What I didn’t say, and maybe should have, was that the past week with Max had been more fun, more joyous, more interesting, and a hell of a lot sexier than every relationship last year combined.
“Bad in bed, huh?”
“Nice guys that fucked without creativity.”
“Ah.” Max spun me like he did the other night. I laughed. “Creativity is the most important part of sex, in my expert opinion.”
Max dropped his face to mine, pressing our temples together. He slowed our movements down, letting his palm drift up and down along my spine.
“The truth is,” I said softly, “I spent a whole year on dates, but not a single one stands out in my memory. This one will, though. And our first date definitely will.”
“I take it you enjoyed the supply closet?”
He turned me around, tucked my back to his chest. Swayed with me as he kissed my cheek. I was giggling now, flirtatious and loose and obsessed with the way he always touched me. And not in a way that was always sexual. For a man who never stayed the night, Max was very affectionate.
“Let’s say I was convinced.”
He bit my neck, squeezed me tight, spinning me back around so we were dancing again. “I don’t always get to touch or be touched like this.”
I waited, a little stunned. He looked shocked himself. We stopped moving, breath hushed. He clutched my hand directly over his heart. “The nights I spend with women, our time together is only about sex. We’re bodies there for pleasure, for fucking. It’s not the same as what you and I have been doing. Dancing. Hugging. Holding hands.” He pressed our foreheads together. “I didn’t realize how powerful it could be.”
I rose up on my tiptoes and kissed him. Wrapped my arms around his neck and kept kissing him, pressing every single inch of our bodies together. He tasted like red wine and sin, but the pressure of his lips on mine was now achingly familiar. He was my anti-Prince Charming and the man who made me feel sparks. Everywhere.
He brushed the hair from my face, fingers sliding through the strands. “I like the way you touch me.”
My lips brushed his cheek, his throat. I placed my head on his chest and let him hold me. “You are not just a body to me. And what’s happening between us. It’s not just sex.”
He tilted my chin up until our eyes connected. “No,” he said. “It’s not just sex. That’s not possible.”
I swallowed around a tightness in my throat. “A lot of the guys I dated touched me like this but left me shortly after. Because they were lying.”
“Then let’s not lie,” he said softly. “I’ll go first. I like you, Fiona, and I’m even more scared now.”
I pressed my face to his chest, laughing around my own nerves. “I feel terrified and out of control, and I like you a lot.”
“Still on the same page, then.” He kissed the top of my head. “And I know we just said this thing between us wasn’t just about sex, but I’d really appreciate the opportunity to give you those orgasms now.”
I fisted his shirt and pulled myself up on my toes. “Please.”
He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed beneath my thighs and hoisted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. He walked us through my French doors, into my bedroom. Laid me down on the bed with total control. He stood back up and pulled his shirt over his head—allowing me to really see the rangy, tattooed body underneath all of those white tee-shirts. I sat up on my elbows, heart racing, admiring the black-and-white ink on parts of his chest, his ribcage, his shoulders.
“Why so many?” I breathed, tracing a tattoo of the city skyline.
“I’ve been lucky to see a lot of beautiful things.” I kissed his stomach, and he hissed softly. “Just because my homes have been temporary doesn’t mean I don’t want to remember them forever. Place them on my body permanently.”
My fingers traced every ridge, every muscle, every line. Max seemed to hold his breath. The outline of his cock against his jeans was magnificent. I traced my finger down the entire length of him, then back up. “You should take off all of your clothes now.”
“Same to you,” he said hoarsely.
I pointed. “You first.”
He lifted an eyebrow. Tossed off his belt, let his jeans fall. He stepped out of them wearing tight black briefs. Hooked his fingers in the sides and slowly lowered them down. I’d been too far gone in that supply closet to fully take note of Max’s body, although I was still dreaming about his perfect cock and the way it felt inside me.
With a grin that was oh-so-arrogant, Max fisted his cock in front of me, fingers sliding up and down the thick shaft. It was pure perfection, a work of art, and I needed a taste.
I shed my sweatshirt, my shorts, my underwear. Max growled at my nakedness and made a move towards me. But I stopped him with a hard shove to the chest, kept him standing over me with that cock mere inches from my mouth.
“Let me worship you this time,” I whispered, reaching around to grab the firm muscles of his ass. I gazed up at him. He swept his fingers into my hair, tugging my ponytail free and tossing the tie on the floor. Sifting through the strands, he twisted slightly, arching his eyebrow at the same time. My eyes fluttered closed. Through pure instinct alone, I gripped him at the base and wrapped my lips around the head of his perfect cock. Slowly, slowly took him as deep as I could manage. He tasted salty and sweet, and the flexing of his stomach muscles was turning me on so much my own insatiable need for him took over. I flicked my tongue up, then down, and Max let out a satisfied moan that burned itself into my memory.
I took him deeper.
His fingers clenched in my hair. I was wet, aching, ready for him. I worked him up and down, over and over, intoxicated with his scent, his taste, the total intimacy of this moment. He was nothing but fraught, heavy breathing and groans.
“Fiona,” he grunted, thrusting his hips forward. I moaned, excited, took him deeper. “I’ve wanted to fuck this smart mouth for days now.”
I got closer, went up on my knees, took him as deep as I could while I bobbed my head in a rhythm that had him cursing my name as much as praising it. My toes curled in the bed. Oh, I fucking loved this. This cocky bad boy had lost his arrogance, was only pure, biological need. Because of me.
A second later, I was rudely removed by Max dragging my mouth from his dick. “No, no more.”
With a wicked smile, he shoved me back onto the bed and prowled up my naked body with a stare that stole my breath. He settled his cock right against my clit and entwined our hands together above my head. He flexed, stroking my clit with his cock, and I arched up right into his mouth.
“One more second,” he growled, biting my lip. “And I was going to come between these lips.”
He flexed again, grinding against my clit, and I lost the ability to speak. “The… the problem?” I panted.
“Every time you used your tongue on my dick, I thought about my tongue, licking between these thighs.” He thrust, thrust, thrust. I cried out, hitched my legs higher, seeking deeper friction. He laughed darkly, kissed my throat. “So what do you say to that?” He was propped up above me, dry-fucking me fast now, a steady, skillful grind that had me seeing goddamn stars and rainbows.
“Um… um… oh, fuck, please don’t stop,” I begged. My fingers pressed up against his, but he pinned me down harder. Dry-fucked me faster. I was close, already, so close. I needed… I just needed…