by Brandi Evans
I'd miss Aimée and Chad more, though.
Over the years working together at Red Light, Aimée and Chad had become my family. During my convalescence, they'd picked up the slack and kept the place running smoothly. Aimée had stepped up and taken over my position, and she was doing a fantastic job. Chad was doing everything he could to pick up any other slack. So yeah, I loved them dearly, and I'd miss them. But could I genuinely pass up an offer to run the charitable arm of one of the world's most renowned companies?
Then again, if I took it, would I be forever haunted by the possibility I'd only been offered such a prestigious opportunity because of my relationship with Max?
Closing my eyes, I buried my face in his chest and just held on. If I took this job, I didn't want my decision to have anything to do with fear, Théo, my attack, or questions about whether Max's decision to hire me was dick-driven. There'd be time to weigh all the pros and cons later.
I lifted my head and placed a palm softly to Max's cheek, to his handsome face. "You're so good to me, Maxwell Penn. I just wanted you to know that. Sometimes, I think you forget."
Guilt swam in the blue eyes I loved, and his hand dropped again to my flank. I swore I could hear the gears in his head churning, but I didn't want a rehash on his usual response. I knew he harbored an intense amount of self-hatred because of my attack. He thought it was his fault because his past, his shadows, set the stage, but I didn't blame him. I couldn't. I loved him too much to ever blame him for actions that were out of his control.
Did his past play a role in the series of events that ultimately had Théo Roux walking into the poolroom with that letter opener? I'd be stupid to believe otherwise, but Max hadn't been malicious. More importantly, he hadn't been in control of Théo's actions—only Théo had. One day, I might get Max to accept that, but I had a feeling we had a long way to go on that front. So, I did what I—we—so often did when emotions threatened to overwhelm: distract the other with our bodies.
Wrapping my arms around him, I pushed onto my toes and took his lips in a hot, desperate kiss—a kiss Max took instant command of. He buried a hand in my mess of brown hair, grabbed on tightly and giving the strands a tug, forced my face up so he could kiss the ever-loving shit out of me. It was the only way to describe it. And me? Well, I let him, willingly surrendering to his breathtaking control.
Maxwell Penn wasn't just a billionaire business mogul.
He wasn't just my boss and my boyfriend.
He was my Dom.
A familiar tingle sparked between my thighs, and I relished the heady rush of surrender, lost myself in the passions he so effortlessly conjured. Being with him, succumbing to him, surrendering to him had become some of the only times I felt like myself anymore.
Max was such a beautiful distraction. He overwhelmed me on good days, and on bad days, he was my respite from the storm. I loved it. I loved him. More than that, I needed him like I needed coffee—for a coffee addict like me, that said a lot.
Breathless, I pulled back so I could look at him, this man who was as broken as he was beautiful. "Take me to bed, Sir," I murmured. "One more morning off, and then, after lunch, we'll go to Whitecliff and talk more about this job offer."
He opened his mouth to answer, but his house phone interrupted. Not his cell, which I thought was odd. Not many people had Max's unlisted home number, and he preferred it that way.
To my knowledge, the only people who knew were me, Max's long-time housekeeper, his executive assistant, his head of security and his two oldest and dearest friends, Karen and Garrett Lanyon. Wait, my mother had it now, too. Max had given it to her after I'd officially moved in, but she still usually called me first. His executive assistant and head of security both usually called Max's cell first, and his housekeeper was upstairs cleaning. That likely left one option.
I couldn't help the smile curling my lips as I thought of Garrett and Karen. Garrett had been Max's best friend since childhood, and Karen was Garrett's wife—and Max's lover before I'd come along and joined their strange, sensual family. Max and Karen were still lovers in a way, like Garrett and I were lovers.
The four of us had a quasi-sexual relationship that was complex and satisfying in ways I was still trying to get my head around. We had clear boundaries. Karen and Max, as well as Garrett and I, were free to engage in fun bedtime romps, but there was never any full-on intercourse across couples. Max had insisted on that, and apparently, before I'd come along, that arrangement hadn't been the norm.
