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He leaned forward and brushed his mouth over mine, his tongue touching me as I stroked. He was close, I could tell—his muscles were tight, his breath short. “You’ll get what you want,” he said. “You always do.”
I was out of breath. I had never been so turned on when a man wasn’t even touching me. I had nothing bu
t the bare truth left in me. “I want to see it,” I confessed.
And his voice, again, made me shiver. “No,” he said darkly. “You want to swallow it.”
And I did. I suddenly wanted that more than anything. I slid off his lap and onto my knees on the floor, and as the limo took the highway to South San Francisco, I swallowed every last drop.
It was wonderful.
While I was readjusting my dress and sitting back down on the seat like a normal person, Max zipped his pants and opened the window that communicated to the driver. “Just one stop,” he said shortly. “Miss Maplethorpe’s place.” He closed the window again, sat down, and looked at me. “We’re not done.”
I didn’t answer, but my heart tripped in my chest and my neck felt hot.
It wasn’t just sex he was talking about. Max Reilly had plans. And I was about to find out what they were.
Chapter 15
Gwen
Max looked huge in my tiny apartment, taking up all the space in the middle of the room. He looked around briefly, taking in everything in a glance, his expression unreadable. I turned on the lamp next to my tiny futon sofa, not ready for the scrutiny of the overhead lights.
I was shaky. Hot. Turned on, able to feel how slick and wet I was between my legs. And I was nervous. I had the feeling that the power I’d grabbed in the limo had slipped out of my hands and into his—and I gave it up willingly, which I didn’t understand.
I stood in the middle of the room, watching him. He was tall and gorgeous, muscled beneath his nice clothes. His stomach was perfectly flat beneath his dress shirt, the lines unbroken where it was tucked in to his pants. He’d managed to straighten himself out better than I had; I could feel that my dress was wrinkled, my underwear damp, my skin blotched with heat.
He turned to me, his eyes dark and unreadable, and walked toward me. I have no idea what he’s going to do, I thought, and the idea was thrilling. Maybe he’d talk to me; maybe he’d fuck me; maybe he’d do neither. Maybe he’d simply walk past me and leave. I’d always been able to predict what a man would do, especially once I had him alone in my apartment. I could tell when he would make small talk, when he’d decide to make a move. I could tell so far ahead that I’d already decided what my reaction would be by the time he got there.
Max rounded behind me and brushed my hair off the back of my neck, exposing the zipper of my dress. Then, without a word, he unzipped it.
He didn’t speak. I held still, feeling the zipper lower down my back. I had the feeling that this wasn’t about sex, though my body was humming in hopeful anticipation. The few times we’d had sex, Max hadn’t been like this; he’d been hot, barely restrained, as if a door he kept locked was pried open. Now he was cool, all business.
So I waited. He drew the zipper all the way down, then edged the dress off my shoulders. He held it, decorously, as I took my cue and stepped out of it. Then he draped it calmly over the back of my kitchen chair.
“Your shoes,” he said, and I pushed off my heels. Now I was standing in my bare feet, wearing only my bra and panties. Max stood off to the side, regarding me. He scratched his beard.
“There’s something I’ve been trying to figure out about you,” he said.
I fought the urge to fidget. How many men had I stood in front of, wearing nothing but skimpy underwear? Hundreds, probably, in my career. But I already knew that being naked in front of Max wasn’t like being naked in front of anyone else. I didn’t know what this game was, but I knew I wanted to play.
“What is it?” I asked.
He was still, watching me. “I’ve been thinking about what you want.” He stepped forward, looking at me more closely, as if I were a statue in a museum. “I wonder about it. Not just what you want in the next few minutes. I mean what you really want.”
For some reason, my mouth went dry. No one had ever asked me that. “It isn’t complicated,” I managed.
“I think it is.” His finger touched my bra strap, and my nipples hardened. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. “I think you tell everyone a story about yourself, but it isn’t true. And I think you tell that story even to yourself, and you tell yourself you believe it. That’s what makes it hard for me to see.”
“And what about you?” I went on the defensive, because the scrutiny was too much. “You think you can analyze me, but what do you want?”
“A lot of things,” he said, hooking his finger gently under my bra strap and drawing it down my arm. “Mostly you. All to myself. Without sharing.”
My stomach flipped. “You decided that awfully recently.”
“No. I decided it the minute I unzipped your dress the first time, while you sat in my lap. That’s what you don’t see about me. I never fuck a woman I don’t want.”
“So you haven’t wanted a woman in four years?”
