by Blake, Jill
“That’s it.”
“How old was Logan at the time?”
“Fourteen.”
Max frowned. “So let me get this straight. Your father left a fourteen-year-old at home alone for the weekend?”
“The housekeeper was there for most of the day. Besides, Logan was more like fourteen going on forty.”
“I don’t care how mature you think a kid is. There’s no excuse for abandoning your responsibilities as a parent.”
She raised a curious brow at him. Max took a deep breath. Okay, so maybe he was letting his own issues cloud the picture. “What happened afterwards?”
“My mom and stepdad bailed us out.”
“I bet they weren’t too happy.”
“You don’t know the half of it. My stepdad’s a judge on the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals. I was lucky they didn’t ground me into the next millennium.”
Max shook his head. “What about your brother?”
“He stayed with us for a while after that.” She sighed. “Looking back, it’s pretty amazing how well my mom handled things. I’m not sure I would have been as gracious in her place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if my husband had left me for some woman he’d knocked up, I don’t know that I’d feel generous enough to take that child into my house.”
“You mean your brother…?”
“Yes. Technically, my half-brother.”
“Where was his mother through all of this?”
“She died when Logan was in grade school. Drug overdose.”
Max winced. Talk about fucked up childhood. His own sounded like a walk in the park in comparison.
As their plates were whisked away and replaced with entrees, Max made a concerted effort to lighten the tone. He trotted out expurgated versions of his various misadventures in high school and college, bits of absurdity that skirted the rigors of med school and residency. Every time Eva laughed, he felt his own mood lift.
“Dessert?”
Eva shook her head. “Thanks, but—”
“You sure?” Max leaned forward and dropped his voice. “I hear they have a chocolate espresso tart that’s out of this world.”
“Oh. Well, in that case…”
Max laughed and signaled their waiter.
They ended up sharing the dessert, a decadent ganache filling atop a crumbly crust, crowned with dark chocolate, whipped cream, and a drizzle of warm salted caramel sauce. Eva swirled her fork through the sauce and licked the tines clean. Max shifted in his seat, recalling a similar scene from just a few days ago. Only this time, Max was the one sitting beside her, watching the pleasure transform her expression into something bordering on sublime.
He was never going to last if she kept this up.
“How about a walk on the beach?”
She blinked, as if coming out of a sensual haze. “Okay.”
Within minutes, he’d taken care of the check, and they were on their way.
The light shawl Eva had brought along provided scant protection against the ocean breeze.
“Here,” Max said, shrugging out of his jacket.
“No, really, I’m fine.”
“Humor me.” He draped the jacket across her shoulders, sweeping her hair out from beneath the collar. The strands sifted through his fingers, releasing a faint scent of floral shampoo. He inhaled and closed his eyes.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, along the footpath toward the Santa Monica pier. The iconic Ferris wheel loomed up ahead, illuminating the night sky in a brilliant display of ever-changing LED lights.
“Ever been up there at night?”
She smiled. “I thought that was only for tourists.”
“No way.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the steps leading up to the pier.
“Wait,” she laughed, stumbling a bit in her strappy heels. “I’m not dressed for this.”
He slowed, then stopped, keeping hold of her hand while he did a slow head-to-toe inspection. Beneath the too-large jacket, he could see the thin silk of her dress, and the faint outline of her nipples pressing against the material. An effect of the temperature, no doubt. But the voice of reason did nothing to keep his libido in check. He swallowed. His gaze dropped to the fluttery hemline, traced the long sweep of bare leg, and settled on the five-inch stilettos.
“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll save it for another night. You want to head back?”
If she thought his about-face somewhat abrupt, she was polite enough not to comment. “Sure.”
Several minutes later, he had to slow down. Damn leg. He knew he shouldn’t have done that extra set of weighted squats and lunges at the gym today. The ibuprofen he’d taken earlier was wearing off, and the damp air wasn’t helping.
Eva must have sensed his dilemma, because she didn’t protest when he draped an arm across her shoulder. By the time they reached the car, he was limping enough for her to offer to drive.
“No need,” he said, opening the passenger door for her. He was going to drive her home and walk her to the door, even if it killed him. Which it very well might.
Traffic was light, and within ten minutes they were pulling up to her curb. He followed her up the walkway.
She paused, key in hand. “I can get you some aspirin, if you think it’ll help.”
He couldn’t tell if this was sympathy over his obvious discomfort, or if she was using that as an excuse to invite him in. Hell, did it matter?
“Thanks,” he said.
She led the way to the living room, flicking on lights as she went. “Have a seat.”
He eased down on a deeply cushioned couch and stretched his leg out in front of him.
Eva slipped off the jacket and wrap and draped them over the back of a nearby armchair. “I’ll be right back.”
He watched her retreat down the hall, eyes glued to the gentle sway of her hips and backside beneath that flirty dress. When she disappeared around a corner, he loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. Then he turned his attention to his surroundings. This was his first time inside her house, and he was curious to see what the décor might reveal about her.
