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“I do?” I ask, liking the sound of that.
“Yeah,” he agrees, noticing I’m rooted to the spot. “If you’ve changed your mind, it’s fine,” he murmurs, getting to his feet and stepping closer.
I haven’t moved from the door threshold, but he pulls me away from the sweep of the closing door. And then I hear it, the lock slowly twisting. With each degree the lock turns, the sound levels magnify until it’s just a booming, resonating thunk that echoes like a gunshot.
“No, I’m good. This is—” I pause as my eyes drift down his torso. “I want you here.”
He smiles his heartbreak smile. “Good. What side do you want?”
“Right?”
He slips in under the duvet on the left-hand side, so I unlock my bedroom door and get into bed.
His proximity, in a bed, is mildly alarming. I take deep breaths, reminding myself he’s given me no reason to doubt him.
Under the duvet, Max shuffles closer until our bodies meet. His arm slides languorously across my waist, shivers scattering at the intimate touch. “The lock was a step too far?”
The sound of the locking mechanism thunders through me again. “Sorry, but yes.”
“No apologies, okay? If I have to be indifferent to what happened before, then you are not allowed to apologise when you shove me away, or clam up, or tell me to stop.”
Ahh. He always seems to understand what I need to hear. “Okay.”
“And I will need you to do those things if I go too far,” he murmurs, his large, warm palm skimming across my stomach and up to my ribs. He’s wriggled his hand under my sleep top, but he holds still, his hand gently resting below my rib cage. “I plan on kissing and touching you all over, for a long-old time.”
My heart stutters because that sounds good. “But no further,” I mumble, my cheeks flaming. “Not yet.”
“Not a problem,” he replies softly as his hand slides higher, his fingers gentling over my diamond-hard nipple. Nerve endings spark. My core throbs violently. “We’ll keep things simple and slow to begin with. Touch me if you want, or don’t. I’m just saying I’m good with whatever you want to do.”
In the next breath, heat smothers me. His torso covers mine as our mouths connect, his tongue sweeping in and gliding against mine with perfect pressure and rhythm. His mouth is a dream, his kisses commanding and searching. Each stroke of his tongue is hot and drugging, my bones sinking into the mattress with every heart thrumming second.
This feels so right. So necessary and perfect.
We kiss for ages. Sometimes, it’s just a mouth kiss, our lips slowly dragging away and apart as my palm glides over his warm, tempting body. Sometimes, Max groans impatiently, hungrily, pressing into me more firmly and slicking his tongue against mine. We kiss so much that it feels like I’ve known him for more than just a couple of days. And already I want to know what else I can cope with; he’s lit a fire in the very heart of me and I don’t want it to go out.
Desperate for more of him, I start to pull at my top. Max pulls back to watch, his eyes searching mine. Seeing my resolve, he wastes no time in tugging it up and over my head. I help by whipping out my arms from the sleeves. Then he’s pulling at my bottoms, dragging them down to my knees before he throws back the duvet and yanks them off my feet.
Cool air wafts across my skin as I lie there, naked, burning to my bones with need. When Max lies down next to me again, I feel him, hot and hard at my upper thigh.
His eyes crawl over my face before he twists his head to look over all of me, his gaze starkly raw as he looksthere, the very centre of me. “I won’t kiss you there yet, though I’m desperate to taste you.”
Instead, his warm mouth closes over my nipple. The delicious wet heat as he sucks has me gasping, clawing at the sheet. Max continues to pull and bite at my breasts with devastating control, taking it in turns to lave a nipple with his tongue, or twist and pinch them with his fingers. Every brush of electrical contact he makes travels down an invisible thread to my core, my insides liquefying.
I sigh, bringing my feet flat to the mattress. It means my knees poke up against the side of his chest. Knuckles bloodied and busted, he slides a hand over my outer thigh, then up to my knee, before trailing fingers down to my ankle and back up again. It feels so good, his touch confident and measured.
“Your skin is so silky,” he murmurs. “I’ve never felt skin so soft.”
Running my hands down his torso, I marvel at how easy it is to touch him. To want him. “You feel perfect,” I tell him, my palms now mapping his shoulders and broad back, loving the weight of him over me. But at the same time, I’m aware my heart isn’t only pounding because of how good his touch feels, or by how excited I am to be making out with this man. I may be overthinking things, but given the situation, I think I get a pass for that; I’m also aware just how vulnerable I am. And I really hope my brain doesn’t fracture right now—this feels too good and I don’t want it to stop.
When his hand smooths down my stomach, exploring towards my sex, my breathing stops. Aware of my reaction, Max stalls, his hand idling at my hip as he mouths at my neck and shoulder with unhurried, lazy kisses. With quiet affection he kisses the scar on my ribs, one of several I have no memory of.
His tenderness has me relaxing. And then his hand lifts, brushing over my mound before he slides a finger through my seam. I’m thoroughly wet. It’s obvious by how easily his fingers slip through me, but also because I can feel my arousal webbed between my inner thighs when he pushes them apart with his searching hand. And my core is burning, a hot pain radiating there that needs putting out.
Max pulls back. Our eyes connect and hold while his fingers gently explore.
“You like this,” he murmurs pleased.
I nod, one hand on his shoulder, another at his nape. “I like you,” I say. “And it feels good.”
