by Kate Meader
Are we there yet?
Meanwhile, Max Henderson is silence incarnate. If I placed a mirror in front of his mouth, would there be a reflection or evidence of breathing? A sensual vampire, he’s sucking all the oxygen from the small space. The man knows how to exercise rigid control—except I’ve seen it slip when his mouth met mine.
We turn onto my block, though I don’t recall telling him exactly where I live other than my street.
“You can drop me off—” I’m about to say “here” when he pulls into a space half a block down from my condo building. I assume he’s sold the soul I doubt he possesses to the parking gods because this good fortune is virtually unheard of at 10:27 p.m. in Lincoln Park.
“Thanks for the ride.” I place my hand on the door handle, then think to ask, “How do you know where I live?”
“Easy enough to find out.”
It hits me squarely in the solar plexus. I’ve been here before, and the last time someone did that, it did not end well. “You ran a background check on me?”
“You’re providing a financial service to my brother. It’s in my interest to know who he’s dealing with. Who I’m dealing with.”
Normally, I would understand this. Check me out with the Better Business Bureau. Look up my reviews on Yelp (all fantastic, by the way, except for one client who didn’t like that I used Waterford instead of Baccarat). However, Max’s investigation of me smacks of control and invasion.
“And did I pass the test?”
“Your business is booming; your clients love you except for Gale C on Yelp who was really pissed about the crystal flutes used for the toast. Kind of weird, but brides are in a review category of their own, I suppose. You pay your bills and taxes on time. You just bought this condo, your first property purchase. You appear to be a very productive citizen of our fine city.”
I should view this as a boon, the perfect damper on all those pesky feelings running riot through my body. Or at least, a guy checking my financials to make sure I’m not a bad bet should be a vat of ice water on my crotch.
Why isn’t it?
If he touches me now, I’ll burst into flames.
I fumble for the car door and practically fall on my ass trying to scramble from the seat to the street. “Good night!” I call out, like I still need to be polite. It sounds weird, I look weird, and by the time I get to the front door of my building, I’m fairly certain I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m floating above this city tableau, looking down on myself fumbling with my purse. Searching for my key. Shaking as I try to insert it.
This bird’s-eye view shows a tall, dark figure behind me, not touching but I feel him all around like a fog.
“Charlie,” he says. “If you’re going to be mad at me, let’s do it right.”
I don’t know what that means, yet I do. I resolve to hold my neck rigid, inhaling deep breaths, focusing on one thing at a time. Opening the door will allow me to walk inside which will allow me to escape which will allow me to be alone and dig out that vibrator one of my clients gave me two Christmases ago…
But I can’t concentrate. He’s too present, his scent a drug, his presence an anchor keeping me barely tethered to this world.
I turn my head slightly, and it’s my undoing. His impossibly blue eyes seduce with purpose.
“I’m not mad at you,” I say, the last gasp of a drowning woman.
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little.” If I can temper my emotions a notch, then I can reel in whatever it is I’m feeling. “I understand if James or Gina want to check on me, I just don’t see why you need to stick your nose in.”
“Merely looking out for what’s mine.”
The intent I hear in those words makes me shiver.
Flustered, I continue. “Not just with the checkup but you seem to be everywhere. I can’t get away from you.”
“The universe is telling us something.”
“That you’re a pain in my ass.”
He shakes his head like poor Charlie doesn’t get it. “Try again.”
My heart is a thundering beast in my chest. I want to look away but he’s made it impossible with his broad shoulders grilling my retinas, his perfect hair in need of a muss, his blue eyes darkening with each second I stand there frozen. I’m trapped in this no-man’s-land of anticipation.
“You’re not what I want,” I blurt, true in one sense, a blatant lie in another.
He doesn’t touch me. Instead it’s a conquest with his eyes.
“But…”
The bastard wants me to say it. To admit this is beyond my control.
I say nothing because if I open my mouth, it will be to beg for his touch.
“If you want this—if you want me—I’ll need you to say so. I recognize that I’ve come on pretty strong, maybe too strong. Making you uncomfortable has never been my intention, but I think there’s something here that’s worth exploring. If I’ve misread the signals, I’ll leave.”
I swallow, because he’s just made this so much easier. Nothing comes out of my mouth.
His smile is rueful. “Good night, Charlie.” He turns to leave and my heart leaps out of my chest with a desperate “noooo!”
I think of Penny’s advice: an orgasm—or two or three—to clear the pipes. This doesn’t have to be so complicated. It’s purely physical, chemical, geographical. Nothing more. The decision needs no handwringing.
“Stop.”
He stops, but doesn’t turn. Max Henderson is a bit of a showman, I think.
“You haven’t misread the signals. There’s something here, but I meant what I said.”
He faces me and closes the gap between us. “About what?”
“You’re not what I want—I mean, for the long haul…”
“But…” he prompts, his mouth close to mine.
“You’ll do the trick.”
He blinks. Gotcha.
“Excuse me?”
