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

by Sophie Jackson

The warm breeze whipped around them, making the leaves of the trees rustle.

  “Don’t be scared of using me,” Max added seriously. He continued before she could object to his word choice. “Use me to find out what you want, what your boundaries are, what makes you feel good. That’s what we’re doing here, right?”

  She observed him for a moment, her stare intense. “Okay.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek quickly. “Thank you.”

  Grace took photographs of Max almost every day.

  When they were running, when they were hanging out, when he was working at the house. Okay, if Grace was truly honest, most of the photographs she took were done so covertly and were for her own private collection rather than for the show.

  Max simply had the most exquisite and photogenic face. If she didn’t like him so much, she’d have hated him for it.

  He was all hard edges, scars—he had two, one on his right eyebrow and one on his chin—and masculine lines. His hair was so dark it was almost black, as were his eyes, but when the sun caught the shadowy scruff on his face, it shone bright gold and auburn, while his eyes flickered with hazel and chocolate. He truly was beautiful.

  And apparently had the patience of a saint.

  The two of them hadn’t touched the way they had since their day by the cottage, a day that Grace had thought about constantly. There’d been hand brushes and shoulder nudges, but nothing that had set her alight as much as his hands on her thighs had done. Sweet Jesus, Grace was amazed that she hadn’t burst into actual flames. It’d been the first time in too long that she hadn’t shied away from a man’s touch.

  And what a touch it was.

  The rough, callused skin and the long, firm fingers of his hands could have brought her to orgasm without him going anywhere near her panties. It was gentle but commanding and even after she’d moved his hands away, she still felt them on her thighs a week later.

  As surprised as she’d been that Max had taken the initiative and touched her, Grace was even more surprised at herself. Of course, there had been initial panic that squeezed her lungs and made her heart pump, but the peak of it was over as quickly as it had begun. By the time Max’s tongue was making its way up her neck and he was whispering devilish words into her ear, Grace’s heart was crashing behind her ribs for an altogether different reason.

  She was aroused.

  Like, truly, achingly turned on for the first time in years.

  Max’s touch, his body pressed into hers along with his sexy mutterings, had awoken her libido with a giant how you doin’? Her blood heated, her breathing grew labored, and Grace knew that if she hadn’t pulled his hands away, they’d have gone a lot further.

  But it would have been too fast. She had to remember to take it all one step at a time. For as proud of herself as Grace was, there were still elements of intimacy that scared her to death. She’d tried working them out with her therapist, Nina, over the years, but still the thought of touching a man below the hips left her more than a little apprehensive. Nina had urged her to take a chance when Grace had mentioned her deal with Max. Let go, she’d said; don’t be afraid of pleasure.

  And she didn’t want to be. Seeing Max so hard for her was as exciting as it was nerve-racking. She wanted to touch him. Almost desperately, just to see what he felt like, to see if she could make him come, but every time she thought about doing it, uneasiness ravaged her.

  “Hey, Grace?”

  Grace turned from adjusting the cushions on her new leather sofa to see Buck and another of Vince’s workers staggering into the front door with a huge box between them. From the bend of their legs, it was very heavy.

  “Vanity desk in the bedroom?” Buck gasped.

  God bless him. He’d done nothing but apologize to Grace after his birthday and her completely embarrassing freak-out. He’d even bought her flowers. Daisies. He couldn’t do enough. His affection had certainly endeared him to her.

  “Please,” Grace answered. “Thank you!” She smiled when the two men heaved and groaned as they started their journey up the stairway.

  The house was finally completed. Grace glanced around, the smile on her face enormous. She’d done it. She finally owned something that was hers, untainted by her past, something that she’d done on her own. It was so beautiful and homey and exactly what Grace had dreamed about. She’d done nothing but dash around it, holding in her girlie squeals of excitement at the wooden floors, high ceilings, and wide windows. She couldn’t wait for Kai to see it. It even had a blue door. It was perfect.

