She squeezed her thighs.
He stroked each dog then looked up, his eyes meeting hers, pleasure and something else in his gaze.
Affection.
As he’d have for a friend or a pet. Not what she wanted, but it was a start. Maybe. She hadn’t yet settled things with Andy not knowing if he was like Devlin and Max or would open himself to her.
She left the pickup before Max could cross to her then doubled-back and reached past the window for her purse. “Thanks for the lift, Eduardo. If you want to learn English to make things easier for you here, I know this great program you can try.” She gave him the name. “However, your language still beats mine by a mile.”
Grinning, he thanked her and drove away, cats chasing him.
Max touched her hand.
She threw he arms around him. “Thanks.”
He started then relaxed, his palms on her back. “For what? The ride? I should have had Oglebee pick you up in the Beemer, but he—”
“Eduardo told me about him. You should give Eduardo a chance and make him the caretaker. He’s a nice guy.”
Max eased her from him. “Last I noticed, Eduardo doesn’t speak English.”
“I suggested he get this program I bought to learn Spanish. He’s a smart guy. Sweet too.” She told him about feeding the ducks.
“Ah.” He brushed her bangs, setting them right from where the breeze had blown them. “That’s why you’re thanking me.”
“No.” She bumped her hip against his. “For this.” She gestured to his menagerie. “I never imagined you taking in animals or even having a pet. This…It’s…”
“Why did you think I wouldn’t have a pet?” He flung out his arms. “Do I look like a serial killer to you?”
The tufts in his pits made the world spiral out of control, like his pecs, abs, and the bulge behind his fly. She dug her toes into her sandals to keep from dropping to the ground and kissing his feet—then everything else too. “No, but, you’re a wild man on stage and in those articles about you. At the club you…”
A worker plodded by carrying a huge sack on his shoulder.
Max eased her face back to his. “At the club I what?”
“Didn’t seem like a member of the SPCA. Did you take these fur babies in after the fire?”
“I’ve had some since I moved in, which was several years ago. The others kind of found me. Turning them away wasn’t an option. I still miss the ones that took off.”
An answer she hadn’t anticipated, but should have, his kindness touching her as a woman and human being. Too often people were selfish and cruel, simply because no one stopped them. Max’s wealth gave him enough power to step on the weak, ignore animals, and play god whenever he wanted. Yet he didn’t.
She pushed to her toes and pecked his mouth. “Thanks for being kind.”
Hurt crossed his face. “Didn’t you think I would be? Was I that awful at the club?”
“I recall you being a badass with a heart.”
He grew thoughtful then regarded her. “Like this?” He hauled her close and didn’t let go, his kiss so deep, a pulse drummed in her throat, her breathing hampered.
Using his hair to tug him nearer, she wound those tresses around her hand so he couldn’t escape.
They kissed until her lungs hurt for a breath. She pulled free, gulped as much air as she could, and rested her head on his shoulder.
The dogs yapped and howled, ducks quacked, cats hissed.
She rubbed her nose over his pecs, his soapy scent and musk better than any fragrance. “I think your fan club wants your attention back on them.”
“Since they’re not used to visitors, they get rowdy when someone new comes by.”
Meaning her. No article she’d read linked Max with a long-term girlfriend. He’d gone clubbing with numerous women but none had lasted.
Jacquie didn’t want to believe, or hope, she was special because he asked her here. He might consider her a colleague due to her ideas, with fucking as a bonus. “Do you mind if I pet them?”
“Have at it, especially the cats, if you can catch one.” He rested his hands on her waist, rather than her ass, not giving his workers a show.
She liked him even more. “I’m fairly persuasive when I want to be.”
“Don’t I know. You had me jumping through hoops at the club’s various attractions.”
If he meant her urging him to get another hard-on, then damn right. However, she also wanted something deeper than sex. She eased back, eager to know about the real Max, not the rocker who could make females wet. “Have animals always been your thing? Did you want to become a vet but it didn’t work out?”
He laughed. “No. I always wanted to perform.” He scratched his stubble. “For the attention, I guess.”
An astute observation. “Are any of the animals here from when you were a kid?”
“They would have died long before I got this place. Plus, I didn’t have pets growing up.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Given how you love and care for them? Why not?”
“Usual reasons.” He dragged his hair off his shoulders and wound it into a loose ponytail. “Mom hates animals. Too messy. Dad was never there to voice an objection, so her rules stuck. When I lived with my first stepmother, or maybe it was the third, I can’t recall, she nixed all pets, including fish. Said they were too dirty even though they lived in water. She was hyper about germs. My second stepfather was the same. If I brushed against him, he’d take an hour-long shower to protect himself from infection. By the time I talked my fourth stepfather into letting me have a gerbil, he packed and left before my mom’s next husband moved in.”
Jacquie tried not to react, which wasn’t easy. “How many marriages have your parents had?”
“Lots.” The pain in his eyes faded, indifference replacing it. He took her hand. “Let’s go inside. I’ll show you around, get you breakfast, then introduce you to my pets.”
Chapter 10
As far as Jacquie was concerned, calling Max’s place a farmhouse was a misnomer. If ever there was a man cave, this was it.
