An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)

by Sophie Jackson

  Tate grinned. “My man. Nice.” They fist-bumped. “Any more ‘off’ days?”

  Max shook his head. He and Tate stayed in contact a lot of the time, exchanging texts at least once a day, sometimes more, with phone calls just as regular. Since Max’s drunken shenanigans, Tate had been a true crutch for him. The fact that the man traveled to Preston County every week to see Max was testament to how he viewed his role as Max’s sponsor.

  As they always did, they shot the shit about therapy, caught up on friends, and drank coffee. With Riley at the helm, Max’s body shop was booming, and Carter was stressed with Kat’s wedding planning. Without warning, and with his hand wrapped around his coffee cup frozen in midair, Tate’s attention suddenly diverted from Max to something on the street. Max followed his line of sight and smirked.

  It was Grace.

  Dressed in her running gear and sweating gorgeously, she was walking down the main road toward the coffee shop, playing with her wristwatch, no doubt checking her run time, which she always did. Her hair was pulled back, her ponytailed curls bouncing, her running pants breathtakingly tight. Max’s cock gave a nod of appreciation for those bad boys. He was pissed he’d had to cancel his run with her this morning.

  “Good Lord,” Tate muttered, gawking at her through the window and spinning around to watch her enter the shop.

  “Like what you see?” Max asked around the lip of his cup. A curious and unfamiliar warmth crept across his skin as he observed his sponsor stare at Grace.

  “Yeah, um . . . Shit, do they all look like her around here?”

  Max looked over at Grace, catching her eye. She beamed and waved. He dipped his chin back at her. “No,” he answered.

  Just as Max predicted, Grace, with latte and muffin in hand, sauntered across the shop toward them. “Hey,” she greeted, her green eyes dancing.

  “Hey yourself. Good run?”

  “Yeah. Weirdly boring without you.” Her gaze darted to Tate. “Hello, you must be Tate, Max’s sponsor. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Tate held out his hand, which Grace took nervously. “All good things, I hope.” He grinned, wide and toothy. Max rolled his eyes.

  Grace laughed. “Oh, yeah, all good things.”

  Tate’s head snapped to Max. Max sighed. “This is Grace,” he introduced. Tate’s eyebrows rose. “She’s my running partner.”

  “Running partner, huh?” The expression on Tate’s face highlighted how full of bullshit he thought Max to be. But hell, he could think what he liked.

  “Yes,” Grace said. “You interrupted an important run today.” Her playful expression was lovely and Max watched Tate fall headfirst for its captivating powers.

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Tate played along. “Maybe I can buy you a coffee to make it up to you.”

  Max cleared his throat and crossed his arms, his attention on the street outside because, well, shit, he didn’t know where to look while his sponsor hit on his . . . friend.

  “Thank you, but I have my latte already,” Grace answered, lifting the cup.

  In the glass of the window, Max could see her reflection. Her face, smiling, but timid. He wasn’t about to step in, though, not unless she looked to be truly freaking out. Besides, Tate was harmless. An asshole, but harmless all the same.

  “Hey, Max,” she said suddenly, bringing his gaze back. “Could you meet me at the cottage by the stream later? I’m working through lunch at the bar but I can be there for three thirty.” She seemed nervous.

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Oh, no. I just need your help with something.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She smiled, the reticence fading. “Great. It was nice meeting you, Tate.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, Grace.” Tate’s eyes never left her until she disappeared down the street.

  Max waited with bated breath.

  “Okay,” Tate ordered with an index finger pressed into the table. “Fucking spill. Who is she and why the hell haven’t you talked about her before? And don’t give me any of that running partner bullshit. She’s hot for you and if you aren’t hitting that, I’m revoking your man card right fucking now.”

  Max laughed despite himself. “She’s not hot for me. It’s not like that.”

  Tate gaped, mouth and palms open, looking too much like his brother, Riley. “She’s so hot for you, how can you— Look, whatever. Why are you not all over her like a damned rash?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be warning me off women?”

