Down with Love

by Kate Meader

  “I shouldn’t be having sex with someone else?”

  “I didn’t say that. But it would complicate things.”

  It would. But I’m not. So it doesn’t.

  He throws the test in the wastebasket near the door, then washes his hands.

  I relax enough to lean against the doorway.

  “You redressed,” he says, turning to look me up and down.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were staying.”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  Something wriggles in my stomach, a gut reaction to his question that wonders if it’s a trap.

  “Well, I had my fun and you haven’t had yours yet,” I say cheerfully.

  Max dries his hands, then stands before me with arms threaded over his chest. “There are two things wrong with that statement. You’re assuming I wasn’t having fun while you were. Not true. And you’re describing what’s happening here as a quid pro quo. I scratched your”—he gestures to my shorts—“so now you have to return the favor.”

  I smile sweetly, unsure where he’s going with this. “It’s the least I can do.”

  He moves closer and my breath catches. “What if I told you I didn’t want to play it that way? That I’d rather spend my time treating you right.”

  What nonsense is this? Why the hell would Max Henderson want to spend his time treating me right?

  “I’m not looking for a relationship,” I say, slightly on edge.

  He stalks over to me, places his hands on my hips. “You mean, with me.”

  “Yes.”

  Any other guy would take offense, but not Max. Instead he does the sweetest thing: inclines his forehead to touch mine and whispers words every girl wants to hear. “Tell me what you need right now.”

  I need him to leave.

  I need him to do me.

  I need him to tell me everything and nothing.

  The best way to get all these things is to get in bed with the devil. “I need you inside me.”

  It’s a sexy thing to say. A dirty thing. But it also sounds surprisingly vulnerable on my lips because it’s a plea not just for physical intimacy but for a visit inside my head with maybe a side trip to my heart and soul.

  His hands slip from my hips to my ass, and then he’s walking me back. His eyes never leave mine, his intensity a weight I feel to my depths. “Bedroom.”

  “Behind me. First door.”

  I want to kiss him, but I want to keep my eyes open. I don’t want to miss a thing.

  He backs me up against my dresser, then turns me around so I’m facing a floor-length mirror in the corner. I feel him hard and heavy against the top of my ass, his arms circling me, his chin resting on my shoulder.

  “We look good together, Charles. My brooding good looks and your ray-bright sunshine.”

  We do, I can’t deny it. But then this is the type of man who makes everyone he’s with shine up good and proper. I refuse to take any credit for it.

  “On the outside,” I murmur, distracted by how his hand has snuck under the hem of my halter and is stroking my hip lightly. “Inside, you won’t find Pollyanna.”

  His eyes flicker to mine in the mirror, something worrisome in them.

  “I like your place,” he says, the turn of the conversation taking me by surprise. “What I’ve seen of it.” More of those delicious, erotic circles on my hip now moving toward my belly, fluttering up my rib cage.

  “I just moved in. Well, a month ago.”

  “Bet your parents are proud.”

  That pulls me out of the moment. “They are.” I stop there. He doesn’t need to know what I put them through.

  “Your own business. Your own place. Yeah, they’re proud. Their girl done good.”

  My heart clenches. My whole life, I’ve wanted to make them proud and pay them back for saving me.

  “Is that why you’re in such a hurry to find the one?”

  I pivot in his arms, needing to face him without the barrier of the mirror. “Did Sully say something?”

  “Might have mentioned his wish for you to be settled. Happy. Thinks you work too hard. Wants to see you with a guy who’ll treat you like a queen.”

  “You got all this over cards?”

  “They’re surprisingly chatty guys in between manly belches. You know what I think, Charles?”

  “Bet you’re gonna tell me.”

  “I think some guy hurt you and now you’re making a list, checking it twice, and trying to figure out the minimum requirements for Charlie Love’s future husband.”

  I find it both amusing and terrifying to be psychoanalyzed by Max. I’m curious, so I play along.

  “And pray tell, what are these minimum requirements?”

  “Kind, likes animals and children, unselfish in bed.”

  I make a play of looking over his shoulder. “Where is this paragon?”

  “Not too flashy, will let you have your way, maybe a little”—he rubs his thumb and forefinger together—“boring. After all, anyone with too much personality might be a challenge.”

  “And I hate a challenge?”

  “No. But I think you tried that and it didn’t work so you’re ready for an easier road, even if it involves compromising on what you really need.”

  “Which is?”

  He takes a moment, which could be calculated to give whatever he’s about to say a gravitas it no doubt doesn’t deserve.

  “The one who gets you. A soulmate.”

  I swallow because damn him, that pause works. Isn’t that what everyone wants, a partner who fills their gaps, understands them, lets them run wild and reins them in when needed? I thought I was getting to that point with Jeremy, each moment we spent together a building block in our intimacy. I was careful not to reveal too much, to hold back some mystery and the parts of myself I didn’t want him to see.

  I don’t need to be careful with Max, however. I suspect I could tell him every secret and I would never feel judged. No pressure because I’m not trying to win him over.

