Page 31 of Sorrow & Strangers

“Summer,” he says, blinking down at me, and I don’t miss the way his hands tighten a little on my waist.

“Max,” I gasp out, swallowing hard and unsure what to say to him. He should hate me. I would if I were him.

“Hi,” he says, also uncertain. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same, I guess.” It’s true. The last place in the world I expected to see him was in a club.

He clears his throat. “Want to dance?” he asks.

“Oh . . . I . . .” I stumble over my response, his question catching me off guard.

Max pulls me to him, the hard lines of his body pressing against me. “You’re overthinking this,” he says.

I glance down at his hands. They have slipped down to rest lower on my hips. Why do I like them there? He moves his body against mine almost tentatively, like he is asking a question. I don’t respond immediately, almost afraid to answer, paralyzed by my memories. This isn’t like dancing with Alice. There is something strangely intimate about it. He lifts my chin, his gaze locking with mine, drawing me into the dark depths of his eyes. The heat from his body seeps into my skin, warming some of those icy-cold spots inside me. It feels so good that I want more, and I lean into him, seeking more.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, placing my hands on his chest.

“Do what?”

“This,” I say again, referring to the pity dance.

“I’m not a mind reader. I’ll need more than that.”

“Hang out with me. Dance with me,” I say, stopping and trying to push away from his warmth.

He gives me a look, his hand tightening on my hip. “I’m dancing with you because I want to.”

I frown. “Why would you want that?”

“Because you’re hot, and we’re both a little drunk.”

“Max,” I warn, though I’m not sure what I am warning against.

I know I look hot, and I am sure I look a million times better than I did the last time he saw me, when I must have looked like a bag of bones. Just because he said that doesn’t mean he’s attracted to me. He’s just stating a fact.

“Sum,” he says, interrupting my overthinking. “It’s not complicated.”

Something in his words makes me bristle, and I pull back. “I don’t need your pity.” I throw the words at him like an accusation.

Max tightens his fingers on me and yanks me back to him. He’s clearly pissed, and I’m expecting to be heavily admonished, but then he surprises me by slamming his lips to mine. His lips are softer than I thought they’d be, and they expertly mold to mine. The kiss is hard and fast, and before I have time to react, he pulls back.

“That feels like pity?” he demands, the growl in his voice making something profound within me ignite.

The sound of my heart pounding in my chest is so loud that I can barely hear the music anymore, and my lips still tingle from the press of his. The contrast between Max’s kiss and Connor’s is so stark that they battle each other in my brain.

Max blanches slightly, his face draining of color as he realizes what he’s done. “Fuck, Summer. I’m . . .”

He trails off, and I just stand there, watching him. I slide my tongue over my slightly swollen lips, that spark continuing to sizzle. It’s a feeling that has been dormant for months, and I stand very still as it awakens. My gaze flicks to his mouth. I’m not sure I ever noticed how full his lips are.

Do I want to kiss him again?

My eyes move back up to Max’s. They’re darker than before, and I notice that they’re not fixed on mine, but on my mouth. He starts to move in again, slowly this time, allowing me time to stop him, to pull back, or slap him.

I don’t move, and when his lips brush over mine, I lean in, softly kissing him back. Max’s arms snake around my back. He pulls me in tight, locking my body to his, and I deepen the kiss. He tastes of whiskey and mint, and it makes my head spin.

Max groans, the sound so guttural and filled with desire that it makes my core throb. Startled by the sensation and my instinctual reaction, I’m pulled back into myself, and I pull back, panting.

Max looks down at me, his intense gaze focused wholly on me, and my core throbs again.