by Kate Meader
Squinting Wild West style, he takes an excruciatingly long look at the Lucas mask covering Bob the Torso, the one I’ve been using to vent my frustration on. “Your wedding planner. She’s got great legs.”
I puff up, reassessing my view of the slow, Southern gentleman act. “You know this how?”
“She’s waiting in your office.”
Charlie
Max’s office is not what I expect. I thought it would be Regency era leather or BDSM black rather than cozy Ethan Allen. A comfortable-looking cream sofa (all the better to seduce you on, m’dear) takes up one wall. Photos of Max and his family at his law school graduation, his parents wearing big, proud smiles (see, I didn’t just spawn from the devil, Charles!) line a mantel over a non-working fire. Even a garish trophy to assure the world he wasn’t always a bookworm sits on a bookcase with weighty, legal tomes.
I lean in to the hardware, expecting some signifier of his excellence at archery or lacrosse. The engraved plate says: LAKE FOREST HIGH DEBATE CHAMPIONSHIPS. 2ND PLACE.
Huh.
A shiver skitters down my spine, my body’s typical response when I’m wrong about something. But I’m not wrong about Max Henderson. My instincts know a player when I see one and I’m ninety-nine-percent positive I’ve been approaching this problem correctly—i.e., ignoring it for the last two weeks.
As I’m mulling over why someone keeps a high school trophy for second place in anything, the door opens behind me. It’s Sadie, the nice woman with the motherly smile who put me here earlier. She carries a tray with a teapot and what looks like double-chocolate Milano cookies. These people aren’t screwing around.
I rush forward. “Oh, let me take that for you.”
“No worries. And Max is on his way,” she says, setting down the tray on the coffee table, which means we’ll have to sit on the far-too-intimate sofa.
“I only meant to drop in. You don’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“Not at all!” she assures me. “The rest of Max’s afternoon is free of appointments. Slow week for the miserable. Usually he’d be in his office, preparing for tomorrow’s motions, but…” She trails off.
“But?”
“He needed to work off some steam at the PP.”
“The PP?”
“Just a place the boys use when they have excess energy.”
What, like a vitality-absorbing urinal? She says “boys” with a possessive pride, and there’s that shiver again. My instincts are going haywire.
“Now, I’d let the tea draw a second.”
I’m surprised that I could just waltz in without an appointment but Sadie and a rather imposing guy, whose body looked to be fighting the suit it was wearing, seemed strangely amused to see me. As if they’d been expecting me.
I’m about to ask more about “the PP” when a voice cuts in to my thoughts.
“Charlie, good to see you.”
I raise my gaze then wish I hadn’t. Max stands at the doorway in gym gear, looking oh-my-God sweaty. “Gym gear” isn’t the right term, though. More like workout gear, meaning how he looks is inspiring my thigh muscles and all points in between into a thorough Kegels session.
Surely sweat-drenched tank tops are inappropriate in a place of business. What if clients saw him walking around like that? Vulnerable female clients in the throes of divorce?
At least his legs are covered, though “covered” is generous. Those sweatpants are incredibly thin and look to be doing a terrible job. I can make out strong thigh muscles, and as he moves in, he lifts the hem of his tank to swipe at his chin. Walking and swiping. He may as well be doing a Magic Mike routine! I don’t need to imagine covered-up abs because there they are, front and center. Beautifully blocked ridges I long to run my tongue over. Again.
Right! I’ve seen all this before. Once was plenty. Today, my mission is not sex-related.
Sadie is walking out, but she grabs the doorframe when she gets to it, then presses a hand to her chest.
“Have pity, Max. We ladies are only human.” She winks at me.
“Shut up,” he replies with affection.
And then she’s gone on a genial chuckle, the door closed behind her, leaving the scent of Earl Grey tea to mix with clean, male sweat, and whatever the hell I’m giving off since I’ve gone into heat.
Max hasn’t moved, and I’m mesmerized by a trickle of perspiration making a lazy trek down the hollow of his throat. I can imagine how it would taste, how good it would feel on my tongue, doing nada to quench my thirst.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs, and walks over to a cupboard. He takes out a towel and dabs his arms. “Usually I’d take a shower but I figured this was more important.”
“It’s not,” I blurt. “It’s really not. In fact, maybe I should come back.” I slide a guilty glance at the tea tray, evidence that I’ve let this go too far. I should have turned tail as soon as it was clear Max wasn’t immediately available.
I walk toward the door, my legs heavy in pink heels, barely able to skim an inch off the plush carpet.
“You’re here now,” Max says. “Let’s have tea.”
“I’ve clearly interrupted something…”
He sits on the sofa and starts pouring.
Tea and cookies. This is perfectly civilized except for the sweat-sheened god and the lovely way his forearm muscles flex as he holds the teapot. It’s Wedgwood.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Just honey, please.”
He pours the honey onto a spoon, its golden-amber drip drawing me in. I take a seat on the sofa as far from him as possible. A Milano is perched on my saucer, and he hands off the tea. I’m proud my hand doesn’t shake in the slightest.
