The room is his friend’s. He doesn’t explain further and I don’t ask because the city is still blazing through the floor-to-ceiling window and his hands are at the lapels of his own jacket, still around my shoulders, and he slides it off with patience that dismantles me one inch at a time.
“You sure?” he asks. His voice is low. The question is genuine.
“I stopped being unsure in the parking garage,” I say.
His mouth finds mine. Deliberate this time. Two people who are finally being themselves and moving at their own pace. His hands move to my face, and I grip the front of his shirt. The city blazes on outside the glass. I allow him to be thorough, letting him take the time he took before. He has the unhurried certainty of a man who has decided and finished negotiating with himself. He walks me back toward the window, and the city is thirty-two floors below us, and the cold bleeds through the glass at my back, and his warmth is everywhere else. As his lips travel down my throat, I tilt my head back, the immense,upside-down cityscape Chicago blazing beyond the glass. I’ve never felt so reckless.
Good, some part of me registers.Good.
My blazer goes. His shirt follows. His hands learn me, finding the differences from before, cataloguing them. I do the same. He’s defined, warm, and certain. When I press my palm flat against his chest, his heart beats as hard as mine. I file that away in the part of me that keeps things it shouldn’t and has stopped apologizing for it. He moves like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it. He always takes his time with me, as if speed would waste something, as if he has decided that every version of this deserves his full attention. I stop tracking what I’m doing with my hands and start tracking what he does with his and the distinction stops mattering anyway because the city is outside and we are in here and the only thing that exists in this room is the specific geography of him and the thirty-three floors of cold air between us and everything we have spent weeks pretending.
Max’s mouth travels down my throat slowly, heat following every kiss until my skin feels branded by him. His hands move over me as if he’s trying to memorize every inch at once, rough palms against bare skin, and I can’t tell where my pulse ends and his begins anymore. The window at my back is cold enough to shock a breath out of me, Chicago glittering beneath us in fractured gold and white, but the chill only sharpens the heat pouring off him. Every place our bodies touch burns. He pulls back just enough to look at me.
God, that look. Raw. Hungry. Too honest for a man likeMax Stevens. I forget how to breathe. Then he lifts me effortlessly, my legs locking around his waist as he pins me gently against the glass. So erotic, my body heats to a higher level than ever before. None of it matters now anyway. The rules, the outside world or tomorrow.
Only him.
His mouth crashes into mine again, completely this time, and I fist my hands into his hair as the kiss deepens. He kisses with the same reckless precision he brings to the ice. Every movement deliberate. Every touch designed to ruin me slowly. A sound slips out of me when his hips roll against mine, and his grip tightens instantly, as if he feels that sound somewhere deep in his own body. “Jesus Antonia,” he murmurs against my mouth, voice wrecked.
The ache building inside me turns unbearable. My entire body feels tight with it, trembling with it. He feels it too. I know he does from the way his breathing roughens, from the way his forehead drops briefly to mine like he’s fighting for control he doesn’t actually want. The city hums beneath us. Traffic far below. Sirens somewhere distant. But inside this room there’s only heat and skin and the way he says my name like it means everything. I drag my mouth across his jaw, and he moans low and deep in his throat, fingers flexing against my thighs.
Everything about this feels out of control. Primal. Necessary. Two years of trying not to collide. We finally ran out of road. My heartbeat stumbles when he kisses me again, slower now somehow, deeper, and the tenderness hidden underneathall that chaos nearly undoes me more than the desire does. I rest my forehead against his, both of us breathing hard.
“I haven’t felt anything like this in a long time,” he whispers, voice rough around the edges.
Neither have I. That’s the terrifying part. My fingers slide through the ends of his hair as the lights of Chicago blaze across his face, as if the entire city is on fire for us.
And maybe it is.
That fire spurs him on as he grinds his hips into my core. His fingers move up my thigh, pushing my thong aside, and plunge inside me. My head snaps back at the sensation, the window my brace as I wiggle my hips, searching for deeper penetration. My fingers grip his shoulders, leaving nail marks as the cusp of my orgasm rises, both of us breathing heavily, my release is intense. I cry out.
“That's my An-ton-i-a, let it all go baby," he whispers. “So fucking hot.”
When the shivers subside, Max gently lets my feet hit the floor. I open my eyes to his amazed expression when he lifts his hand and licks his fingers with a big grin.
“That was naughty, Max.”
“That was perfection and truly reflected An-ton-i-a.” He makes my name sound indecent in the most loving way.
“I meant licking your fingers.” I shake my head, grinning up at him.
“Just the beginning,” he says, grabbing my hand and leading me to the bedroom. “I intend to lick every inch of you tonight.”
Max swirls me around, and I land sitting on the bed. Still in my camisole and skirt, he’s in just his pants. I nod him over to the bedside and unbuckle him, letting everything fall to the floor. His magnificent cock is at attention, and my gaze locks on his thick girth and the wetness shimmering on the tip. I take him in my hand, and he sighs. Then I part my lips and slide the slick head into my mouth. While using my tongue to explore and caress his rock-hard length, a subtle tremor runs through him. “This will be over quicker than we want if you don’t stop,” he says. I release him with a pop of suction, and he reaches down and pulls off my camisole. I unhook my strapless bra, which is already at my waist from before, at the window. Then I rise and turn around, bending over the bed and sticking my ass out at him so he can unzip my skirt. When my panties drop to the floor, he growls with satisfaction, so I spread my legs and give him a complete view from behind.
“Fuck, you’re killing me, baby!” He grabs handfuls of my ass, kneading the flesh. And then he glides his fingers through my drenched slit from front to back. One of his palms smoothes over my stomach as he positions me just right to wedge his cock between my legs and rub it through my pussy, hitting my clit each time he thrusts. Again and again, he rubs it while he fingers my nipples, ramping me up for another explosion. Then he whispers in my ear, “Remember when you threatened the edge drills? What I said, I wanted to do to you?” All I can do is nod. “You’re not allowed to cum until I say.”
I’m too stimulated to comprehend what he’s proposing to do, so I just go on enjoying the impendingorgasm. My breathing is heavy and my body is seeking more friction as I move it to make him hit my clit just right. Then it hits me. “What did you just say? You’re notallowingme to orgasm?”
“Play along, Antonia, and I promise the release will be even sweeter than the last one.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Max Stevens
I stand behind Antonia, my body running hot, with anticipation. The sight of her, naked ass in the air and vulnerable, her body trembling with desire, is almost enough to make me lose control. But I won’t. Not yet. I want to draw this out, to make her feel every inch of me, to make her beg for release. She needs to understand the extent of what I can create for her to experience. I reach out, my fingers tracing the curve of her breast, feeling the weight in my hand. Her nipples harden under my touch, and I can’t help but lean in, aligning my body with hers, skin to skin, and cupping both breasts. She’s pushing back, rooting for more friction from my cock on her clit. Still wet from before. I nearly lose the plan entirely because it feels amazing.
Pushing her gently, I guide her to turn around on the beduntil she’s lying down. I spread her legs, exposing her pussy to me. Her clit, hard and ready. I lean in, blowing a stream of cool air over her. She shudders, her hips bucking off the bed. I hold her down, my hands firm on her thighs.