Max got off watching his lovers orgasm. Didn't even matter to him whether he was the one invoking the orgasm or not—that changed slightly with me. Oh, he still enjoyed watching others with me; he'd just drawn one harsh line, though: assuming we both agreed, men could play with me but no cock except his had access to my pussy. Ever. No exceptions. He and he alone had that pleasure, and I was perfectly okay with that because he offered me the same. No other woman's pussy would have his cock, either.
I gave Max a playful push toward the phone. "Go tell Karen or Garrett you'll need to call them back. You, Sir, are about to be very busy orgasming me into oblivion."
He grinned. "Only if you're a good little sub."
"Aren't I always a good little sub, Sir?" I crooned in the purring lilt he liked.
"You are indeed. I've trained you well in the art of submission."
"Indeed you have, Sir." A shiver danced along each of my vertebrae. It always did when the dynamic between us shifted from that of equal partners to a Dom and his willing, needy sub—and yes, when it came to my Dom, I was needy.
Early in our relationship, the idea of being so needy had bothered me. I didn't like a man—well, anyone, really—holding so much power over me, but my neediness didn't bother me anymore. I loved Max, and he loved me. The way he made me feel, emotionally as well as physically, was more potent than any drug I could imagine. He always left me wanting more of him. All of him. What was so wrong with that? Not a goddamn thing in my book.
The only flag on the playing field when it came to our Dom/sub relationship was that it had cooled since my attack. We still had sex—lots of sex, in fact. He still took control and employed multiple methods to rocket my lust into the stratosphere, but our sex life had lost the dangerous edge of pure, passionate power exchange.
He hadn't used my favorite riding crop on me since the attack. He hadn't restrained me, either. In the immediate weeks after the incident, that had been okay. Hell, it had been a damned necessity. I'd been fucking stabbed; I'd undergone emergency surgery. I'd needed gentleness, but as the physical pain drifted into memory, our sex life had never returned to what it had been. It was something I wanted to remedy.
He plucked the phone from its base just after the fifth ring. "Hello."
A smile tugged at my lips. Seeing him answer his phone as just Max, not Mr. Penn the business mogul, was positively adorable.
I was about to mouth, "Is it Karen or Garret?" when Max turned an ashen color and swayed backward. He was a marionette whose strings had just been cut. His hand slapped against the wall as if he were desperately trying to catch himself, but there was nothing to grab onto—only me.
I rocketed into him and wrapped my arms around his middle just in time to help him ease to the ground instead of hitting it with a smack. The phone clattered beside him. He hadn't hung up; his hands had likely gone too numb to hold the device any longer.
"Max?" I cupped his cheeks with my own suddenly shaking hands. "What's wrong?"
Fear was blooming inside me again. This wasn't a panic attack exactly, but many of the sensations were similar, including my spiking heart rate.
Max's gaze was a thousand miles away, as vacant as I'd ever seen.
"Max, love." I maneuvered myself and tugged until our gazes finally met. "What's wrong?"
His voice was barely audible, but it was still loud enough to break my heart. "My mum's dead."
Chapter 2
I tightened my grip on Max's hand as our caravan of black
Cadillac Escalades pulled to a stop outside a rock-faced building in his hometown of Alum Bay on the Isle of Wight. With its seaside backdrop and bygone-century appeal, the structure struck me as quaint. Well, at least it would have if not for the throngs of reporters scurrying around the grounds like cockroaches.
Given my two previous run-ins with the tabloids, the pests still made me uneasy. At least, they weren't gunning for me this go around. That was something, although I'd gladly take their ire if it meant changing the reason we'd made the trip to Britain.
I turned from the vermin and focused on Max. My lover had been so withdrawn since receiving the call over two days ago. He'd always been a man of few words, but this level of quiet, even for him, was eerie. He'd made the funeral arrangements, made sure I had everything I needed for the out-of-country trip, comforted me when a nightmare had awoken me from last night's sleep, but otherwise, he'd been so terribly quiet. I almost felt as if I were dealing with the Max from the beginning of our relationship. I'd be a liar if I said that didn't terrify me.