“Max, I don’t know what you think your game is, but—”
He raises a palm. “Just a sec. Let’s take a sip of tea first before we get into it.”
He adds a spoonful of sugar, a drop of milk, and stirs. Slowly. Then he sips his tea. Also slowly.
“Now, what’s on your mind, Charles?”
“Hello Fresh.”
One eyebrow hitches. “Hello to you, too.”
“You sent one of those meal-planning things to my parents’ house, Max. What’s your game here?”
His gaze is filled with…kindness. “That maybe your mother just needs some encouragement in the kitchen. Those meal services can get people thinking about food in a different way. My mother uses it. I use it. It’s made me a better cook.”
I bristle, annoyed at his reasonable explanation and the evidence that he also cooks. When Donna called to thank me for the gift of a subscription to healthy meals from Hello Fresh, I was dumbfounded. Her terrible culinary skills have been a family joke and a cause of friction between my parents, but I’ve accepted it as have they. It never occurred to me to try to do anything about her cooking, such as lessons or a solution that might help with Sully’s health.
But Max Henderson thought of it.
Donna was thrilled. The notion that this man might understand my parents’ needs better than me does not sit well.
“Why did you do this, Max?” A wave of my hand between us makes it clear what I suspect.
Max’s grin is all wolf. “I’m pretty sure that the way into a woman’s panties is not through her father’s stomach.”
I blink at the absurdity. Course it’s not. But it might be the way to a woman’s heart…
No. That won’t be happening.
“Unless…” Max says, his arm stretched out along the back of the sofa, revealing ropy cords of muscle and a tuft of underarm hair that I find unbearably erotic. “I’ve hit upon a new strategy for the Player Playbook. When a man has been as thoroughly rejected as I have—”
“We slept together, Max. Once. Surely enough for the man who do
esn’t do repeats or would prefer not to encourage a woman with silly ideas about a future.”
“When a man has been as thoroughly rejected as I have,” he repeats, “when all he can think of is how this object of his desire tastes and moans and sounds when she comes, when he’s buried deep, then who can blame him for coming up with new ways to get her attention. Especially when he’s sure she held herself back.”
I want to latch onto the first tenet of his argument—the part about using my parents to get my attention—but there’s a curious romanticism about it that makes me uneasy. Instead I choose to counter his other point.
“You think I held myself back?”
“I think you’ve conditioned yourself to play a certain part. Enough to arouse a potential mate’s interest, but with a few layers hidden to keep guys from getting to the real you.”
“And what’s the real me?”
“The woman who likes to get bossy, who likes to tell her guy what to do in bed, who’s not afraid to get specific about her needs. You’ve got it into your head that women like that scare off potential husbands. Some virgin/whore psychology bullshit about what a man desires in a wife. Is this your plan? Hide your needs while you target some idiot who can’t handle all the facets that make up the complicated and exquisite Charlie Love?”
For the second time today, I have no words. This armchair—or sofa—analysis from Mr. Slickster makes me ill. Where does he get off serving me lovely Earl Grey tea and pretending to know a single thing about me? I know exactly what I need to find the right man.
A couple of weeks ago, I let Max take control and I’m still grappling with whether that was a good idea or not. I felt as though he was giving me openings to take charge, get vocal, but I resisted, concerned that it was…a trap, perhaps? That sounds silly, but every encounter with a potential partner is fraught with tension as to the consequences. Will my need to get down and dirty be a check in the con column? If I just lie there, will I come across as too passive to hold his interest? Women are conditioned to play roles in every aspect of their lives, but nowhere is this more prevalent than in the bedroom. Three orgasms to the good, and I’m complaining of what exactly?
I finally find the words to speak—and the strength in my legs to stand.
“I apologize that our encounter so disappointed you.”
Looking up at me, his expression registers frustration at my response. “That’s not what I said and you know it.”
I do know that, more’s the pity. But I don’t like how every word out of his mouth is a sharpened stiletto to my carefully cultivated cool. I want to be seen but not by someone like Max.
“I can take care of my parents, Max. And I don’t need your dime store psychobabble.” I move toward the door.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because Donna called, full of gratitude for my gift, which wasn’t mine at all. She was confused, and now I have to go over there and show her how to cook it!”
“So, you’re here because I rained all over your girl power parade?”
My blood, previously at a simmer, now bubbles to an unhealthy boil. I pivot to face him, only to find he’s standing a foot away, both too close and too far. The scent of him invades my nostrils, makes my sex throb, my pulse pound.
“You got what you wanted, Max.”
“I think we both did, but where was the romance? The cuddling? The soul-baring pillow to pillow? Hell, I’d even have taken a sandwich. You need to work on your post-coital game, Charles.”
I fight my smile and barely win the battle. I’m not used to this level of charm. I don’t usually inspire it, and I sure as hell don’t believe I’m doing it here. In fact, I’m being my most uncharming self, yet Max is treating me like a high-strung Thoroughbred.
