One last night. Max knew he shouldn’t—that he should hold on to his pride at the very least.
“Please.” Lille hugged herself. “I’d like to think about something other than what happened tonight.”
Max was done with this shit. He’d put himself out there—been goddamn chivalrous—and she wanted to fuck him so she could forget what happened? Fuck that. He wasn’t going to, but then she turned and looked at him, and he was caught by both the vulnerability on her face and the sadness he saw in her eyes.
“Damn.” He shook his head. Maybe he was being punished for not giving a damn about all those women for all those years. “Fine, then.”
He shook his head and reached down to strip off his shirt, tossing it onto the sand.
In the light of the moon, his tattoos were indistinct shadows on his skin, his chest deeply muscled, his arms bulging.
Lille’s gaze couldn’t help but dip down the rippled board of his stomach to the waist of his jeans, which he unbuttoned, but did nothing more.
“You want me?” He gestured to himself.
Lille bit her lip to keep from saying it.
He looked a little disgusted with himself, but he shoved down his jeans. His dick was hard, thick, and long; it pointed proudly to his stomach. He was magnificent and vulnerable at the same time, standing there with the evidence of his desire front and center.
“Then come and take me.”
Lille shoved her pajama pants down and stepped into his arms. He caught her, legs bracing against her weight as he slid his hands into her hair.
He kissed her, and there was something very different about these kisses. He was angry, she could tell by his clenched jaw, but his lips were gentle as he skimmed her sore cheek, her temples, the bridge of her nose.
His erection pressed to her, and she moved her hips, rubbing herself against him, urging him with slow undulations to hurry—please hurry.
He did, wetting his fingers with his mouth and rubbing the head of his dick before lifting her and fitting himself between her legs.
It was difficult at this angle, so Lille helped him, using his shoulders to leverage herself up, opening herself to him, wanting his thick length inside her.
When he’d pushed just the head of himself inside her, he paused and licked his lips. “I’m not wearing a condom.”
Lille shook her head. “It’s okay. I’m protected.”
He looked like a man in pain, eyes tightening, as he worked his way deeper and deeper, his mouth opening as he thrust upward with his hips and pulled her downward at the same time, stretching her.
“God.” Lille’s head dropped to his shoulder as he filled her, her thighs flush with his hip bones.
They stayed that way for a moment, pressed together, her inner muscles tightening and releasing, but then it wasn’t enough. Lille tightened her thighs on his hips and lifted up, just halfway, before sliding back down.
He grunted and shifted his grip, holding her securely to him as he turned around and sat in the sand. Lille held on, digging her fingers into the thick muscles of his shoulders, gasping when his movement thrust him more deeply inside.
Lille waited for him to move, but he didn’t—he just brushed her hair out of her face with one hand and then leaned back on his palms, partly reclining. Lille understood; she was to ride him. The cool sand abraded her knees as she lifted herself up, rocking her hips a little before sliding back down, her toes curled and sunk deep in the sand to give herself leverage.
Arching, Lille let her head fall back, abandoning herself to the night and the feel of the man beneath her, the hardness of him inside her. They were mostly hidden from the main street by the sand dunes behind them and the shadows, but anyone who came along would know what they were doing. Lille felt wild, taking him like this—and she was taking him, pressing down deeply with each downward stroke, grinding against him, and digging her nails into the muscles of his chest.
“Fuck,” she gasped, rubbing her clit against his lower abdomen and using her hips to make small circles. She was almost—almost—there.
Her orgasm caught her by surprise, making her squeeze his hips with her thighs as she fell forward, crying out. The moment she did, Max rolled her over, hooked his arms under her thighs, and thrust deeply, hips slamming forward like a man possessed. Lille took him, riding the smaller waves of her orgasm as he thrust deeper and deeper until he came, moving against her in involuntary jerks.
They lay there for a moment, gasping, but unable to hear themselves above the crash of the waves. Max stood and held out a hand to her. She took it, let him pull her up.
The wind, blowing over the light sheen of sweat on her body, made Lille shiver, and she gratefully accepted the pajama pants Max found and handed to her.
Before pulling her clothes back on, she realized that she and Max were both covered in sand. Lille could already feel grit in some less-than-comfortable places. A grin twitched her lips as Max started brushing sand off himself and made a face. Lille tried to do the same, but Max decided to help her, using his big palms to smooth the sand off her skin, focusing on her ass.
“Max,” she shouted, chastising him, and he grinned.
Sandy or not, Lille didn’t want to be caught half naked on the beach, so she pulled on her pajama pants and headed gingerly back toward where she’d left her shoes. Max dressed quickly and followed her, the two of them making their way back to Mary’s house.
Lille wanted a shower more than anything, and sharing a shower with Max suddenly seemed perfect. He’d made her forget about all the shit that was going on, at least for tonight, and she wanted to continue forgetting; she wanted to enjoy him and ignore everything else.
When they reached Mary’s house, Max paused, as if preparing to say good-bye to her. She caught his hand before he could speak. “Come on”—she tugged him—“let’s go have a shower and fuck again.”