  Most of her furniture had arrived over two days, all except her bed, though the blowup mattress Ruby had loaned her was just fine for the time being. Vince had offered the moving services of his workers and anyone else who’d been in the bar the night they celebrated the house’s completion. Even Ruby had offered her husband’s muscles, as well as her own sandwich- and lemonade-making skills, which came in handy when the workers started wilting in the heat. It was a comforting feeling having such amazing people around her.

  Max missed the celebration, being away at one of his meetings, but he’d helped the day after, moving wardrobes, sofas, and fridge freezers. Grace would catch his eyes on her repeatedly. She’d smile and he’d smile back, subtle and cool, but still it made her stomach dance.

  When the last of the helpers left, each with a pack of beer, which Grace had bought as thanks, she made her way to the boardinghouse to see Max. She knocked on his room door as best as she could with her hands full. When she heard him call out, she did her best to disregard the fluttering in her belly. And when she heard his footsteps approach, she grinned when he opened the door, but it dropped off her face like a lead weight.

  Holy. Shit.

  If Grace had found Max attractive with his clothes on, it was a whoooole other story seeing him without. He was bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only a loose pair of black sweats, which sat low on his hips and were splattered with various colors of paint. The V of his torso was defined enough to have every pair of panties in a ten mile radius combusting at a geometric rate. His stomach was flat with grooves of muscle and a smattering of dark hair that trailed down from his broad chest. His shoulders were thick and strong.

  And, oh my God, was that a tattoo—

  “It’s rude to stare.”

  Grace’s eyes snapped to Max’s face. Arrogant bastard was smirking, leaning a forearm on the doorjamb, twiddling a paintbrush between his fingers. He even had the audacity to waggle his eyebrows.

  “I wasn’t staring,” she lied. She cleared her throat and shook her head in an attempt to clear the foggy lust suddenly smothering her brain. “I wouldn’t. I was simply . . . you know, I was just looking at— Look, I brought pizza.” She lifted the large box in one hand. “Pepperoni, with extra onion. And Dr Pepper.” She lifted the other.

  “Well, then you’d better come in,” he said with a laugh, propping the door open for her.

  Grace entered, dipping beneath his arm, her cheeks flaming hot under his knowing gaze.

  His room was set out exactly as hers had been, except there were a set of heavy-looking dumbbells in the corner and a large canvas set up on a tripod, surrounded by an array of paints and brushes. A large sheet hid the picture, and Grace’s fingers itched to lift it up and peek at his work. Several other canvases, turned from view, leaned against the far wall.

  “You’ve been painting?” she asked, placing the pizza and soda on a small side table. “Is that why I haven’t seen you?”

  Max rubbed a hand across his stomach, watching her every move. “I’ve done a little. Nothing exciting.” He moved toward her, putting his paintbrush down, and lifted the pizza box lid. “I’m starving.” The bite he took of the slice he picked up was gargantuan.

  Grace tried hard not to watch his jaw work and his neck move with his swallow. She tried really hard. She shifted toward the paintings, her finger dancing over the top of them. “Do you ever let anyone see your work?” she asked nonchalantly.

  Max
shrugged, picking up a second piece of pizza. “Sometimes.” He watched her a moment before rolling his eyes. “You can look if you want. It’s not a national secret or anything.”

  Grace beamed at him before she began turning the canvases around. Each one was very different, but every one affirmed what Grace already knew: Max was seriously talented. The colors and shades that he used were bold and aggressive in some, while others were more subtle, careful, calmer. The asymmetric shapes and patterns he used drew the eye over every inch of the painting, whispering in light greens, soft browns, and silent black and screaming with blood red. His voice was blatant in each one, angry in some, smart and sensitive in others. As Grace regarded each one carefully, she noticed how the ire became less and less obvious in each one; the shapes became less harsh, less angular, and more sweeping, curved, and gentle. She smiled.

  “They’re amazing, Max,” she told him, standing from her crouched position. “Really. You’re very good.” Her finger traced the subtle pink splashes of the one closest to her, her favorite. “They should be shown off somewhere.”

  Max snorted and shook his head. “No one wants them. I couldn’t even give them away.”

