into my burning skin.
Unable to stand the rush of sensation, I close my eyes. Max slides
one hand under my neck and lifts me into a fiery, demanding kiss. As
his tongue thrusts, ravaging my mouth with firm even strokes, he slides
two fingers into me hard and fast.
“Ahhh,” I moan into his mouth, arching my back, trying to get
away, but his lips press against mine and his fingers dive deeper.
“Feel me,” he whispers, sliding his mouth to my ear. “Feel me
everywhere.”
My body trembles. My hips buck against the steady rhythm of his
fingers. Desire ratchets through me like a firestorm.
I need more. I tilt my mound into his palm seeking even the small-
est bit of friction. Max jerks his hand away. “No,” he barks. “Not until
I say.”
My thighs shake uncontrollably. His words, his bourbon smooth
voice, his taut, lean body impaling me with pleasure, all combine to
undo the threads of my control one by one. I slide my foot forward to
leverage myself closer to his hand.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Max warns. His voice is low
and cool.
My heart pounds. A sharp stab of need sizzles all the way to my
core, and I slide my foot back.
“Better.” Max slicks a third finger inside me, stretching me as his
thumb strokes over my sensitive nub. He spreads my wetness around
and around the throbbing bundle of nerves, until there is no part of my
body free of quivering need.
Move. I need to move. But Max holds me tight, and I get only what
he wants to give.
“Max. No more. I can’t take anymore.” My vision blurs and the
painful, desperate need to orgasm obliterates every thought, releasing
my mind to float in the endorphin rush.
Dark. Quiet. Shadows in the corners. Where is he?
I creep across the lino tiles to the body on the floor.
“Wake up,” I whisper. “He’s coming.”
Soft hair, red and golden brown spills over a creamy shoulder. Her gold
necklace, M for mother, M for Mary, dangles on the floor.
A creak behind me.
“Come back. Come back to me.”
My vision clears. Brown eyes laced with gold study my face. “You
okay, baby?” His soft, gentle tone chases the flashback away. Max. My
Max. Not the voice in the shadows. His face is etched with concern, not
anger. I am safe. I am wanting.
“I need you.”
He hesitates. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Just…lost in the moment.”
His brow furrows, and then he slides his hand under my back,
arching me up toward him. He takes my mouth and plunders his way
to the back of my throat. His fingers dip inside me, pounding in and out
harder than I ever thought possible. His thumb circles closer and closer
to where I want it to go.
“Give it up to me,” he murmurs against my lips. “Give me every-
thing. Surrender to me.” He thrusts his fingers deep and slides his
thumb over my sweet spot. Finally, I break with a shriek, falling to
pieces, as a fireball of pleasure explodes inside me, and wave after wave
of scorching heat carries me away.
Before I have time to recover, Max has sheathed himself. He braces
his forearms on either side of my head and enters me in one hard thrust.
He angles himself to hit my sensitive spot, and I grow even slicker and
hotter than just moments ago. Pleasure pain sears through me. Erotic.
Unfamiliar. I want to get away, but his hips keep me open to him, and
his weight pins me to the bed.
He pulls back and then moves inside me, in and out with gentle
thrusts. My sex pulses and throbs, and I build again. Max presses deeper,
filling me, taking my breath away. I close my eyes and give myself up to
him with a moan.
“That’s it, baby.” He changes to a hammering place and catches my
nub gently between his fingers. One stroke and I am undone. My sex
closes around him. My body tightens and pleasure sears through me.
Max loses his own control. He roars his climax, the sound drowning out
the echoes of my release.
Moments later, Max releases my hands and lies on the bed, pulling
me across his chest. For the longest time I can’t move, a combination
of exhaustion, confusion, and shock. My mind churns, trying to make
sense of the hottest and most disconcerting sex I’ve ever had.
Max strokes his hand up and down my back. “You did well.”
His words squeeze my heart and relieve the ache, but now there is
something new. A sense of disquiet. He has awakened something in me,
deep and dark, and it wants to rock my world.
“You’re so quiet.” Max chuckles. “No jokes or smart remarks.
Where is my Makayla?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Lost, I think.”
I try to pull away but Max tightens his arms around me. “I have
you, baby. I won’t let you go.”
“Makayla. Come back here.” The voice gets louder and louder. I tremble
on the floor beside Mama. Why is she sleeping when Dad is so angry? She
knows what he will do.
I shake her, gently at first and then harder. She doesn’t wake. Something
is wrong. I kneel beside her and catch sight of the gash on her head. Blood
trickles out. She needs a doctor. I don’t know how to fix her.
“Mama. Get up. He has a bat this time; the one Grandpa Joe gave
me for my fifth birthday last year. And he smells of that smell. We have
to run.”
Mama doesn’t move. Something is wrong. Mama said if something bad
happened to her I should call 911. Is this what she meant?