The kitchen/dining/living area was built on an open floor plan, with high ceilings and plenty of light. Bookcases lined the walls, overflowing with paperbacks and brightly colored baskets filled with children’s toys and board games. A flat screen TV graced the far wall, and beneath it stood a glass-fronted cabinet with an assortment of electronic equipment, including what appeared to be a vintage record player and stereo system. A half-completed Lego castle sat abandoned on the coffee table. Beside it lay a discarded baseball glove, iPad, and a stack of familiar looking books with dragons and other mythical beasts battling on the cover. His nephew Connor had hit him up for the same fantasy series last Christmas.
Framed photos of Eva and her son, as well as other people Max assumed were family members, occupied what little wall space remained. From his vantage point it was hard to tell for sure, but he couldn’t see any photographs of Roger Landry. Max wondered if the omission was deliberate, and if so, what it meant. Was it a sign, like tonight’s red dress and “fuck-me” shoes, that Eva was ready to move on? Or was he reading too much into it? For all he knew, Eva’s bedroom might be crammed with mementos of her dead husband.
He frowned.
In the background, he could hear her opening and closing cabinet doors, and then the tap-tap-tap of her heels on the hardwood floor. She reappeared with a bottle of orange liquid.
“Looks like this is all I have that isn’t expired. Children’s Motrin, a hundred milligrams per teaspoon. Is that okay?”
Right. He supposed this was what came of dating a woman with a kid. “You have a shot glass?”
“Sure.” She set the bottle down within reach. “I can make some tea or coffee. Or do you want some water?”
“Water’s fine.”
He swigged the equivalent of eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen, giv
e or take, then downed an entire glass of water to wash away the sickly-sweet aftertaste. “Where’s your son?”
“With his grandparents for the night.”
His every sense went on red alert. He told himself to slow down, take a deep breath. She might have arranged this well before he had goaded her into tonight’s date. Her son’s absence might have nothing to do with Max at all. But his raging libido stopped listening the moment he heard that they had the house to themselves for the rest of the night.
She perched on the end of the sofa and leaned down to remove her shoes. He had a brief glimpse of shadowy cleavage before her hair slid forward like a privacy curtain, hiding the sight from view.
And then she was moving again, sitting up, brushing the hair back from her face in a languorous sweep of her hand, tucking her bare feet up under her on the couch, angling her knees in a way that pushed the hem of her dress higher, revealing several more inches of smooth thigh.
“Eva.”
She looked at him, her eyes a darker blue than usual. “Yes.”
Yes, what? he wanted to ask. Yes, I want you, don’t make me wait? Yes, make love to me now, before I change my mind?
He eased closer, lifting a hand to cup her face. It felt like he’d been waiting for this moment forever.
Her eyelids drooped, her breath whispered across his lips. “Max.”
And then he closed the distance between them.
###
His mouth tasted of chocolate and orange, like her favorite Sabra liqueur. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, lips and tongue exploring her mouth, her skin, mapping a path across her jaw, lingering on the sensitive spot just below her ear.
It felt like a dream, like one of those slow-motion sequences in which gravity weighed down every limb, and the air was almost too thick to breathe.
He eased the thin strap off one shoulder and traced the edge of her décolletage all the way down to the lowest point between her breasts, then back up, dipping the tip of his finger beneath the material, nudging it aside to expose even more bare skin to his wandering lips. She shivered beneath the rasp of his stubble, the heat of his mouth on her breast.
Arching her neck to give him better access, she brought a hand up to the back of his head. His hair was surprisingly soft. She tangled her fingers through the blond strands, tugging him back when he seemed ready to move on. In response, he pulled aside the rest of the fabric covering her breast and latched onto her nipple, sucking it into a stiff peak, using his teeth lightly before swirling his tongue around the areola.
His hand closed over the other breast, kneading, plucking, sending little sparks of heat down through her chest and abdomen to her core. Dampness gathered between her legs. She shifted restlessly against him, shivering as his free hand trailed up the bare skin of her outer thigh, drawing the material of her dress ever higher. His fingers curled around the back of her thigh and she felt her balance shift.
“Max.” She clutched his shoulders for support, feeling the muscles flex as he raised his head.
He looked at her, his eyes all pupil with just a sliver of green rim.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. His fingers tightened on her thigh, lifting until she felt the room tilt and the arm of the couch against her back. He followed her down, chest against breast, hips pressing her legs apart. The dress that she’d spent so long picking out earlier today provided no resistance.
His mouth came down again, tongue tangling with hers. His erection nudged against her, and she shifted, running her hands down his back to his buttocks and digging her fingers into the hard muscles there in an effort to bring him closer. She felt him jerk against her, but it wasn’t enough. Bringing her knees up on either side of his hips, she tilted her pelvis until he was pressing right where she needed.
He groaned and ground against her, then lifted slightly, changing the angle of the kiss to still her protest. His fingers swept under the dress, thumb dipping beneath her panties, burrowing between the folds. It brushed her clitoris and she bucked. Her hands clenched and she tried to bring him closer, but other than his tongue stroking into her mouth and his thumb rubbing circles around her clit, he wasn’t moving.
She broke away, panting. “Please.”
“Please what?” The maddening pressure of his thumb eased.