High-beamed ceilings proliferated. Brown, copper, and bronze the predominant colors, leather everywhere. Sexy yet comforting, no different from him.
They passed through the spacious entry.
She squeezed his hand. “This looks like you.”
“You think?” He kissed her fingers. “The decorator called it rustic. I look like that?”
If he meant a little bit of country mixed with rock n roll, then no. House on the Prairie he wasn’t. “I meant masculine.”
“Ah.” He bumped her arm. “Much better.”
He led her through a living room, and what might have been a family room, sofas and chairs gracing both. Sun spilled inside, the bronze-tinted windows affording each area a hazy, warm glow she found irresistible. By her count, the dining room table seated twelve. White walls brightened every area, polished hardwood floors recording their steps.
Although numerous paintings and photos adorned the walls, none showed family or individual portraits. Nor had he displayed his various industry awards. “Did you buy this place as an investment?”
He slowed at a tall archway in the dining room and looked at her. “Why do you ask?”
This looked like a movie set not a home, unless it was for sale and the realtor suggested everything be in its place for potential buyers. She recalled what Andy had said about his mansion.
A matter she wasn’t foolish enough to bring up to Max. “It’s so big.”
He squared his shoulders and pushed out his hips. “You’re saying I don’t fit the bill?”
Laughing, she cupped his bulge then snatched back her hand and glanced around. “Do you have staff in here?”
“Nope. They’re outside. The tinted windows keep everyone from seeing in.” He placed her hand on his junk and flexed his cock.
Like Andy yesterday, Max wasn’t wearing underwear now, knowing what she liked. She understoo
d his preferences too, given she was naked beneath her tee and jeans.
He pressed her fingers against his dick. “You were saying?”
She stroked his hard length, heat rolling through her. “About what?”
“Me not being large enough to fill this space.”
“I’d never consider such a thing.” The ambience said he—or his decorator—made this place an architectural display rather than a home. “You like it here?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He regarded the long table. “It’s the first real home I’ve had.” He gestured to the room past the archway. “There’s the kitchen. I’ll whip up something for us. Would you like that?” He gathered her to him, stroking the area beneath her hair.
She loved what he was doing right this minute. His offer sounded heavenly too, but her brain had stalled on his comment about a real home and what he’d said earlier concerning his many stepparents. She wanted to ask about his past but didn’t know how to broach the subject without him closing down emotionally. “Uh, sure. I’ll help. I’m good at pouring cereal and milk or toasting Pop-Tarts.”
“A match for The Pioneer Woman, huh?”
“Who?”
He touched his nose to hers. “A lady who has a cooking show broadcast from her Oklahoma ranch. She makes hearty fixins her menfolk like cuz they got hard work ta do.”
Jacquie laughed at his put-on country twang. “Sounds fascinating. You watch cooking shows?”
Straightened, he tilted her face and regarded her ruby nose stud, the scarlet color matching her tee. “How else would I have learned how to throw together a meal without chemicals and red dye number two as the main ingredients?”
Color her surprised. “Are you a vegan at heart?”
“Hell no. I like meat.” He cupped her ass. “Don’t you remember me eating prime rib at the club?”
She recalled them dining on each other. The other details faded in comparison. “Thanks for reminding me. You have real milk here, not crappy two percent? And butter rather than margarine, and—”
“I have it all.”
No truer words were ever spoken. “What are we waiting for?”
He settled her on a tall chair at the center island, the kitchen brick-and-brass, then held out his hand. “Give me your purse, I’ll hang it above you for easy access.”
Pots and pans dangled there. The location wouldn’t have been her choice, but he was a guy. They saw things differently than women. “Sure.”
With her purse swaying on the hook, he gathered a skillet, spatula, plates, and utensils.
Watching him work was amazing, but made her feel useless and lazy. “You’re sure you don’t want me to help?”
He pointed his spatula at her. “Have you ever made omelets?”
She’d cooked entire meals, toiling next to her mom and sisters while her dad and brothers relaxed. The Reynolds family way. Once she’d fled their lifestyle, she hadn’t cooked anything, eating packaged stuff or junk food instead. To hell with worrying about clogged arteries. Protesting a patriarchal culture proved more important. “Uh-huh.”
“You’re sure? You don’t appear to be… Unless…” He tapped the spatula against his leg. “Are you ashamed of knowing how to cook?”
She folded her arms on the granite countertop and told him her sorry tale about being an outcast in Provo and doing time at the academy while reading X-rated novels on the side.
He rubbed her back. “I’m sorry your childhood was awful and your parents wouldn’t listen to what you wanted and had to be.”
“They’re not mean just misguided.” She rested her head against him. “They worry about me going to Hell.” She shrugged. “I can’t see how it could be worse than being different from everyone in your family, neighborhood, and school.” She stroked the silky hairs trickling beneath his navel then disappearing behind the waistband of his jeans.
His muscles jumped.
Her cunt pulsed, wanting him as it always would. “I tried adjusting, but couldn’t do it. How about you?”
“No one ever asked me to be a saint.”
