“Fuck, Lina,” he grounds out. “Yes.” He lifts his torso and drags his hand between us, placing two fingers on my clitoris and rubbing in expertly targeted circles.
The need to release this unspent tension causes me to buck against him. I’ll do anything to come. Anything. “Max . . . I’m almost there. I—”
I stiffen against him. He stills, too. And then he spasms above me, an incoherent stream of cussing and oh, Jesus filling the serene spring air. Despite his frenzied state, he doesn’t forget me. “I want you to come so badly,” he says. With a gaze that’s fierce with determination, he moves his fingers in one gloriously slow circle and I fly apart, writhing underneath him and screaming like the fox that lived in the woods behind our house when I was a kid. If someone hears my cry, they’ll think Max is murdering me. It’s a distressing sound, not at all pleasant to the ear, and truly, irredeemably mortifying. But as the last of the tremors leaves my body, I know this: It was totally worth it.
Max wraps a lock of my hair around his finger and bends over to press his lips to mine. He doesn’t move to lick his way inside. It’s just one long meeting of our mouths. A period at the end of this lovely sentence. I should be calming down now. Instead, my heart is ratcheting up. I squirm underneath him, my gaze locked on the sky.
I can sense him staring at me, but I can’t return the favor.
Finally, he pushes off the car and slips out. There’s some rustling, and then I hear him zip up his jeans. Without a word, he tugs my T-shirt down and pulls me to a sitting position. I can’t not look at him any longer. That would be rude.
He nibbles on his bottom lip as he studies me. Then he raps the hood of the car. “Forget I ever said anything unkind about old banana cab here. She and you just helped me scratch off the first item on my bucket list.” He pecks me on the forehead and gives me a handkerchief. “Thank you.”
It’s the right thing to say to someone who’s plainly having a tough time putting what we just did in proper perspective. But it feels wrong—and that’s a problem.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Max
I wake up groggy and disoriented. Where the hell am I? I open an eye and spy a dashboard. Oh, yeah. The banana cab is now the silence cab.
It’s true that sex with Lina depleted my reserves so thoroughly that I would have fallen asleep anyway, but I dozed off within minutes of climbing into the car because it was clear from Lina’s lack of engagement that she wanted me to.
If she needs space, she’ll get it.
And if she’s worrying about us, she’s not alone. This weekend has been more intense than either of us could have predicted. But we’re returning to DC soon, and the normalcy of everyday life will help us reestablish the casual relationship we’ve agreed to. If I know Lina, and I think I’m starting to, focusing on work will alleviate some of her distress and give her the confidence that we can handle a no-strings, no-future arrangement.
I sit up and readjust the seatbelt across my chest. “Sorry I fell asleep on you. You stole my mojo.” Dammit. How is that focusing on work, Max?
A smile tugs at her lips nonetheless. “Totally okay and totally understandable. Some people have more stamina than others.” She purses her lips in an obvious effort to suppress a smile.
Do not engage. You’ll take it one step too far, and she’ll go quiet again. I pull up the note app on my phone and clear my throat. “So let’s discuss any specific ideas or concepts you have. On the ride here, we were both on board with the wedding-godmother theme. Any thoughts about the scenarios where we could explore that theme?”
She sits up straighter, her face brightening with excitement.
This woman’s such a fucking cutie. If I’m not careful, I’ll want to be around her all the time.
“I like the idea of being the calm among the chaos,” she says. “I envision images showing mini-catastrophes with me at the center sorting it out. When clients hire me, they’re concerned that mayhem will ensue without my services. I think it would be smart to convey that.”
It’s not a bad idea, but there’s a flaw she hasn’t considered, and spotting the issue is why I’m here. “You’re used to working with various vendors at different venues and the like. But with the Cartwright, the hotel is your main vendor. It’s supplying the location, the catering, the guest rooms, even the table settings, and more. I don’t think Rebecca would appreciate the suggestion that her hotel is likely to be the center of chaos, even if her master wedding coordinator will ultimately save the day.”
“Hmm,” she says. “I see what you mean. Let me give it some more thought, then.” She grumbles playfully. “Some people just have to show off and expertly expert.”
I crack a smile even though I’m trying to be all business. “We don’t need to figure it out today. What about the hotel amenities?”
“What about them?” she asks.
“Have you tried them? A hotel suite? The restaurant? The spa where members of the wedding party might go for a day of pampering before a wedding?”
“I visited the restaurant last week,” she says. “For lunch. I need to go back for dinner. And Rebecca said she’d arrange for me to tour the available accommodations at my convenience. I think I want to propose that the hotel knock down the walls between two rooms and create a dedicated wedding suite. Probably more than one. It’ll solidify the hotel’s brand as a wedding venue.”
I nod as I start typing again. “You’re right about that. We could add it to the wish list. We’re clearly not going to have dedicated rooms before the presentation, but I think it would be smart to float the idea as part of your vision. I could go with you, by the way.”
I can see a hint of a furrowed brow in her profile. Apparently I didn’t slip in that suggestion smoothly enough.
“Go where?” she asks.
“Blossom,” I say. “The hotel restaurant. For dinner. I mean, we should be able to enjoy a meal together from time to time, right?”
“Uh, sure. That would be nice.” After a few beats of silence, she asks, “Do you enjoy what you do?”
The question comes out of nowhere, and I jerk my head up in surprise. I’m not sure if she’s uncomfortable with the notion of going to dinner with me or if she’s generally curious about my professional aspirations. Could be both.
She rushes to explain before I can answer: “It’s just that Rebecca asked me this recently, and I realized how often people can be competent and even great at their jobs without having a passion for them.”
“There are many aspects I love,” I tell her. “Learning about the client’s business. Researching the market. Devising a marketing strategy to achieve the client’s goals. I like that my profession’s currency is one part ideas and one part data. It feeds both my creative side and the part of me that needs to see results.”
“So what are the aspects you don’t love?” she asks.
“The ass-kissing,” I say quickly. “Tons and tons of ass-kissing. The schmoozing. Plus, sometimes our clients have shitty businesses or fundamentally fucked-up strategies, and no amount of marketing is going to help them sell a shitty idea.”