“Don’t stop…”
His laugh was soft, strained. “You want more?”
“Yes. More.”
He shifted down her body, pulling the panties completely off and baring her to the waist. She shivered and panicked for a moment, trying to close her legs, but his chest and upper arms got in the way. No other man besides Roger had seen her this way in over a decade. Pregnancy, breast-feeding, and time had all left their mark on her. Her stomach wasn’t as flat as it had been, her breasts weren’t as perky.
Max didn’t seem to care. Hot breath washed over her quivering belly and a large hand caught the back of her thigh, just above her knee, pushing up and spreading her until she was completely exposed. And then his mouth was there, tongue dipping, licking, swirling over the tiny nubbin of flesh where all sensation seemed to center, and she forgot her inhibitions, forgot everything except the pleasure that intensified with every flick of his tongue. He dipped a finger inside her, and then another, stretching her, then withdrawing, over and over, while his teeth grazed her clit and she nearly came off the couch.
It took several moments to realize that he was moving again, stripping off his clothing and then tugging the side zipper of her dress down so he could remove it completely. Like a well-choreographed dance, every movement seemed practiced, smooth, the only hitch in the flow coming when he paused to don a condom. Then he was back, covering her, the rough hair on his chest abrading her nipples, his clever mouth once again claiming hers, their hands meeting and fingers entwining against the armrest above her head.
His erection throbbed against her, and this time she didn’t hesitate. She rolled her hips to meet him halfway, bending her knees and digging her heels into the couch cushion for purchase. He entered her slowly, advancing inch by inch and then pausing to allow her to adjust. She growled in frustration at his deliberate pace. It was as if, following a long drought, she was finally encountering the promise of rain, only it wasn’t coming fast enough, and each additional delay heightened her impatience.
She tore her mouth from his. “Max…”
His jaw flexed and his forehead dipped to touch hers. Another shallow stroke, followed by a deeper one, and then his fingers tightened and he thrust hard, startling a cry out of her. He stilled. “You okay?”
She caught her breath. The feeling of unbearable fullness started to ease. “Yes.”
“Want me to stop?”
“Don’t you dare.”
Her response seemed to release whatever self-imposed restraints he had left. He picked up speed, and it was all she could do to hang on, wrapping her legs around his waist as he pounded into her, carrying them both toward a shattering climax.
Chapter 14
It was the light that woke him.
Early morning sun slanted through the vertical blinds that they never got around to closing after migrating from couch to bedroom. Max glanced around, noticing details that had escaped his attention yesterday. Like the utilitarian décor of the room, and the absence of any personal mementos gracing the walls and furniture. In contrast to the living room, which felt warm and homey, this room had a sterile, rarely used air to it.
He recalled Eva’s hesitation when she’d led him upstairs. Well, now he knew why. This wasn’t the master bedroom, which she’d presumably shared with her husband and likely still slept in by herself. This was a guest room, and in the cold clear light of morning, he was starting to feel like an unwanted guest.
From below, he could he hear the murmur of voices, and the clatter of dishes. Was her son home? Shit. He’d definitely outstayed his welcome. So much for his usual ‘Thanks, it’s been fun. See ya!’ routine.
He scrambled
out from between the white sheets, cursing his stiff knee, and fumbled for his clothes. Thank God Eva had had the foresight to grab them on their way up last night. A quick trip to the en suite, where he made use of the sample size toiletries he found on the counter, and Max was ready to face whatever the day held in store.
As he descended the stairs, the conversation coalesced into a single male voice.
“In other news, Harry Blackwell’s ex-wife, Grace King, broke her silence on Saturday, saying she was saddened by his recent suicide.”
Eva stood with her back to him, unloading the dishwasher. Her hair was once again up in a casual twist, a few straggling wisps trailing down her neck. She rose on bare toes to reach a high shelf, and her tank top rode up, revealing a strip of smooth skin above the waistband of her jeans.
Max paused on the bottom step to give his arousal a chance to subside. Apparently the tousled Sunday morning look was as much of a turn-on for him as the Saturday night siren ensemble. Surprising, and a bit disconcerting, that all the vigorous activity they’d enjoyed into the wee morning hours hadn’t diminished his desire for her. If anything, he wanted her even more now that he knew what lay beneath the clothes.
Oh, man. He was definitely in trouble.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of fresh coffee. A quick glance around revealed they were alone. In the background, the CNN announcer droned on.
“Blackwell, the son of disgraced financier William Blackwell, hanged himself last week in the couple’s Manhattan apartment, six months after his father’s arrest for allegedly cheating thousands of investors in what has been dubbed the biggest Ponzi scheme since Bernard Madoff.
“Federal investigators are still trying to determine whether Harry Blackwell took part in or knew of the fraud. Efforts to recover stolen funds continue, with court-appointed trustee Oscar Chaiken filing lawsuits against dozens of ‘feeder funds’ and other investors in the now defunct Blackwell Securities LLC.
“Attorney and spokesman for the family, Sherman Young, released a statement denying any wrongdoing on the part of Harry Blackwell, and asking that the family be allowed to mourn his death in private.”