He’s more intense that I imagined he would be—in person and in bed. I expected him to continue operating at a surface level, but he’s already taken our interactions deeper. He has another gear, I suppose, when faced with a challenge.
I would be curious to see how long I could hold his interest. Only problem with that idea is that I suspect I’ll start developing “feelings” for the guy. Also, it’s time-wasting while I need to stay on target with the real thing.
Renewed in my purpose, I shake my head. “This can’t work.”
“Why?”
“Because outside of sex, you piss me off. So. Much.”
“Use it.”
“What?”
“This annoyance you have with me. Use it to make you feel good.”
I already have. Once should be enough to unravel some of those knots. Once should be enough to make me a better co-worker and not scare small children and baristas with my sex-starved scowl.
Twice would be unthinkable.
“I think someone told you once that bad girls don’t get the guy or some shit like that,” he murmurs. “You’re here, Charlie, because you wanted to get mad at me, you wanted to funnel that anger into something constructive.”
“This isn’t constructive,” I hiss, shocked at his insight. “It’s meaningless.”
He inclines his head. “You needed an excuse to see me again. I needed one to get you here. Not every decision has to feed your life goals, Charlie, or put you on the path to Mr. Right. Some decisions can feed that part of you that needs in-the-moment, hot-as-fuck satisfaction.”
I should be unnerved at how astute this man is, how he sees right into me. But I’m too turned on for a proper self-analysis. I might hate myself later, but right this minute, I’m going to take advantage of the gift Max is giving me.
The gift of being myself.
* * *
—
I splay a hand on his chest, my palm split between the damp fabric of his tank and the heated skin revealed above the tank’s neckline.
Nervously, I flick a glance over my shoulder.
“No one will come in,” Max says, reaching behind me to click the lock on the door. His chest heaves, his Adam’s apple bobs. Those midnight blue eyes of his have darkened so much that the color is unrecognizable.
“Take this off,” I order and pleasure ripples through me at the rightness of it. How good it sounds to tell a man what I want.
He obliges, a little too slowly for my liking, but I guess he thinks it’s a sexy tease. It is, but I don’t need it. Every single second of our exchanges, every word from his mouth, fulfills that role. Right now, I demand to be filled.
I place my hand on his exposed chest, savoring every plane and contour.
“Are you sure—” I start, but don’t finish because he clamps both hands on my ass and pulls me into his embrace. His mouth on mine is fire, the sweet flavor of the tea mingling with the unique taste of him. I’m lifted off the ground a couple of inches and transferred to the big table situated by the large window that overlooks the Chicago River.
“Don’t think so hard,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’m going to give you what you want but I’m going to need instructions.”
Really? I’d assumed I could bluff my way through this with a well-timed moan and my hand over his, urging him on.
“The filthier the better, Charlie.”
So far, he’s making all the right moves, so I don’t need to worry or do a thing, right? Except, there’s a dim glow of dissatisfaction. I want him to be assertive but I also want to lead. It’s usually not possible. Most guys resist a woman’s aggressiveness in bed.
I can take care of you.
Just lie back and enjoy it.
Boring!
Max’s strong hands are inching my skirt up, up, up until the curve of my butt feels the cool wood of his desk. I find the notion that Max wants me to dictate my needs interesting. Our first time together was amazing, but it felt…choreographed. As if Max follows a script that gets off t
he women he beds. Don’t misunderstand me—I loved what he did, but I also get the impression I’m not the only one who needs to control our encounters.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
His thumbs slide over my thighs to form a V in front of my sex. With a slight brush over the triangle of silky fabric, he activates the nerve endings between my legs.
“More,” I urge. “Under my panties.”
One thumb slides in and through the already damp, slick folds of my pussy. It’s a shock. I shiver.
“Like this?” His thumb brushes my clit, so gently I can hardly stand it.
“Rough—rougher.” But he’s already there. Both our gazes are sealed to this spot between us, but neither can I miss that intriguing bulge in his sweatpants. It’s pointing right where I need it to be.
“Do you have condoms?”
He frowns. “No, but we won’t need them.”
“I’m not—”
“I know,” he soothes. “This is the Charlie Love Show.” He falls to the floor, his hands on my ass, his breathing heavy against the triangle of silk shielding my sex. He’s waiting for something.
“What?”
The lightest of knuckle grazes across the front of my panties. “You tell me.”
I’m in charge.
Max pushes my buttons but I have no doubt that consent is important to him. Peering up at me, he’s back to that intense version I’m starting to adore.
“My panties…take them off.”
He does. Still he waits. It’s excruciating. I never realized how sexy power is—almost as powerful as sex.
“I want you to—to…”
“To what?”
“Enjoy me.”
His groan is loud and lusty, his tongue is warm and probing, and my orgasm is so damn good Nathan will think I’m Boss of the Year when I see him tomorrow.
Chapter 15
“Marriage is like twirling a baton, turning hand springs or eating with chopsticks. It looks easy until you try it.”
—Helen Rowland