Even if they had, the request would have been unnecessary. He was a good guy. It was obvious, once you got to know him that being a rocker, famous, and rich hadn’t changed his core personality. “Your parents are cool with you being a star? They didn’t want you going into law, business, or finance?”
“Hardly. Mom offered to act as my agent and handle my career. I told her thanks, but no way.”
“Because she wouldn’t know what she was doing?”
“Hardly.” He returned to his cooking preparations. “She’s a top Hollywood talent agent. Has nothing but A-listers as clients.” He named them.
Jacquie couldn’t believe it. “She actually handles James—”
“Yep.”
“And Chris—”
“Uh-huh.” He pulled bacon and an egg carton from the bronze fridge. “When I was a kid, she’d have her clients over during the holidays. If I was spending Christmas with her, rather than Dad, she had me pass around the hors d’oeuvres and drinks to her guests.”
“Rather than opening presents?”
He cracked eggs into a large bowl. “The chauffeur and I did that on Christmas morning. He was a cool guy. Had two boys around my age. He’d sneak them into the house so I had someone to play with and show my new toys to.”
“Sneak?”
“Mom didn’t like me mingling with the help.” He turned on the oven. “I hope you like biscuits and cinnamon rolls. Not homemade by me. Eduardo’s mom has a bakery that’s out of this world. He brings stuff by every morning.”
Eduardo was a good man. “Sounds great. Did your mother ever catch the chauffeur and his sons?” Jacquie leaned against the counter. “Tell me she didn’t. If he got fired…”
“Never happened. Mom was always wasted during and after her parties. Didn’t wake up until the following evening—with a monumental hangover.”
What an awful childhood he must have had, neglected by his mom, dismissed or unwanted by his stepparents. “Did you and your dad have good times together?”
Max shook his head and placed bacon strips in the skillet. “He was never around. Too busy. He has his own production company like Aaron Spelling did when he was alive.” Max looked at her. “You do know who Spelling is, right?”
“My parents considered TV the Devil’s tool.”
His mouth fell open. “Huh?”
“I didn’t see any programs until I left. TV wasn’t allowed at the academy either and those girls had parents like mine. When I went to their houses, there were no shows, movies, or even popular music, just nineteen-fifties G-rated junk. Trust me, we were doomed.”
“No shit. Glad you got out. To bring you up to speed on Spelling, he had tons of programs in primetime. Made a fucking fortune.”
“Like your dad.”
“By my guesstimate, he’s already passed old Aaron in the bucks department.” Max put the skillet on the stove and turned on the burner. “I’d never say this to his face, but his net worth is why women flock to him. For some reason, he can’t see how predatory they are. He keeps getting married, divorced, then hitched again.”
“How many ex-wives are there?”
“Give me a sec.” He folded his fingers over one by one.
When he started on the second hand, she choked on her swallow and coughed. “More than five?”
“Nine by last count. Maybe one more. But hey, Elizabeth Taylor had eight husbands. One she married twice.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t know who Elizabeth Taylor is, do you?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Hollywood people are the worst. Dad’s on his ninth or tenth wife and counting. Mom’s on her seventh husband and still going strong.”
Leaving him lost in the crowd. “Do you have any other relatives you’re close to? Siblings? Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins? I have tons. Both my parents’ sides believe in having children early, every year or two if possible, un
til menopause hits.”
He made a pained sound. “Must be awful for the women.”
“Exactly. Do you have any people you’re close to?”
“Nope.” He turned the popping bacon. “Mom and Dad weren’t into new kids with their other spouses and they were paranoid about their middle-class relatives wanting their dough. If they could have forced them to sign legal documents, saying they wouldn’t ask for money, they might have invited them over.”
Gross. “What about the numerous divorces? Didn’t they worry their respective—and many—spouses would stiff them?”
“Not with prenups. Each ex-spouse gets a small settlement that doesn’t put a dent in my folk’s bank accounts. For my stepparents, living the life while they were married had to be enough.”
What a clan he’d come from. Small wonder he wanted this place to feel like a home he never had and welcomed animals who’d love him unconditionally. Her heart ached for what he’d been through, the caution he couldn’t shake when it came to trust and love. “I can’t do this.”
His hand stalled on the biscuits he was placing on a tray. “What?” He looked at the uncooked food. “Eat?” His gaze shot to hers, concern and disappointment on his face. “Stay?”
“Watch you work while I lounge around.”
“You’re sitting, not lounging.”
“You know what I mean.” She slid off her chair. “Scooch over.”
“Scoo-what?”
She bumped her hip against his. “Give me some room to make magic.”
He crossed his arms. “You think you’re a better cook than I am?”
Jacquie would have bet her life on it. She’d had enough practice. “If I am, you can spank me for showing you up. Sound okay?”
Interest flared in his dark eyes, but died quickly. “Are you sure you want to do domestic stuff given your background?”
“For you, I don’t mind.” She stroked his tat, his skin hot and smooth, making her wet. “Plus, you can burn away the bad memories when we fuck. Deal?”
He nodded so fast, his hair jumped over his shoulders.
During their preparations, she took over, ordering him around.
He jumped from task to task, puffing. “You’re bossy, aren’t you?”
Domination: Surrender Book Two Page 16