  Tate blanched. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  Max shrugged. “The whole relationships aren’t a good idea during recovery spiel?”

  Tate gave an innocuous blink. “Well, yeah, but who the hell’s talking about a relationship?”

  Max snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “We’re friends.”

  “With benefits?”

  Max stared at his cup. “Sort of.”

  Tate sat back, grabbed his cane at his side, and took a deep breath. “We need more coffee and one of those fucking muffins”—he stood—“and then you are gonna tell me everything.”

  It was going to be a long-ass morning.

  At three thirty, Max arrived at the cottage. It was a gorgeous day. The sky was clear and the smell of the upcoming summer wafted on the hazy breeze. Grace stood by the stream, her camera to her face as it always was, while she took pictures of the water. She was dressed in a denim skirt, which landed midthigh, a white vest, which made her skin appear lusciously darker, and flip-flops. She’d fastened the top of her hair so the rest fell down her back in jet-black waves and curls. She looked understatedly sexy.

  Max made sure he made enough noise to alert her to his presence. She looked up and smiled wide and undisputedly happy. Tate’s words echoed in Max’s head. Was she hot for him? There was most definitely a mutual attraction. She wouldn’t have asked him to sleep with her if there wasn’t, right? He pulled his shades off and gave himself a mental slap. He needed to chill the fuck out. Enough with the overthinking.

  “You’re here,” she said.

  He opened his arms wide. “Said I would be.”

  She made an eek face. “You might not be when I tell you why you’re here.”

  Max frowned. “Hit me.”

  She fisted her hands together, her fingers turning to knots. “So last week when I saw my brother, he told me that I’ve been commissioned for an art and photography exhibition at the end of August.”

  Max grinned. “That’s amazing.”

  Grace flushed. “Yeah, it is. It’s the first since . . . well, everything, and I’m nervous as hell. My brother’s pulled various strings with some friends, but it’s great. It’s a lot of space to fill, but I won’t let that worry me.”

  “So what do you need me for?”

  She took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you’d let me take some pictures of you.” Max opened his mouth to protest with a huge, fat “fuck no” but Grace beat him to it. “They’re not portraits or anything,” she assured him. “In fact, people won’t even know it’s you. It’ll be parts of you.”

  Max’s hands found his hips. “Parts of me.”

  “Mmhm. Like your arms.” She lifted her hand but kept it from touching him. “Your chest.” The nervous demeanor he’d seen in the coffee shop returned, her expression wary, guarded.

  She’d never been that way with Max and he wasn’t about to let her start. Without thought, he took a step forward. Grace’s hand splayed against his chest, directly above his heart. Her palm burned hot through his tee. A small gasp escaped her at the same time her large eyes snapped to his, all emerald shine and beautiful.

  “You can touch me,” Max told her gently. “Don’t be afraid. Not of me.”

  She swallowed but didn’t move away. Instead, she opened her fingers wider and pressed her palm more firmly against him. An expression of determination hardened her features.

  “All right,” she whispered. “I’d also
want pictures of your face.” She lifted her hand gradually, took his chin between her thumb and forefinger, and turned his head to the side. “This part.” She traced an invisible line from the corner of his eye to the edge of his mouth with the tip of her finger. “No one would know it’s you.”

  Max’s breathing was heavier; his pulse thundered. The feel of Grace’s fingers on his jaw, the sensation of her skin against his was unbelievable. It’d been too damned long since he’d experienced a woman’s touch. He was hard and breathless and they were both still fully clothed.

  Fuck.

  “Okay,” he croaked.

  “Okay?” she asked, dropping her hand. “You’ll do it?”

  Right then, he’d have done anything she damn well wanted if she’d simply touch him again. “Sure.”

  For the next hour, Grace took photographs of Max’s face, his eyes, his mouth, and his jaw, set against the backdrop of the old cottage, the trees, and the water. She showed him what she’d taken after each one, reassuring him that he was unidentifiable. Max had to admit, though with little surprise, that she was very talented. Her eye for shape and light was extraordinary.