Max didn't share details from his past; it was a statement as accurate and definite as humans require oxygen to survive. For a long time, it had also been one of the biggest burrs between us. I'd wanted a relationship with all of him, but he'd fought to hold on to his secrets. Since my attack, I'd slowly begun to understand he hadn't done it out of malice but out of fear and pain. Facing the shadows and demons lurking in the past—yeah, it fucking hurt.
After the call, he'd told me his mother had suffered an accident several years back that had put her in a completely vegetative state, but that was the extent of what I knew about the woman. Family life was one of the many things he hadn't wanted to elaborate on. Yes, since my attack, he had begun telling me more about his mysterious past, but he'd always given his childhood a wide berth. He'd once told me talking about certain events was like having to relive them. I understood that now more than ever. Every time I spoke about my attack, I could feel Théo's blade all over again, re-live the terror.
The man in the passenger's seat turned to Max. "The advanced team has the building secure, sir. As soon as you're ready, we'll escort you and Ms. Jennings inside."
"Thank you, Scott, but I still need a few more minutes."
"Of course, sir. Whenever you're ready."
Scott Washington, Max's head of security, had been with Max for going on ten years. The African American was tall and built like a tanker truck. He'd been a former Navy SEAL turned Secret Service Agent before Max had poached him. I trusted him.
Lifting mine and Max's entwined hands to my heart, I placed my opposite palm to my lover's cheek. I willed my mounting anxiety to remain at bay. I had to focus on Max. He needed my strength. He needed me to be the rock he'd been for me.
"What can I do to help?" I asked.
"Exactly what you're doing, my sweet." Closing his eyes, he turned his head and pressed his cheek more fully against my palm. We sat unmoving for what felt like half an eternity before Max opened his eyes again and tapped his lips to mine. "I love you," he whispered.
The familiar stumble of my heartbeat made my chest ache. It wasn't the first time he'd used those words with me, but god, they still undid me. "I love you, too. So much."
"Thank you for being here. I know it must be hard, given—"
"There isn't anywhere else I want to be right now."
"My sweet, I truly don't deserve you." Before I could respond, he pressed a quick kiss to my mouth and then turned to Scott. "I'm ready."
Scott said something into his wrist before exiting the vehicle. A moment later, my door swung open, and six mountain-sized men stood like a human shield between the reporters and us. I stepped from the SUV first, and Max followed me out.
The human shield encircled us as we made our way along the cobblestone walk. Reporters yelled questions at us, but Max ignored them. I cuddled closer to Max, trying to make myself as small as I could while also giving him support. I'd never get used to the kind of press Max garnered just from existing.
When we were inside, the last of the security detail pulled the door closed behind us. The incessant barrage of rapid-fire verbal vomit died away, and I breathed in a long sigh of relief. Max gave me a gentle squeeze and kissed my temple. Of course, he'd caught my unease. I was trying so hard to be strong for him, but my stupid PTSD made that so fucking complicated.
Do better, I scolded myself.
I gave Max what I prayed was a confident smile, and I must have pulled it off, too. A degree of the darkness lifted from his baby blues.
Keeping an arm around me, Max led me into the interior of the building. The funeral home was an elegant blend of warm colors and antique charm. Textured wallpaper lightened the space, a perfect counterpoint to the dark wooden hues of the tables positioned throughout. The hardwood floors were several shades lighter than the tables, creating another striking contrast. A vase of fresh flowers sat atop the table in the center of the space, inviting and somber, but the flowers weren't what made me feel welcomed. The couple standing beside it held that honor.
The man was Max's evil twin, the woman, a 1950s-screen-goddess, the yin to his dark-and-sexy yang. She'd tied her blonde locks into a delicate knot, the perfect complement to her dark purple dress. Our outfits were cut in a similar figure-flattering silhouette, but as always, she wore hers better. Not many women could compete with Karen Lanyon's natural beauty, and I was okay with that.
