But because Max is Max, he doesn’t take the hint that I need time to think and to process and to just be, so my circle pacing dead-ends when he steps in front of me.
I look up to see his brow furrowed in confusion. “You kissed me,” he says again.
“I did.”
“I asked you to marry me. And then you kissed me. How was that not a yes?”
How can I explain it? How can I defend my actions?
“It just wasn’t, okay?” I throw out my hands in a how-do-you-not-get-this gesture. “Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.”
Which is clearly the wrong thing to say, because he points out the obvious.
“That wasn’t just a kiss. That was a kiss that led to you taking your shirt off, sticking your hand down my pants and begging me to fuck you.”
Right. Good point.
My clit pulses, as if to remind me that we could totally do that all over again.
Which, for obvious reasons, would make everything so much worse.
No, not worse. But so much more complicated.
“I know!” Just looking at him makes my heart feel tight, so I whirl around and start pacing again. “I screwed this up. I get that. I don’t know what you want me to say to make this better. I should have set better boundaries. I knew this thing between us could be a problem, but I thought I could handle it. I thought I was in control. And if I hadn’t just lost those kids, if you hadn’t come over, and if you hadn’t been so damn nice when I least expected it, I would have had it under control. But all of that did happen. And it was just the perfect storm.”
I stop again, forcing myself to look at Max. Because I owe him that much.
His expression is unreadable and for the life of me, I can’t tell if my rant made any sense to him at all. If I made things better or worse.
Finally, he asks, “What did you mean when you said, ‘this thing between us’?”
“This.” I gesture from me to him and then back again. “This chemistry. This tension. This thing that I think we’ve both felt from the first day. At least, I know I have.”
I force myself to meet his gaze, wanting—no, not wanting,needingconfirmation that he’s felt it, too.
Because, he is absolutely right. I threw myself at him. I stuck my hand down his pants and begged. He wouldn’t be the first guy in the history of the world to sleep with a woman he didn’t really want just because she begged him.
It doesn’t help that Max can be so hard to read.
“Am I wrong?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
Thank God when he meets my gaze, I see naked hunger in his eyes.
Still, the question he asks takes me by surprise.
“Was the sex insufficiently satisfying?”
“What?” I gape.
“Did you climax? Because I thought you did. But if you didn’t, we can try again. As I understand it, it takes time to learn an individual woman’s body and erogenous zones.”
“No!” I cut him off, because the last thing I need is to imagine the kind of attention a man like Max could apply to this situation. Especially when he’s looking at me like that. “That’s not the problem. Trust me.”
“Because I can learn—”
“The sex was great. Fantastic. It was …” It was perfect. Hot and sweet and—for the love of Gobstoppers, I came twice. Which I’ve never done with a man before. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say in this situation, but I know if I admit that, there’s no way he’ll walk away. So instead I use his word. “It was definitely satisfying.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