  “I need you over there,” she ordered, pointing to the overturned tree he sat on when they had a break on their morning run. He threw one leg over the side, straddling it. Grace sat down next to him.

  “I want to take photographs of your hands.” Her voice quieted when she touched the back of his wrist. “But, I . . . I want to show color variation.” She put her hand on his. “Like this.”

  Max licked his lips as he looked at their hands together, her skin an exquisite dark, warm caramel against his white and slightly tanned. She lifted her camera with her free hand and clicked twice. She adjusted herself, moving closer, the scent of her perfume, all sweet and floral, accosting Max. She tilted and clicked, moved her hand, moved his, but still she seemed unsatisfied. Max, however, was anything but.

  Grace huffed and sat back, removing her fingers from his. “It’s not working.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “I can’t get the angle right.”

  Max’s gaze wandered the length of her neck, across her pulse points, down to the V of her top and the swell of her chest, to the top of her thighs, where her skirt had ridden up. Her legs were fucking perfection. She had runner’s legs, slender and strong. He wondered fleetingly what they’d feel like wrapped around his hips, his ribs, and his neck. He bet she tasted incredible.

  “You need both hands to hold the camera,” he suggested, his voice deep and husky, his stare unmoving from her lap.

  “Yeah, but I can’t do that while we’re”—she gestured between them, frustrated—“sitting like this.”

  Max took her hand and held it between his, determined. He waited for her to look at him, which she did, blatantly surprised by his directness. But Max was tired of dancing around the issue. If she wanted him to help her, it was time to prove it.

  “Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.

  Her gaze flickered across him, from his eyes to his mouth, to his hands and back again. Max liked the way her eyes felt on him, innocent and honest. She was silent for an age, causing sweat to gather at his hairline. “Do you?”

  She nodded, her stare never wavering. “Yes,” she replied. “I trust you.”

  Max exhaled. “Good.” He smiled. “I think I know how we can make this easier.” She waited. “Turn around,” he said. “So your back’s to my chest.”

  She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned as he asked. She sat back gradually between Max’s legs, shuffling across the log until her hair was under his nose, smelling all sorts of awesome, like clean laundry and honey. He needed to know what skin lotion she used, too, because that shit was golden. Nothing could beat the smell of a woman and dammit he’d missed it.

  “Place your feet on the tree,” he instructed. “Good. Now, I’m gonna place my hands on your legs, okay? That way you can hold the camera and take the picture.”

  She cleared her throat, but didn’t answer. Max sat forward, placing his chin on her shoulder, keeping his hands to himself. “If you don’t want to, it’s all right,” he whispered. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I swear.” She nodded. “Talk to me,” he urged. “Tell me what you can handle.”

  She was breathing quicker. “I’m . . . it’s fine.” She pursed her lips. Max recognized the calming technique Elliot had taught him when he first entered rehab. “Just . . . go slow. Please.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  Max swallowed, adjusting his position behind her, not wanting Grace to feel his lust poking her in the lower back. Jesus, he was wound tighter than a fucking spring. He was suddenly aware of everything about the woman sitting between his legs, her breathing, her scent, the slight tremor in her spine, and when his palms finally made contact with the skin of her legs, he all but gulped the groan that threatened at the back of his throat. She was warm and so fucking soft under his fingertips.

  He kept his hands still, pressing into her thighs, his digits reaching the top of her knee. “Take the picture,” he murmured into her hair, desperately ignoring the epic view he had down her bra. “Take it.”

  “I can’t move,” she gasped.

  “Yes, you can.” Max shifted his hands, a whisper of skin against skin. “I’m not holding you down. You’re in control. You can move, you can push me awa—”

  “No, don’t,” she interrupted with an abrupt shake of her head. “Don’t move away.”

  Max smiled. “I won’t.”