I turn my body into his and place both hands on his shoulders, enjoying the flex beneath my fingertips. Exquisite. Even in heels, I need to reach, especially as he’s still reeling from what I said and hasn’t the wherewithal to lean down.
Poor, sexy Max.
My lips brush his jaw, and it’s all I can do not to moan at the contact.
He’s not so reticent. A throaty sound emerges that sets me all aflutter.
“You’ll do nicely to scratch my itch, Max.” I’m establishing the ground rules so we’re both clear I don’t want anything more than a night of sweaty, sheet-tangling passion. Max Henderson needn’t think I have intentions beyond that. I won’t be angling for follow-up brunches or lazy Sundays doing crossword puzzles or dog-sharing scenarios. I won’t be asking for a second date.
Or even a first one.
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, but it dims to the dark desire he’s been rocking since he approached me outside my building. Since I met him.
He heaves a breath and on an exhale, touches his lips to mine. “Let’s hear more about this itch.”
Chapter 13
“Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can’t sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can’t sleep with the window open.”
—George Bernard Shaw
Max
I think I’m being used.
Actually, I know I’m being used because Charlie pretty much said so outside her apartment building. This should not bother me. How many times have I told a woman that there’s no future beyond a night, maybe two, with me? How many of my former lovers are given to understand the parameters of spending time with me? All of them, and I’m still friends with the majority, except Mitzi—but she’s in a league of her own.
I should dig Charlie’s refreshing honest
y. I’m the guy who told her she could still enjoy herself while on the hunt for Mr. Right.
Is that what’s bothering me? Her dismissal of me as husband material? Hell, I don’t consider myself husband material for anyone, let alone Charlie Love.
Sweet, sexy Charlie. Her mouth is a sinful velvet, the perfect treat, made even more incredible by the fact her kiss isn’t tentative. Now that’s she’s talked herself into doing this, all concerns about sleeping with me have been banished. I’m no longer on her radar as a likely mate. I am now a physical thing on which she can project her desires.
Pity I like her so much.
I’m not sure when this happened, probably some time between her screaming inventive insults at Lars Muller and shooting daggers at me while I grilled her dad a cheese sandwich. (Did I get a word of thanks? Oh, no, just snark.) It’s kind of inconvenient to realize I have a crush on this woman who’s viewing me as little more than meat, but I’m a big boy and expect I can handle it.
The elevator opens onto the third floor of her building, which looks like one of those rehab jobs of a twenties-era hotel. They probably joined a couple of units together to make one apartment, keeping the molding and nicer details of the old place.
She leads me down the corridor to her condo. That shake she had in her hands is gone as she hits the keyhole without a problem. Charlie is back in control.
I plan to change that.
I plan to make her swear like I’m a baseball official who’s pissed her off.
I plan to have her asking—no, begging—for several repeat rounds.
Once inside her apartment, she makes a move for the light switch, but I pull her back against my hard-for-her body. Her sharp intake of breath goes right to my balls. I could do it quick. I suspect that’s what Charlie wants, something slam-bang in keeping with the perception she has of me. But I’m all about upending perceptions tonight.
“Slow down, honey. Let me see what I’m working with here.” I flip our positions so she’s back against the door. Under-cabinet lighting from the kitchen to my right is enough to show me her expression.
“The bedroom’s behind you,” she murmurs.
“We’ll get there eventually.” For now, I have so much I want to do, to feast upon. There’s a tempo to every sexual encounter, a rhythm that makes itself known. Charlie wants electronic dance music while I’m looking to ease in with a nice slow ballad. Acoustic.
She goes right for my zipper.
I swat her away, even though my dick is not happy with that decision. Nope, it’s not liking my strategy at all. Fucker and his spherical friends will have to behave because I’ve got a woman to woo.
“Not yet,” I murmur as much to my cock as to her before I capture her mouth in an all-consuming kiss. She moans, the sweetest sound of surrender as I ensure her mouth is loved to within an inch of its life. My hands skim down her sides, teasing, barely touching, my knuckles a gentle glance over her supple flesh.
“Max, I need…oh, God.” She tries to get busy with my dick again and I do another cock block—I know, unbelievable—this time taking both her hands and holding them over her head.
“I’ve got this, Charlie. Let me take care of you.”
“It’s taking too long,” she grates.
“I’ll make it worth your while. Trust me.”
Her body relaxes incrementally—this is Charlie after all, relaxation is not her jam—and she mutters, “Get on with it.”
I chuckle and flip her around so she faces the door. I need both my hands free, and I can’t trust she’ll not try to lead this dance again if I don’t make it a bit difficult for her. My body covers hers, finding that perfect fit as she slots into the concave space below my waist. For a moment, I let her feel how she’s affecting me, first with a press then with a lascivious grind against her ass.
The hand above her head forms a fist.
Our own little Titanic moment right there.
I find the side zip to her shorts and ease it down slowly, every moment a tease, every inch a torture—for us both. I slide those shorts down over her ass. She steps out of them and I kick them to the side.