“Makayla. Where are you girl? I would never hurt you. I just want
to talk.”
I peek around the corner. His face wavers from round and bloated, to
square and defined. His hair darkens from auburn to brown. But his eyes
remain black, hard and cold.
Pulse racing, I jerk out of my nightmare and take a deep breath. My
eyes slowly adjust to the dim light. The first fingers of the day creep
through the blinds, gliding over the dark, cherry wood furniture in
Max’s massive bedroom. Beside me, Max breathes the slow, steady
rhythm of sleep.
I ease myself out of his arms and sit on the edge of the bed, my arms
wrapped around my sweat-drenched body in a tight hug. I need to get
out of here. Now. I tiptoe across the floor, grabbing my clothes and my
purse along the way. By the time I reach the bedroom door, I am fully
dressed, purse in hand, torn panties scrunched in my fist. I take one last
look at Max asleep on the bed behind me and then I close the door with
a gentle click.
My heart pounds as I cross the great room toward the door. Please
don’t let him wake up. Please don’t let him wake up. Four weeks ago I
could never ever have imagined I would be sneaking out of a man’s
house after a wild night of sex. But four weeks ago, I had not met Max.
I lean against the front door and slip on my shoes. Will he be angry
when he wakes up and finds me gone? Disappointed? Will he care?
Would he understand my confusion, the maelstrom of emotions swirl-
“I’ll drive you home, Miss Makayla.” Colton appears in the hallway,
fully dressed, coat and keys in his hand.
I gasp, and stagger back, my heart pounding. Where did he come
from? Why is he dressed and ready to go?
“It’s okay,” I wave him away. “I saw a bus stop down the hill. It’s
almost time for the early morning bus. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He gives me a warm smile. “I was already up. It’s no trouble at
all. In fact, I insist. I am certain Mr. Huntington would terminate
my employment without hesitation if he found out I had let you go
home alone.”
Colton or the bus ride of shame? Not much of a choice. I swallow
hard and nod.
Colton leads me to the four-car parking garage and starts up a black
SUV. As we pull away from the house, a light goes on. My heart races
and I silently urge Colton to put his foot on the gas. If it is Max, I’m
sure I’ll find out soon enough.
We drive in comfortable silence through the empty streets. I lean
my head against the window and bite my lip to fight back the tears.
Why am I crying? We had wonderful, sweet, intimate sex and then we
had rough, mind-blowing sex in which Max manipulated my body, my
mind, and awakened something in my very soul.
A sob catches in my throat and Colton reaches over and gives my
hand a quick, gentle squeeze. “Don’t give up on him.”
He says nothing else for the rest of the trip. Not even good-bye.
Friday morning passes in a blur. Charlie and I whisper through the
public relations course we are forced to take every six months, sharing
details of our plans for the afternoon off the hospital gives all staff on
training days. I say nothing about what happened after the gala. I say
nothing about Max. For the first time ever, Charlie doesn’t push for
details. Maybe he can sense I am so close to the edge, I might crack.
After lunch he drives me to La Sanctuaire, Amanda’s favorite spa,
located in the heart of the Marina District. Still distraught after Jake’s
unexpected visit, she insisted I join her for a little beauty therapy to take
my mind off Max.
After Charlie roars away in his rusted Ford Escort, I step through
the frosted glass doors into a haven of peace and calm. The soothing
trickle of a waterfall echoes in the quiet space. Birds twitter in the
background. The exotic scent of incense perfumes the air, and my skin
glows golden under the soft lights. Tension eases from my muscles. The
perfect place to regain perspective—at least until I have to see Max at
the club tonight.
Amanda waves me over to the front desk and gives me a big hug.
“This is so nice of you,” I say. “I’m sure your client expected you
to use your vouchers for yourself on your afternoon off. What did you
book for us? Massage? Pedicure? I could really do with some relaxation.”
Amanda shakes her head. “You sounded so distraught this morning;
I thought a massage might not be the best thing for you—too much
thinking time involved. You need a distraction, so I booked something
that will fully occupy your mind. Something I knew you would never
do yourself.”
My body tenses. “What?”
“A wax.”
“What are we waxing?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Is it going to hurt?” I ask, my voice rising in pitch. “Is that why
you told me to have vodka for lunch?”
A beautiful, perfectly coiffed woman seats herself behind the desk,
and gives me an assessing look before turning her attention to Amanda.
“Bonjour, Amanda. Eees thees the friend you told me about?”
Amanda nods and shoves me forward. “Mac, meet Giselle. She’s
one of the most experienced aestheticians at La Sanctuaire. She’ll be
looking after you today. She’s French.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Bonjour.” Giselle holds out an elegant hand. Her nails are beauti-
fully polished, something I dare never do with my nail-biting habit.