  “I’d have them,” she retorted quickly. “This one, at least. I love it.” The sweeping caramels and hints of gold reminded Grace of her mother’s eyes.

  Max waved a hand, not really paying attention. “Then it’s yours.” He grabbed another slice of pizza. “This is epic. What did I do to deserve all this?”

  Grace didn’t comment on the sharp deviation in conversation as she approached him. She knew that he’d probably allowed her to say and do much more than he would ordinarily, and she appreciated that. Max was a private person and, as a fellow artist, Grace understood how personal one’s work was.

  “It’s just a small thank-you for all your help with the house,” she replied. “I gave the rest of the guys beer, but I thought you’d appreciate this more.” She ventured to the bathroom to grab some toilet paper to use as makeshift napkins.

  “You were right.” Max dropped down onto the side of the bed after swiping a can of Dr Pepper. “I love pizza.”

  Grace snorted and joined him with her own slice and a can, hyperaware that he’d still not put on a shirt and they were sitting on his sheet-rumpled bed. Under the delicious aroma of oregano and pepperoni floating around them, the underlying scent of man enveloped her. Her pulse jumped but, weirdly, panic never took hold.

  “So how did this morning go?”

  Max had had an appointment with his therapist, causing him to miss their run. She didn’t mind, obviously, but his absence did make the day drag a little bit longer, even with all the chaos at the house.

  “Good,” Max said after swallowing a bite of pizza. “He’s lowered my meds. Says he’s pleased with my progress.”

  “That’s great,” Grace enthused. “I’m proud of you.”

  Max looked at her dubiously, wiping his mouth. “You are?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged. “It’s great that you’re doing so well.”

  “Like you.” He nudged her elbow with his own. “You must be stoked that the house is done.”

  “Yeah. Although I’ll miss not having you across the hall.”

  He chuckled. “Well, you know who to call if your pipes fuck up.”

  Grace swallowed the last of her pizza as well as the nerves festering in her throat. “You’re more than welcome to come over,” she murmured. She fiddled with her soda can. “Whenever you want. Anytime. I could cook for you.”

  She chanced a glance at Max. He appeared amused, his lips twitching as though fighting a grin. “Sure, I’ll come over. Especially if you’re cooking. Man’s gotta eat, right?” He shoveled another slice of pizza into his mouth.

  As he lifted his arm, Grace noticed a large scar that ran from under his left pec, horizontally across his ribs, toward his back. Her fingers reached out to touch it before she could stop herself. Not that Max appeared to mind. He looked down at where her fingers traced the deep groove of healed flesh.

  “Ah. That,” he mumbled around his food.

  “What did this?” she asked quietly.

  “A bullet.”

  Max’s answer was so matter-of-fact that it took Grace a moment to comprehend what he’d said. When the words settled in her brain, she startled, yanking her hand away. “A bull— Are you serious?”

  He nodded, still chewing.

  “What happened?”

  “My best friend and I got caught up in some shit.”

  “Carter?” Max spoke about his friend often. He clearly cared for him, talking of him as more like a brother than a friend.

  “Yeah.” He placed his hand on the scar. “This was from a car boost that went wrong.”

  Grace sat back, bewilderment prickling her skin. “You’re so cavalier about it.”

  “I don’t mean to be. It is what it is and it happened a long time ago.”

  “Did it do any damage?”

  “Only what you can see. I was lucky. The doc said because of how I pushed Carter out of the way, the bullet missed its true trajectory.” He patted his chest. “My heart.”

  Grace frowned. “Wait. You pushed Carter out of the way?”

  “Yeah. The fucker with his finger on the trigger aimed at my boy from across the street.”

  “Jesus.” Grace crossed her arms over herself, suddenly cold despite the humidity of the room. “You could have been killed.”

  Max shrugged. “He’s my best friend. No one’s allowed to shoot him but me.” He smiled toward the floor.