Garrett looked almost tame in his dark suit, his raven-black hair tied at his nape. Almost. He still oozed the dangerous aura that had aroused my senses the night we'd first met.
I smiled when they walked toward us. When we reached each other, we didn't need words. The four of us opened our arms and embraced, forming a lopsided circle: Max, Garrett, Karen and me, a quartet of broken hearts standing together amid tragedy.
When we pulled apart, I found myself standing with Garrett's arms around me while Karen cupped both of Max's cheeks. "I'm so, so sorry," she whispered to him. "If there's anything we can do, you just have to ask."
"I know, Karen." Max pulled her in for another hug and brushed a kiss to her cheek. "I know.
Before any more words were exchanged, an elderly man with graying black hair and a patient, kind smile approached us. "Mr. Penn," the man began, "we spoke on the phone. Carlos Abbott, funeral director of Abbott & Abbott. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," Max replied.
Max's voice was that of the businessman again. He'd put on the face he showed the world. Even now, heartbroken and grieving, he was the epitome of strength and dignity. I couldn't help but wonder if that was a Max thing or a British thing.
"I want to thank you again," Max continued, "for agreeing to my request for a closed-door meeting."
Max had asked Mr. Abbott to close the funeral home for our visit. Between pesky reporters and my PTSD, Max had thought this best, and I hadn't wanted to argue. Knowing the place was secure allowed me to focus all my energy on being strong for Max. I was sure Mr. Abbott had only agreed because, well, money talked, and Max had a lot of money.
"You've had too much tragedy in your life lately," Abbott insisted, casting a quick glance my way. "I'm glad I could do this one kindness for you."
After confirming a few arrangements he and Max had discussed over the phone, the most pressing being Mrs. Penn's cremation, Mr. Abbott led us deeper into the building and down a long hallway.
When we reached the end of the hall, Mr. Abbott motioned to a door. "Right this way, Mr. Penn. As requested, I have arranged a personal viewing."
Max faltered as we crossed the threshold, and I completely understood why. This was the room where his mother's body was being… displayed? God, was that the right word? There had to be a better one, but I couldn't think of it.
The space lacked all the charm of the main area. Gone were the warm color pallets and floral arrangements, replaced by cold stainless steel—including the stainless steel slab in the center of the room where his mother
lay covered by a white sheet.
I curled into Max. God, it was so, so, so… impersonal. A woman's life was over, and the best the mortuary could do was to cover her with a plain fucking sheet. The sight tore at my heart, and I didn't even know the woman.
I gripped Max's hand with near-brutal force as he stepped beside the table. Karen positioned herself at my right and looped her arm through mine while Garrett moved to Max's other side and rested a hand on Max's shoulder.
Mr. Abbott assumed a position opposite us. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Penn."
We stood cloistered together, unmoving, for nearly ten minutes. Mr. Abbott, to his credit, didn't seem inclined to rush Max, and I was grateful for that. If my mother were under that sheet, then I wouldn't want anyone to peel it back, either. If I didn't see her face, then, in my mind, I could pretend she might still be alive, but if someone were to pull the covering back and I saw her? Well, my delusion would forever be shattered.
When Max finally nodded to Mr. Abbott, I pressed a kiss to my lover's biceps and sidled closer still. As support went, it wasn't much, but I didn't know what else to do. I'd never seen the man I loved this broken, and that said a lot.
"Take all the time you need," Mr. Abbott said. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."
At my first glimpse of Amelia Penn, breath stalled in my chest. God, she looked so much like her son. Well, he looked like her. If, somehow, she opened her eyes, would they have the same blue hue as her son's? They did have the same wavy blonde curls, but her face was sunken in.
Max shuddered, a total-body movement that made me fear he would collapse. Repositioning my hold, I fastened an arm around him. Garrett did the same, our arms stacking atop the other's.
Max took a tentative step forward but immediately stopped. At least, I thought it was a step; he may have simply stumbled. Given the way he'd collapsed when he'd received the news of her death, I gave the possibilities even odds.
