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Ryan sucked down a long gulp, then returned his tumbler to the table. He leaned toward her and grazed her calf with his fingertips, making her squirm in her seat. His gaze locked with hers again, and he said, “All of that doesn’t tell you a damn thing about me. Does it?”
Maxi swallowed hard. His hand slid down to her ankle, then over her bare foot.
“For example,” he continued, “I can easily deduce that spending at least eleven hours in six-inch heels invariably leaves you with pinched toes.”
“Aching arches,” she corrected.
His warm hand smoothed over the bottom of her foot as the other hand splayed across the top. “I’d venture to say you’d never believe that someone who’s completed the MIT Sloan PhD Program knows how to give a world-class foot massage.”
“Not a chance,” Maxi murmured, as wicked delight shimmied down her spine. She didn’t fully accept that Ryan could possess the duality to be both brainiac and skilled Don Juan. Yet…he touched her so assuredly. So intimately.
His thumb rubbed the sensitive spots of her arch with just the right amount of pressure, so that his touch didn’t tickle, but instead unraveled tension in the most delicious way. His other hand caressed slowly, easing the knots.
Maxi took a long sip from her glass. Her eyes never left Ryan’s ruggedly handsome face, which had become a mask of hard angles, demonstrating his determination to deliver on his promise.
And by God, was he doing an excellent job of it!
His soft skin, which she’d noted when they’d first met—had that only been this morning?—felt heavenly against her naked flesh. She luxuriated over the strength in his hands. Succumbed to his skill, to the glorious gift he gave her.
No one had ever massaged her feet—no one whom she didn’t pay, of course, during a mani/pedi at the spa. Kev had never once offered, despite his always insisting she wear the skyscraper heels, even when they went dancing. He’d reaped the benefit of admiring how she looked—and had always made snide comments about how other guys could suck it because she was his. But he wouldn’t have dreamed of helping to ease the discomfort at the end of the evening or the next day.
Whenever Maxi had complained that her feet were sore, he’d simply pinched her cheek in a condescending way and said, “Beauty is pain, babe. Be glad you’re hot.” Then he’d pop the top off a beer, call up the dudes, and plop his butt in front of her big-screen TV to spend the afternoon watching sports and ordering in pizza.
Einstein clearly wasn’t so singularly minded. He finished with one foot, then prompted her to shift her legs so he could alleviate the pressure in the other—while Maxi practically slid off the sofa, feeling limp and bon
eless.
“Wow,” she murmured. “I’m pretty sure this tops any orgasm Harry gave Sally.”
“Ah, so they gave in to baser instincts in the movie.”
“Sure, they fucked.” She speared him with a look over the rim of her tumbler. Desperately curious to see how he’d react to her frank terminology. He didn’t bat an eye. She added, “Then Harry freaked.”
“Because he feared Sally would misconstrue the act, perhaps believing it meant more than instant sexual gratification?”
“Yes. And she did.”
“Not a surprise. For ages, studies have shown that women require emotional intimacy in order to achieve physical satisfaction, and that, in turn, they equate that satisfaction with the intimacy they’ve sought. A bit of a vicious circle.”
“Another interesting theory that’s debatable,” she said. “Not all women—especially in this day and age—subscribe to that theory. Sometimes a good fuck is just that. No strings attached, no emotions involved. Just really hot sex.”
Oh, dear God, why are we on this topic again?
Now all Maxi could think about was Einstein’s hands all over her naked body. Would sex with Ryan be as explosive as their kiss?
As she contemplated this—and suspected the answer would be a resounding yes!—he stared intently at her. Then he asked, “Is that your personal theory?”
Maxi swallowed down a lump of tension that had suddenly formed in her throat, because there was a very big part of her dying to find out.
She admitted, “I never said I subscribed to the concept.”
“So you do have to be emotionally invested in a man in order to have a physical encounter with him?”
“I used to think I did,” she further confessed.
Why she was being so forthright, she wasn’t sure. Except that something about Ryan Donovan—his studious nature, all of his theories, his intensity mixed with caged passion, and the way he’d touched her with assertiveness and respect—had her thinking that perhaps physical attraction on the very animalistic level wasn’t nearly as far-fetched as she’d always thought. As long as mutual admiration was present, perhaps that was all that was necessary.
Because she’d reacted vehemently to Ryan from the moment he’d blown into the conference room this morning.