  The plot surrounding Max O’Hare thickened. Bullets, car boosting, and drugs. Oh my. To any normal, sane individual, they were all words that should have had Grace bolting for the door, and hightailing it far, far away. Yet the modesty with which he talked about saving his friend’s life kept her ass firmly in place. There was so much more to him than swagger and rehab and Grace couldn’t deny the hunger to learn it all. The paintings were a mere glimpse into what made him tick.

  Max placed his can on the floor and turned toward her, resting his palm on the bed. “I’m not proud of my past, as you well know, but I can’t change it. This scar is just one of the things in my life that remind me of who I don’t want to be.”

  “And your tattoo?” she asked, gesturing to the curve of black ink that swept across his shoulder and the upper bicep of his right arm. Grace wanted him to turn around so she could see the rest of it.

  He smiled wryly, shaking his head. “That’s a story for another day, I think.”

  Disappointed, she nodded in acquiescence.

  Grace could understand his point about trying to get away from the past, however. The scars on the skin of her ribs and hip were an ugly reminder of what she’d never allow herself to go through again. Wanting to share, she shifted from her place on the bed’s edge, turned, and slowly lifted her T-shirt.

  For a moment, Max appeared puzzled, before his stare landed on the pale scars running in zigzags from underneath her right breast to her hip. Max inhaled deeply, his jaw twitching.

  “What did this?” he asked, repeating her question, even though the tone of his voice suggested he knew.

  “A size-eleven foot and a kitchen knife.”

  The deep rumble that emitted from Max’s throat sounded like a growl. “Motherfucker.” He exhaled and reached out his hand. “Can I?”

  Grace blinked in reply. His large fingers whispered across her scars as if she were made of glass.

  “They’re ugly, huh?” She tried to smile around the words, closing her eyes to the sensation of his touch, the tenderness that he drew on her skin with his fingertips.

  “No,” Max retorted firmly. “They’re not.”

  “You don’t have to lie. It’s okay.”

  Max sighed, dropping his hand from her. “When my dad first got cancer, he had tons of surgeries. He had scars everywhere from the top of his head to his belly. I asked him once if they embarrassed him, if he hated them. He laughe
d and said, ‘How can I hate them? They show everyone what I’ve survived.’ ”

  He pressed his palm to her side again, its heat soaked deep into Grace’s bones. His dark stare pinned her in place. “These scars show everyone what you survived, Grace. Don’t you dare be ashamed of them.”

  Tears pricked Grace’s eyes and her breath shuddered out, his words fracturing years of self-conscious anxiety and indignity in mere seconds. He moved his hand, cupping her side, moving down toward her hip. The span of his hand was mammoth against her small waist. He licked his lips, his tongue a gorgeous pink. “You’re so soft.”

  He shifted closer, their knees touched, and his fingers skimmed the underneath of her bra, sending Grace’s lungs into a frenzy. “I love your hands on me,” she breathed, because it was the truth, because she needed him to know, because she’d die if he took them away.

  “Show me more,” he murmured, looking at her through his long black lashes. “It’s just us. Be brave with me. Let me see you.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Grace lifted the hem of her top up and over her head, leaving her in a hot pink bra and yoga pants. Max hummed a deep, sensual sound that curled Grace’s toes and reached his hands to her collarbone. She didn’t even flinch.

  “That’s it,” he sighed. “Look at you.”

  His touch was fire and safety and awoke a dormant part of Grace that had her reaching to unfasten the hooks at her back.

  Max noticed her movement and huffed out a breath. “Only if you’re comfortable.”

  “I want to let go. I want you to see. I want to be brave,” she whispered and unhooked, pulling the cups away from her chest and the straps from her shoulders, so they were both naked from the waist up.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Max uttered. “You’re . . .” His fingers slid across her collarbone and down. His gaze flickered to hers the closer he got to her breasts, caution in their depths. “All right?”

  “Yes.”

  And she was. Oh, God, she was. She felt alive in his hands, and when he finally touched her nipples and cupped her in his palms, she moaned a sound she didn’t know she was capable of. It was relief, gratitude, and yearning for more. He groaned, too, as he squeezed her gently, tweaking her nipples between his thumb and forefingers, moving closer.