to be girly tonight. I wanted to be buried in him, surrounded by him, wrapped in is delicious smell. In his bed.
He followed me into the apartment and I kicked off my sandals. I’d been uncertain when we were in the bar, but now that we were in his place, I thought my chances were good. I was pretty certain. I had to remember that the way Max was, he would likely never make a move in a public place.
But in private…
I walked into his kitchen, not even glancing at him, every inch of my skin alive with anticipation. “You got anything to drink?” I asked. “I think I’d like—”
He spun me around, pinned me against the counter, and kissed me.
I opened my mouth immediately and bit him. He bit me back, kissing me harder, scraping my skin. He put his hands on my jaw and pressed into me, and I slid my arms around his waist, feeling the heat and hardness of his chest against me, his stomach, his back beneath my hands. We’d never kissed standing up before, and our bodies fit perfectly, even though he was taller than me, more muscled. If he broke the kiss, I’d be able to fit the curve of my cheek right on to the taut, warm skin of his neck. If I sank to my knees, I’d be the perfect height to suck him off.
He dropped his mouth to the soft skin beneath my ear, kissed roughly down my neck, and paused. “Fuck,” he said, his breath warm on my skin.
I moved my hands back around his front and pushed up his black sweater and the t-shirt underneath. I slid my palms over his taut, perfect stomach, slowly scratched my nails through the line of hair beneath his belly button. “You nervous?” I asked him. “We’ve already done this.”
But I was lying, and we both knew it. We hadn’t done this, not exactly. We’d fucked, and that seemed like a lot, but it wasn’t everything. It was far from everything.
Right now, I wanted everything. Everything I could get.
He lifted his head and kissed me again, slower this time, sliding his tongue along the inside of my lower lip, exploring me as he cradled my head. He was still pinning me to the counter, and I could feel his heat through his clothes, feel the tantalizing shape and hardness of his cock in his jeans. I was already wet. I groaned softly into his mouth.
He pulled away, and something flashed across his expression, something that looked a little like alarm. “I should…” He looked away from me, frowned to himself. “Wait a second.”
He left me, and I heard him walk to the sofa, sit down. I turned to see him bent down, taking off his boots.
He’d gone back inside his head. I’d watched it. It had something to do with his leg, with feeling awkward about it. He wanted his boots off to have sex. Did he not want me to see his leg? He’d already showed it to me, by his own choice, without my asking. I didn’t know, but I sensed the change, back to lost-in-thought Max, and it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted passionate, turned-on, dirty-kissing Max back.
So I followed him to the sofa and stood in front of him. He glanced up at me just as I pulled my shirt off over my head and dropped it, leaving only my lacy bra.
The breath hushed out of him, and his eyes went wide. “Wait,” he said.
“No way.” I stepped forward, between his knees, pushing his apart with mine. For a second I felt the familiarity—him on the sofa, me standing in front of him, taking my clothes off—but I felt the difference, too. The hushed quiet, the lack of a show. I knew exactly what I wanted. I watched his face as I dropped to my knees between his legs.
He knew what I was doing, and he looked turned on and almost panicked at the same time. “Gwen.”
“Be quiet.” I put my palms on his thighs—oh, I liked his thighs. Thick with muscle, hard and warm. I slid my hands up and began to unbuckle his belt.
He went still, his body tight, his muscles tense. Wanting it, and feeling some kind of instinct to stop it. I opened his belt, the top button on his jeans, the next button. He didn’t stop it.
I was turned on. I wanted this; it was the only thing on my mind. And he had no idea, but this wasn’t my usual method at all. When a guy got sex with me—which wasn’t a given—we started out with the usual: intercourse, me on my back. If he passed that test, I might get creative, but only if I was feeling generous. A blow job was for much further down the line—weeks, maybe. I’d never given a man a blow job without making him beg for it.
But I slid my hand inside Max’s boxers, and he made a little sound, and I just wanted his cock. I wanted it. I’d felt it, what it could do, but I wanted to see it up close. Taste it. As I pushed down his jeans and boxers, he flexed his hips as it came free, and I curled my fingers around it, palming it and feeling every contour.
His voice was choked, strangled as he watched me. “I thought you were joking about the blow job.”
“I wasn’t,” I said, and bent and took him in my mouth.
He tensed again, almost like it hurt. Did he not do this very much? I didn’t know. I slid up and down him experimentally, using my tongue, trying to get him to relax. He just choked another breath, his thighs hard as granite against me.
But he didn’t stop me, and I leaned into it, getting my rhythm, making him feel it. He tasted good, and I used my tongue more than I usually did, savoring the texture and flavor of his
skin. I tilted my head just right so my hair fell forward, and I knew he was looking at my blonde hair trailing over his sweater, which was still pulled over his stomach, my bare shoulders beyond.