Max smiled at her, a full-fledged and boyish smile, not one she’d ever noticed on his world-weary face before.
“I think that’s a fine idea,” he said, and before she realized what he planned to do, he’d bent and tossed her over his shoulder.
“What’s this about?” she asked from her upside-down position.
“You’re walking like you have half the beach up your ass, lass.” He petted the ass in question.
“That’s what it feels like,” she agreed, and allowed herself to be carried without protest, though by the time they arrived at his door all the blood had rushed to her head and given her a headache.
Standing her back on her feet in the entryway to his house, he dug for his keys in the pocket of his jeans and frowned at the shadows on her face that he could see in the light of his porch.
“I’m sorry, lass. I forgot about your cheek.” He brushed his knuckles softly over her forehead, tucking the hair behind her ear with two fingers.
Lille caught his wrist, feeling the braided leather of the bracelet he wore. She pressed her lips to it. “It’s okay.” And it was. It was a small pain compared to the comfort of the person with her. Lille vowed that she would think of nothing else except this man tonight. Normal life could wait until morning.
CHAPTER Twenty-three
The dim quiet of the entryway to his house brought back memories of the last time they’d been here together, more than six weeks ago. A small gasp escaped her as she remembered how horny they’d been, how good it had felt to have him beneath her.
This time, when he took her hand and tugged her down the hall toward his bedroom, she didn’t pull away but held on as he led her into the bathroom.
Recently renovated, Max’s shower looked like something out of a magazine. There was no tub; the entire space was finished with small mosaic tiles in various shades of coffee and cream. It had one of those huge rain showerheads and several jets that sprayed water from all directions. A sex shower, Lille
thought with a small smile, and felt her body quicken in anticipation.
He opened the glass door and leaned in to turn on the water. Lille used one finger to trace the tattoo of the mermaid’s hair that ran up his back toward his shoulder. Broad and muscled, his back made her want to lie on him like a child, but she resisted, inhaling deeply as the water from the shower warmed and steam filled the bathroom.
He turned around, and his eyes were hot again with lust and something else, something more unsettling—affection. “You ready to get rid of the sand, pet?”
Pet? Lille thought, but didn’t want to call attention to the endearment. “I hope that’s not all we’re going to do with those jets, darling,” Lille purred, and began stripping off her sweater and T-shirt.
His eyes followed her hands, but he didn’t reach for her. “I’ll aim them wherever you like,” he said gruffly as she dropped her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her breasts were taut and aching.
“You’ve got the prettiest tits, Lille,” Max murmured, reaching out to stroke them, running his fingers over the slopes and curves, barely grazing the nipples before skating away. Lille found herself leaning toward him, wanting him to keep stroking and teasing forever. She felt as if she could lose herself in the barely there caress of his rough fingertips, wanting him to pinch and squeeze, but not wanting this soft, dreaming pleasure to end, either.
He brushed some sand off her left breast.
Lille laughed and came to herself. “I don’t know about you, Max darling, but I’m hoping those jets can take care of my sand problem.”
“Too right, lass. Best strip down. I’ll make sure you get the sand out of all the cracks and crevices.”
“You’re too kind.” Lille rolled her eyes and pushed her pajama bottoms down, liking the way his eyes fastened between her legs. His nostrils flared, and he touched himself through his jeans.
“Get in the shower, lass,” he ordered, and Lille obeyed, moving past him, making sure to brush her turgid nipples against him as she moved past.
The spray from five separate jets hit her, making her gasp. The water stung a bit as it hit her nipples, her backside, between her legs, her back, but it felt good as well. After a moment, she relaxed and the jets were nothing but pleasant.
Max joined her, his broad shoulders blocking the spray that had been hitting her front, so now only water from overhead poured down on her, running in more gentle rivulets down her face and over her nose and mouth.
He adjusted her position so that one of the nozzles was jetting right between the cheeks of her ass; not only was it cleaning away the sand, but it felt . . . like she was being slowly invaded. The wet heat sliding over her and the pleasure of the pulsing jets made her feel loose and relaxed. Max knew it, too, the devil, and his dick was hard against her stomach. He hitched her up a little and spread the cheeks of her ass with his fingers.
He bit gently at the tendon running between her neck and shoulder, making her gasp.
“I want to fuck you like this, with the spray going inside you.”
Lille nodded, eager for it, eager for him, and kissed him as he leaned her against the wall with the jet, making sure the spray was penetrating her.
Gasping, Lille clung to him as he pulled away just enough to adjust himself so that he could slide inside her. It hurt a little, he felt almost too big with the water having washed her clean, but even that felt right. She liked that he had to work harder to get all the way inside, work harder for every inch he thrust inside her, while at the same time the pulsing jets of the shower were working her open the other way, penetrating her. Lille had never felt anything like it, receiving Max’s careful, grinding thrusts at the same time as the water pushed and invaded her from behind. She could feel her climax building, her sex getting tighter around Max’s dick, squeezing him and making him groan. When she came, she felt as if she came in both her pussy and her ass, her insides vibrating and liquefying, tightening and squeezing Max inside her until he came with a roar, his hips jerking.