“Hi,” I grunt through clenched teeth.
Amanda gives me a condescending pat on the shoulder. “She’s
a little nervous,” she explains to Giselle. “She’s never had anything
waxed before.”
Giselle stands up and peers over the desk. Her eyes travel the length
of my body and linger on my bare legs. “So I see.”
I narrow my eyes. Better to look natural than like some kind of
painted doll. Does she draw her eyebrows on every morning?
Giselle ushers us through another set of glass doors and into the
spa. “Zee Hollywood might be a bit much for a waxing virgin. Maybe
we should start her off with a bikini wax?”
I freeze midstep. “What is a Hollywood?”
“She’s tough,” Amanda says to Giselle. “She can handle it.”
“Handle what?”
Amanda wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You’re going all the
way. Dare to go bare. No point going through the pain if you leave
anything behind.”
I gasp. “She’s going to take everything off? Down there?”
“You’ll be fine,” Amanda assures me. “It’s all part of the plan.”
“She eess so nervous,” Giselle interjects. “It reminds me of my first
wax when I was ten years old.”
“Seriously?” I turn to Giselle. “You had something to wax down
there when you were ten?”
“I’m French.” Giselle huffs through her nose and leads us down a
cream, tiled corridor.
“What plan?” I ask Amanda when Giselle is out of earshot.
“The assure-you-there’s-nothing-wrong-with-liking-kinky-sex plan,”
she whispers.
“And this is going to be achieved by luring me to a spa on false
pretenses and having me shorn like a summer sheep?”
Amanda laughs. “Don’t get sarcastic with me. I know what
I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do, but you can’t help me. He makes me do things I
don’t want to do and he makes me like them.”
“Then they aren’t things you don’t want to do,” she answers.
“They are things you have never thought of doing, and can’t believe
you quite like.”
Giselle leads us into a cozy room with cream walls, potted plants,
and dim lighting. Not quite the shearing pen I had imagined. A parti-
tion separates two padded, beige spa tables. Giselle leaves us to remove
our bottoms while she finds Amanda’s aesthetician.
I strip down and ease myself onto the freezing cold, vinyl surface.
Goose bumps erupt over my skin. “How am I supposed to position
myself?” I call over to Amanda.
“On your back. Knees apart.”
“Like a frog?”
She giggles. “Ribbet.”
“I feel very exposed.”
“You are exposed.”
“I don’t like to be exposed.” I cover myself with a thin, paper
privacy sheet.
“I know. That’s why I thought this would be good for you. You’ll
realize you can’t die from exposure.”
“Max is all about exposure,” I complain. “The minute I let m
y
guard down he starts to push. I’m afraid to tell him anything in case it’s
used against me in some twisted way in the bedroom. When we were in
the limo on the way to his place, after hotting it up in the boxing ring,
I mentioned I like strawberry jam. Guess what? He decided to have a
midnight snack—Makayla and jam.”
Amanda snorts a laugh. “I told you at the beginning he was the
kind of man who needs boundaries. If you don’t set limits, one day he’ll
push too far.”
“He already did.”
Giselle returns with Amanda’s aesthetician, Lulu, and two pots of
what I assume to be boiling wax. She takes a seat beside me and puts
the boiling wax within spilling distance. “I’m not so sure about this,” I
warn her.
“It’s a little uncomfortable at first,” Amanda admits. “But we’ll be
talking, so after the initial shock you won’t notice.”
“I won’t notice when she pours boiling wax on my most intimate
area and then rips it off?”
Giselle chortles and then whips off my paper privacy sheet. She
takes one look at my nether regions, and slaps a hand over her mouth.
“Eeek.”
Eeek? Is that a French word?
“Don’t you trim?” she asks, her face a mask of horror.
“Of course I trim.” I bend forward to check out the situation down
below. Neatly trimmed. Why all the theatrics? My thicket didn’t scare
Max away.
Giselle jumps up and disappears behind the privacy screen. “Lulu,
darling, I need your shears.”
Shears? My body tightens and I imagine Giselle hacking away at
my lady garden with a giant pair of clippers, a wicked smile on her face.
She returns a moment later with a small pair of scissors and pro-
ceeds to snip off a few curls.
“In America, we call those manicure scissors,” I inform her, in a
clipped voice.
“In France, we call this une epaisse tignasse.” She taps her scissors on
my freshly trimmed mound.
I scowl at what must be an insult, although it sounds sexy when she
says it. I should learn how to speak French.
Giselle sprinkles baby powder between my legs and then stirs her
pot of wax with the zeal of a witch over a cauldron. I hear a ripping
sound from behind the screen, and Amanda exhales loudly.
“I’m not into pain,” I say to no one in particular.
“From what you’ve told me, I don’t think Max is either,” Amanda
Against the Ropes Page 23