  With such low stakes, Max would make a fun confidant and an even more fun lover.

  “That soulmate stuff is overrated,” I say, with a stress laugh. “But it’s very seductive coming from a guy who doesn’t believe in it for himself. Almost as if you’re dangling a carrot of potential. No wonder ex-with-puppy got the wrong end of the stick. You gave off the vibe of forever, and you don’t even buy a single word of it.”

  “I don’t have to buy it to understand that it means something for others. Like any faith, if you believe in it, then it’s enough to guide you. The problem is when people refuse to—or just plain can’t—live up to this idealized version of a partner.”

  I throw my arms around his neck, strangely calmed by what he just said. “Max Henderson, I believe we are on the same page in this.”

  “We are?”

  “You don’t believe that people can be happy in marriage. I do, but I also understand that happiness in relationships takes work. Along with honesty and communication. I have no expectations of you, Max. None whatsoever.”

  I’m telling him what every guy wants to hear, so why does he look…disappointed? Or maybe I’m projecting because I worry about disappointing him.

  The politics of sex—even casual sex—are so damn hard.

  Throughout this intimate conversation, which is pretty much hands down the best foreplay of my life, Max has been coasting his hands over my curves, such as they are. This measured approach is not what I expected but I find I’m loving it. Jeremy was very handsy, and not in a good way. I’m used to men pawing me in the name of unrestrainable passion, so coming across this rare unicorn who knows how to craft a moment is a revelation.

  My shorts are pulled down slowly. Again.
My halter is untied with reverence, slipped off with care. Max coasts his gaze down my body. I’m still wearing underwear, a strapless bra holding up nothing-to-write-to-Penthouse-about 34Bs and a silky thong that’s damp but amazingly not incinerated to ash by now.

  I should jot a note to Donna Karan. Your panties withstood the onslaught of a Max Henderson seduction. Well done!

  He’s silent, and it makes me nervous so I break it. “Cat caught your tongue, Max?”

  The brief shadow that flits across his face like a dark-winged bird might be my imagination. He smiles. The shadows recede.

  But still, no words. Either I’ve made him speechless or this is part of his playbook.

  He unbuttons his shirt with a slowness that makes me squirm and the reveal is glorious. Hard and defined, with a light dusting of hair across his pecs and in a trail heading for the goods. It’s really working for me.

  Seems I want to be seduced.

  “May I?” I touch the waistband of his pants. He nods.

  In keeping with the moment, I inch that zipper down, a journey that takes ten seconds instead of the usually frenzied one. I palm the treasure behind the curtain and draw his groan and a choked out, “Ch-Charlie.”

  Peeling down his pants is another delaying tactic. I’m not sure why I’m taking this so slowly. He’s already given me an amazing orgasm, but we’ve barely skimmed the surface of what’s possible.

  He steps out of his pants and places a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back on the bed.

  “I have condoms in the—”

  He cuts me off with a kiss, this perfect mating of mouths. My legs part to welcome him and he settles between them, the barriers to getting good and naked still on in the form of our stupid underwear. I don’t mind, though. Not when Max is holding my face and exploring my mouth in a preview of coming attractions.

  I thought I was in the mood for a quick, dirty encounter. It would better suit my state of mind but Max is sending my brain in a different direction, one where quick and dirty is replaced by slow and sensual. Romantic.

  Max Henderson is courting me.

  Before I can let that settle and find purchase in my heart, I grab his ass. It’s the right thing to do to put a stop to my nonsensical thoughts.

  He chuckles against my mouth, like he sees what I did there. “That’s my girl. Tell me what you need.”

  I’m so confused. I want it slow and fast, dirty and romantic. It’s not possible, but then Max makes it all seem possible.

  “Need. You,” I say. “Please.” I’m a polite cavewoman.

  He leaves my mouth and begins the all-important trek south. One breast pops out involuntarily, as if it sensed Max’s devil lips were in the neighborhood. Now it’s begging for his tongue and he obliges while its twin jealously strains against its lacy cup. Down, down, his wicked mouth goes and the next few minutes are a blur of sensation. My thong is pushed aside to make way for Max’s tongue and God, that’s so fucking good. Fingers, too, stroking and rubbing and slipping inside.

  “Maaaax.”

  No verbal response from him, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t have anything worth saying. I buck off the bed for my second social orgasm of the evening.

  This can’t be real.

  His big body hovers over me, his mouth near mine.

  “Say yes, Charlie.”

  I appreciate his consent check-in, though I hear something else in those words. He wants more than my body, and when I murmur “yes” in return, I pretend that’s all I’m giving him access to. It’s necessary for my mental well-being.

  He rolls my thong off, and something thicker than fingers slides inside my pussy. Damn, I was so dazed after coming that I didn’t get a chance to see the Max Henderson weapon before he used it to blow my mind.

  He cups my jaw and gives me a slow, deep, wet-with-me kiss. “Good?” A long stroke out, a deep push in, and I feel exquisitely full.