  He wasn’t going anywhere. Dammit, what he would have given to push her legs open and feel what delights she had between them. He wondered if she was wet, if she was bare, or as nature intended. He’d turn her around, sit her on his cock, and fuck her hard enough to make her forget everything and everyone she was afraid of, or better yet, he’d bend her over the very log they were sitting on and make her scream his name.

  But he knew it wasn’t the time for anything but baby steps.

  Gentle, slow baby steps.

  Fucking would come later.

  He closed his eyes and breathed, calming his body down. It was no easy feat. After a moment’s silence, Grace lifted the camera and started clicking, taking picture after picture of his hands on her.

  “Can you . . . put your hands closer—here, to the inside of my thighs?” Her voice was shy, warm, and incredibly sensual.

  Max did as she asked, biting his lip as a secondary urge to cop a feel crashed over him. “Your skin’s so soft,” he whispered instead, nuzzling her neck, emboldened and relieved as shit that she wasn’t freaking out.

  Her head dropped back onto his shoulder after she’d taken more pictures.

  “It smells good, too,” Max continued, taking a huge whiff. “Fuck, what is that?”

  She laughed, the motion of it causing her body to rub Max’s in nightmarishly fantastic ways. “It’s cocoa butter,” she murmured.

  “It’s fucking awesome.” She laughed again. Max bit back a groan. “You smell good enough to eat.”

  The exhale that left Grace’s mouth was hungry and wanton and caused Max’s fingers to grip her a little harder.

  “You’re so hot, Gracie,” he told her. “So fucking hot.” His tongue was out of his mouth and licking a path up her neck before he could comprehend the desire to do it.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped, leaning her head to the side to give him more access.

  Keeping his mouth at her jawline, Max risked moving his hands again, farther between her thighs. His fingers spread so that his thumbs disappeared under her skirt. “I can’t wait to feel you,” he said against her earlobe. “Here.” His hands moved again, teasing, mere inches from where he was desperate to touch. “I’ll make it so good, Grace. You have no fucking idea.”

  Her fingers pushed into the gaps in between his. “I know you will.”

  Just as Max started to ponder what she’d do if he touched her tits, Grace began to fidget. Max held back a grumble when sh
e gradually moved his palms away. He couldn’t complain. She’d allowed him to do so much more than he imagined, and considering the things he knew about what she’d been through, he had to concede that they’d made massive progress. She sat forward and turned to him, her feet resting back on the ground.

  Her gaze flitted to his crotch and the tent he was pitching in his cargo shorts. She hid her knowing but embarrassed smile with the back of her hand.

  Max chuckled. “I’m not going to apologize about you making me hard,” he stated as he stood and stretched with a groan, needing to go for a run to burn off his horniness.

  “I wouldn’t want you to. I like it.”

  Max cocked an eyebrow. Her flirty tone was not conducive to getting rid of a righteous boner. “Yeah?”

  She shrugged. “Of course. It makes me feel good that you find me attractive.”

  Max snorted. “Duh.”

  Grace didn’t laugh as Max expected. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself, making her body smaller. Her eyes cast down.

  Max frowned. Panic teased his neck. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. You should have told me if I did too much. Did I do too much?”

  “No!” she all but shouted. “No. Max, it was . . . I—I liked it. Very much. You did nothing wrong.”

  He approached slowly, sitting at her side. “Then what is it?” She bit her lip and sighed. Max moved her hair from her shoulder down her back. “Grace, tell me.”

  “I want to give back,” she whispered, glancing at his lap. “I want to touch you, too.”

  “You can,” he insisted. Was she crazy? “Look, like I said, I’m a guy, so you want to touch me? Touch me. Shit, girl, you wanna hump me in public? You hump me in public. You want to put your hands in my pants? Put your damned hands in my pants.”

  She laughed then, making Max smile. “I’m not sure we’re at the humping-in-public stage quite yet.”

  “Ha!” Max pointed a finger at her. “That wasn’t a no! Does that mean you would?”

  She pushed him playfully. “Shut up! Perv.”