The kitchen light casts a glow over the curves of her rear, bisected by a sexy black thong. There’s something both artistic and playful about how the light dapples her ass. I take one globe and squeeze while my free hand curls around her hip and skims the border of her thong.
Then inside.
Her breath hitches. Some time in the last few moments she’s placed both her hands on the door and hinged her hips in invitation. Like I could possibly say no to that.
My fingers delve deeper, seeking her heat, that throbbing heart of her. I part her and sink in where she’s so hot and wet. I shouldn’t be surprised. The woman is unmistakably turned on and my moves are on the money. Yet a ripple of pleasure I don’t immediately understand thrills through me. It’s not lust. It’s not even power.
It’s recognition.
Like this perfect pussy has been waiting for me to stake a claim and I’m suddenly home.
I haven’t even buried my cock inside her.
Yeah, I’m losing my mind.
She squirms against my hand and I push deeper. “Christ,” I mutter. I dig my hand into her hip and pull her back so my mouth is at her ear. I’m panting like I’ve run a race and now I’m wondering if I can keep up with this deathly slow pace I’ve set.
But I’ll try my damnedest.
I turn my finger and rub against her clit, drawing a deep moan from her that starts a new conversation between us. Her body shimmies. I need unrestricted access. The thong is yanked halfway down her ass—it’s hanging there, kind of sleazy, one of my favorite looks. Disheveled and desperate.
She moves against my finger, looking to create more friction, so I give it to her. A sawing motion through her slick heat, then I move my palm so it separates her thighs and makes her stance wide.
I grind my hand on her, spreading all that liquid desire around. She feels so damn good, and I want to tell her, but my vocal cords have locked up. Like I’m that stuttering kid who can’t get the words out. Charlie Love has done it again—made me lose control of what’s usually so easy for me. My words, my verbal dexterity.
Unable to speak, I do the next best thing to deepen the connection. I pull her back against my body, my mouth close to her ear, a low moan of pleasure escaping me. I still can’t form words, but maybe it’s not necessary. Maybe I don’t need to be always-in-control Max who knows what’s coming next because he issues the orders and calls the plays.
I think I know how Charlie felt ten minutes ago when she realized letting go might not be so hard. I rub my cock against her bare ass while my hand continues to draw tight, erotic circles between her thighs. She’s writhing now, close to going off, and I’m ready for her. So ready.
Her thighs shake, her body shudders, and her forehead dips to touch the door. It’s stunning, yet the most controlled orgasm I’ve ever witnessed. That’s okay. Some women are quiet but it doesn’t fit what I know of Charlie Love.
I turn her to face me. Her expression is slack with pleasure, her eyes unfocused with desire. “That was…beautiful,” I say. Because it was. I know I helped but I don’t feel like I was truly part of it.
She blinks at my words, then seems to come back from wherever she went.
I know what’s coming next.
Her hand on my zipper. An inquiry about condoms. A sequence to get me off and get me out the door.
I’m not quite ready to be dismissed.
True to my expectation, her hand smooths over my straining dick. I capture her wrist and hold her still.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
Everything, I want to say. Instead I ask for directions to the bathroom and stumble off.
The
man in the mirror looks the same, except for a little pinch of worry between his eyebrows. I have no idea of my end game here. Am I really trying to draw this out because I feel slighted by Charlie’s attitude?
Hell, all I’m asking for is a little romance.
I chuckle to myself at the notion. Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Max Henderson Needs Romance!
I’m tottering on the edge of absurdity here. Outside that door I have a woman who is offering me the fantasy. Not even a fantasy, but the reality I live and have been enjoying for many years. No strings, no pressure, come fast and carry on.
Thing is: I think Charlie Love needs a little romance as well.
Not that I’m the one to give it to her—at least not the whole hog—but does everything have to be so transactional? Can’t we enjoy the journey a little without the need to hurtle toward the destination at breakneck speeds? Sex doesn’t have to be a race.
Satisfied with my well-reasoned conclusion, I turn to leave and begin the woo. That’s when I spot something designed to deflate the hardest erection. I pick it up and stare, trying to puzzle it out.
There’s a knock on the door. “Max, are you okay?”
No. I’m not.
I open up, holding my find aloft. “Something you need to tell me?”
Charlie
After what just happened, I need a moment to gather my wits because Max Henderson took me on a roller-coaster sex ride where the dips were as hot as the highs.
And then he stopped without pulling into the station, so to speak.
I thought that maybe he had a problem—if you know what I mean—but there was no denying that hardness I felt as he rubbed me all the way to orgasm. And when he opens my bathroom door, I can see he’s still bulging. (So it was the first place I looked. Sue me.)
But my confusion is soon replaced by oh-shit panic at what he’s holding in his hand: Gina’s pregnancy test.
“That’s not mine,” I say instinctively.
What looks like relief softens his face. He nods. Waits.
“It belongs to a friend.” True. “She’s having a baby.” Your niece or nephew.