  I want to tell him harder. I want to tell him faster. I want to tell him what I need in detail, but he’s doing great on his own and why introduce that dynamic? I nod, letting him know it’s all good, and he continues pumping into me, each glide long and liquid and deep. Yet all this time, he watches, assessing my reaction to each motion, adjusting the angle when he interprets some non-verbal clue I give him.

  He’s very intuitive, so intuitive that it isn’t long before I feel that build of pressure low in my belly. Three times! This has to be a record but probably not for Max. He probably—shit, why am I thinking of Max giving some other woman orgasms?

  I turn my head away, ashamed of where my thoughts have gone.

  He turns it back, shakes his head, and—oh, God—smiles.

  “Right here, lovely Charlie. Need to see you.”

  And I feel like he does. See me, that is. Now we’re locked in a climb toward a place I’m desperate to reach, yet terrified at what it might mean. Every part of me is dizzying, fluid heat. Pure sensation. Max never wavers—in his thrusts, in his eye-fucking, in that intensity he exudes.

  The orgasm crashes over me, and I bite down on my lip, stifling a scream, worried I’ll scare my new neighbors.

  Or myself.

  His body tightens, and Max lets go on a long groan. It’s perfect, but then so is he.

  Chapter 14

  “My wife dresses to kill. She cooks the same way.”

  —Henny Youngman

  Max

  I’m hashing it out in the Punch Palace. What do I mean by “it,” you might ask.

  Charlie Love’s resistance.

  For some reason, she thinks one time is enough. One time—with me! This is confusing for a number of reasons:

  No woman has ever said no to a follow-up jump in the sack with me. Not one.

  Even if I can’t promise her that rosy happily-ever-after at the top of her list, I’m offering to be her fuck-toy for the foreseeable future. Sexy supply and delicious demand. Why would anyone turn this down?

  We connected. Not just sexually, which was a chemical conflagration that made it the best sex I (and probably anyone) has ever had, but also on an intellectual level. I like talking to her. I like that sharp wit of hers, and I think she likes how I give as good as I get.

  I suspect there’s more to that last point, something buried in there that I need to poke around in, but I can’t quite grasp. It’s been two weeks since we hooked up—though “hookup” isn’t even anywhere near the zip code of what happened. It was more than that. I romanticked the fuck out of that encounter.

  Not that she appreciated it! She gave me the old “I have an early meeting” excuse to get me out the door right after. A couple of days later, I asked her to hit the Hitchcock festival at the Music Box with me, but she said no. I could have told her it was just a friendly evening out, but we both knew we’d be in bed five minutes after the credits rolled on Vertigo.

  I punch Bob again—or rather, his replacement. This makes me smile, but it’s a grim slash of my lips, little humor in it.

  “Does Lucas know you’re using him to get out all your aggression, Max?”

  I didn’t hear Grant come in. For a guy who’s six three and built like a linebacker, he skims the earth with a remarkably light step.

  I walk over to the bench near the window overlooking the Chicago River and grab a towel. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on a guy like that.”

  “Am I in danger of getting an ass-kickin’? From you?” His tone is one of such blatant disbelief that even I laugh.

  “You need the room?” I down a half bottle of water.

  “Nah.” He waits. Grant’s the kind of guy who takes a moment before he unloads on you. It’s a Southern thing, and despite being an impatient ass myself, I’ve always enjoyed my friend’s slower, deliberate ways
.

  “What’s got you all put out?” he asks. “Impotence, I assume.”

  I decide to shoot right to the heart of the problem. “There’s this woman.”

  “The wedding planner?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Lucas and Sadie have a book running. He actually thinks you might marry this girl, is giving short odds on a proposal by the end of the summer.”

  My mouth drops open in a way I’m sure makes me look like a yokel. “What does Sadie think?”

  “She’s pretty sure it’s gonna happen but she thinks you’ll wait until the fall. Something about leaves turning, maybe a trip to see the foliage in Wisconsin, more romance for a proposal.” He shrugs. Women. “You don’t seem in a hurry to deny this possibility.”

  “Well, I’m not getting married. Shit, you know that’s not for the likes of us.”

  His mouth twists ever so slightly.

  “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean—”

  “No worries. I understand your opposition to the holy state.” He knows how it all went down with Becca. “But this wedding planner person is sure causing a stir in our little kingdom.”

  I scoff, glad to have the focus back on me, if only because Grant’s pain over his divorce from Aubrey is still raw, and that makes me feel raw. “Because a couple of our co-workers are gossiping about her.”

  “That and the fact there’s a woman trying to get ahold of you, and she doesn’t seem too pleased.”

  I grab my phone and check my messages. Nothing from Mitzi, Charlie, or my mother.

  I’m pissed all over again.

  “Did you take a message?”

  Grant raises an eyebrow. “I’m not your service, Henderson.”

  “Yet, you’re here.”

  “She’s got great legs.”

  I do a double take. “Excuse me?”

  Squinting Wild West style, he takes an excruciatingly long look at the Lucas mask covering Bob the Torso, the one I’ve been using to vent my frustration on. “Your wedding planner. She’s got great legs.”