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“It’s called The Source. Gustave Courbet.”
“Little risqué for the living room, isn’t it?”
“The nude female body isn’t risqué. It’s beautiful. Why wouldn’t I have it in my living room?” He opened his front closet, hanging up his suit coat. The button-down and vest he retained highlighted his physique in a mouthwatering way, his shoulders looking absolutely immense.
“Um… can’t argue with that, I suppose.”
His house was an open concept, the ceilings vaulted, the large kitchen with white granite counters opening out straight from the living room, a hallway extending back toward what she assumed were bedrooms.
“When’s the last time you had something to eat?” He cocked a thumb at her. “You look hungry.”
Oh, you have no idea, Uncle Max.
“I guess I could have something.” She sank into the cushions of one of his huge couches. Her stomach growled at the mere thought of food. She’d been so keyed up waiting for Max to show up for the auction, she hadn’t even thought to eat a thing—and she was paying for it now.
He opened the stainless-steel refrigerator, peering inside. “I don’t have much here, other than some ground beef. So, you’re getting burgers.”
“Sounds good to me!”
Observing the way he flattened out the beef into patties, his big palm slapping them with a dull, but subversively dirty sound, finally dropping them into the skillet was enjoyable; watching a man work with his hands, especially in a kitchen, never failed to make her purr.
That it was Max? Only made it that much better.
His back was to her as he stood at the oven flipping the burgers, spatula in hand. The curve of his muscular buttocks was displayed to fabulous effect by the snug, dark slacks, his tapping foot making them move just the slightest bit—and making her want to sink her nails into them.
Down, girl. This is Uncle Max, not some anonymous stunt dick.
Whether it was the savory aroma of the meat sizzling, or her clit compelling further boldness, she decided to get up, sauntering into the kitchen to lean a hip against the countertop behind him.
“Um, can I have something to drink?”
He didn’t look back at her, intent as he was on his cooking. His finger jabbed up at the cabinets to his right. “Glasses are in there. And no, before you ask, you can’t have any alcohol. But you’re welcome to anything else in the fridge.”
“Max, I’ll be twenty-one in less than three weeks…”
“I don’t give a shit. No drinking.”
“Ugh! Fine.” In truth, she didn’t want any booze. But she was not about to pass up a chance to give him a little crap. It was just too fun.
She reached to get a glass, glancing at him as she did. It pleased her more than it should have to see him watching her from the corner of his eye—and he wasn’t looking at her face, either.
Extending herself more than she needed to, she jutted her bottom out just the tiniest bit more.
He said nothing, but when she slipped by him to get to the fridge, she made sure to drag her hip along his firm ass as she did.
“Kelsey…”
“What? Not my fault you’re in the way. I’m thirsty.”
“There’s at least four feet between me and the end of that island behind me. My ass isn’t that big. Behave yourself.”
“What’s the fun in that?” she murmured, giggling softly.
She retrieved his pitcher of filtered water, and poured herself a glass, trying not to stare at his backside as she did.
“Almost done,” he muttered with a sigh, still facing the stove. “Hope you’re okay with salad, too.”
“Fine,” she said, between gulps of water.
