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“Oh crap. Don’t let me forget.” As we’re about to fall into bed, he rushes out. I see him grab something from his pants pocket, and when he returns he’s brandishing a sleeve of condoms.
Those get tossed on the nightstand before he eases back onto the bed with a little groan. It’s not a sexy sound, though.
“You okay?” I ask, ogling his muscular body.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s an old injury. From that crash a couple of seasons ago in Italy.” His hand goes to his neck.
I sling a leg over his hips and straddle him, leaning down so I can kiss his mouth. I need to be careful because we’re both naked and he doesn’t have a condom on, and I’m so damned wet that if I move my hips a few inches, I could slide right down onto his erection.
“I remember that crash. I spent an afternoon crying in my living room wondering if you were okay.”
His hands gently work their way into my hair, brushing it back from my face. “You did?”
I nod. “I even texted Anh during the race.”
“You did?” He draws me closer into a kiss.
“She told me you were okay, but I was still upset.”
He cradles my face in his hands and we stare at each other. It’s almost too intense. The light pouring in from the other room is a touch too bright, and I swallow away a lump in my throat.
“Max, what are we doing?” I whisper.
“Making love.” He says it in a matter-of-fact tone, and coming from him, it doesn’t seem like a cheesy phrase.
He gently pushes me up so I’m sitting, actually hovering, over his erection, while his hands skim my skin. I move back, away from his touch, so I can run my fingers over his muscular chest, down his stomach, and lower.
I see the body I’ve loved for years, his tan skin smooth and taut from all his conditioning. His sculpted chest rises with each breath; his teeth are bared in a feral, sensual grin.
My intent is to stroke and tease, but I’m distracted by a tattoo on his thigh.
“I saw this earlier but I didn’t get a good look at it.” I run my fingers over the tattoo. “I was too dickmatized.”
He chuckles at my made-up word and plays with my hair as I kiss his leg. I pull back and inspect the tattoo. It’s an intricate design of a flower that snakes over the hard muscle of his thigh. I trace the riotous orange-red flower with my finger. It’s almost the color of his first race car, and initially I think that’s why he’s chosen that design, and then I gasp.
“Max. This is a . . .”
“Lily. Yes. My Lily.” His hands are still in my hair.
I look up at him, awareness sending goose bumps over my skin. “When did you get this? Where?”
“A few years ago. I was in Paris for a long weekend and met a tattoo artist at a party. I’d been thinking about it a while and told him, and he hooked me up.”
The tattoo is gorgeous, one of the nicest I’ve seen. It was obviously done by a talented artist from the looks of its bright colors and layers of shading. That he would tattoo the flower I’m named after on his body, sit for probably hours and endure such pain, astounds me. I explore it with my fingers, skimming every inch of his thigh. The tattoo is large and takes up almost his entire upper thigh from stem to petal.
“It’s a reminder of you.” His voice is solemn.
I sit up, allowing this information to sink in. His hands cup my breasts, sending a shiver through me.
“Why did you . . . why?” I finally stammer.
“Because I’ve never stopped thinking of you. I wanted you to be with me always.”
Now I’m totally at a loss for words. All I can do is melt into him, dissolve into his kiss.
He flips me over and cages me with his arms. I shiver pleasurably as he kisses his way from one breast to the next, taking time to gently bite and nibble. He knows exactly how to tease me, precisely how to get me hot. My skin breaks out in goose bumps, the feeling is so intense. My thighs are shaking, my hands are trembling. I grip the duvet hard and ball up my fists, craving the release but also wanting this moment to last forever.
By the time he’s kissed his way to my stomach, I’ve already opened my legs for him, and he groans when he skims his fingers between them.