After a moment, the water still jetting into her began to hurt, and she nudged him to get her away from the spray. He did, tugging her into the middle of the shower and pulling his shampoo from a shelf.
It smelled like him—Bulgari. “No Irish Spring?” she questioned, as he held it up for her.
He snorted. “It’s no’ half bad, actually, but no. Hold out your hand for me, please, pet.”
“Why are you calling me pet?” She did as he asked, holding out her hand for the shampoo.
He looked surprised, and then he laughed. “It’s a term of endearment, though for tonight, I’d like it very much if you were my pet.”
“Hmmm . . . that sounds interesting,” Lille admitted, though she’d never been good at being submissive. Max was the only man she’d ever allowed to dominate her sexually. But since this was the last time she was going to have sex with him, she would make it count. The idea of giving over the reins to someone, just for tonight, sounded nice. She worked the shampoo into her hair and began scrubbing while he located a bar of soap and began washing her body. He took his time with it, making sure he washed away every last bit of sand. Max felt the need to take his time, considering what she’d said about this being their last night. He hoped that she’d change her mind, hoped that if he touched her deeply enough, she would forget about her fear, forget about not wanting to be in a relationship.
“Doesn’t it?” he agreed, his eyes following his hands as he stroked her body. He thought of something his uncle had said once, regarding women: “Women are suckers for poems, even the ones that don’t like ’em.” He’d been forever quoting poetry, his uncle Bryan.
“You remind me of something. A poem,” Max ventured.
Somehow, this was the last thing Lille had expected from him. “A poem?”
“Hmm, by Keats,” he said, and he began to recite:
“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.”
Lille felt a small tsunami rise and crash within her chest, choking her. He was talking about her. He’d picked a poem that described her. She’d never had anyone quote poetry to her, at least not poetry that didn’t mention her breasts or her lips or her smile. “I’d never have taken you for a man who quotes poetry,” she managed; her throat felt full and swollen, as if he’d taken her words as surely as he’d taken her body. “I don’t recognize it.”
“‘La Belle Dame sans Merci.’”
“‘The Lady Without Mercy’?” Lille felt strangely hurt, hurt and amused, because he was right, so right, to call her that, especially since she wasn’t going to sleep with him again after tonight. She wasn’t going to be in a relationship. It was too dangerous. She didn’t want him to see that, though. “How do you know it?”
“My uncle Bryan,” he confessed. “He quoted poetry to John and me when we helped him in the bar.”
Lille’s lips twitched, thinking of battle-hardened John quoting poetry. She should have known Max had a poetic soul—look at his tattoos, at the songs he chose to sing in the bar and the way he sang them—but John didn’t seem as if he had a poetic bone in his body.
Max helped her rinse her hair, then washed and rinsed himself quickly. Stepping out of the shower onto a blue rug, he located a towel for her and turned back to wrap her in it, tucking it around her so she wouldn’t get chilled.
“Why didn’t you got to college, then, become a professor of literature?” she asked, admiring his body as he dried himself, enjoying the curving line that ran from his hip and arrowed down happily to his magnificent package.
“College?” He sounded surprised, as if the thought had never occurred to him.
“Yeah.” Lille gave him a half smile. “Why not go to college?”
He rubbed his hair vigorously w
ith the towel. “I had the bar to tend, didn’t I? And I can read without getting a fancy degree. Besides”—he dropped the towel and tugged on hers, pulling her toward him—“I had other things on my mind when I was younger. You may not believe this, but I much preferred fucking to anything else when I was a teenager.”
Lille widened her eyes in mock surprise. “I’m shocked.”
He laughed. “I suppose you were much the same?”
Lille didn’t answer that, didn’t want to answer that. Instead, she freed her hands from beneath her towel, then slid them over his dick and balls, stroking and cupping him. He was still a bit damp from the shower.
“Who said anything about were?” she murmured coyly, and began moving her hand rhythmically up and down, feeling him harden, velvet over steel.
He widened his stance and let her do as she would. “Damn, lass, you may just be the death of me.”
Yeah, Lille agreed. That was what she was afraid of. She liked him; she liked him too much to trust herself with him. She wasn’t a woman a man could love. Look what trouble she brought, on herself and others. Caring about people was dangerous. Allowing them to care for her was worse.
CHAPTER Twenty-four
Lille awoke suddenly, but even though panic had her heart racing, she didn’t move, didn’t change her breathing. She waited, letting the awareness of her surroundings slowly sink into her flesh. The sun was shining on her; she could tell that from the warmth on her face and the red glow in front of her eyes.
She was wrapped around a warm, muscled body—Max.
Memories of the previous night, of being laid gently on the bed and tied, were superimposed with an image of Paul, his eyes wide and confused as he held a gun to her head.
She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and thought just of Max, of last night, of the last night. Only it was morning now, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
“I decided that I’m not ready for our night to end,” Max said from above her. He was straddling her hips and had already taken one of her arms and tied it to the bedpost with a hideous 1970s tie.
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