Hours later, I lie there watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes rest gently against her cheeks as she drifts off. A blond curtain of hair spills across my chest, and her leg is slung over my hip.
This woman has marked me in ways I can’t explain. And as I listen to her soft breathing in the darkness, I know that I only ever want to be hers.
Chapter Fifty
Gemma
Max slept over. And I let him. On purpose. I’ve gone soft.
Though I’ll admit, we didn’t get much sleep, which is why I’m making a coffee strong enough to power a small aircraft.
Walking over to Max, who’s sitting in my dining nook—shirtless, might I add—I set down the mug I made him.
“What’s this?” he asks, staring at the foam art, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“It’s a penis,” I state.
“Christ, I hope this isn’t supposed to be mine,” he says, a grin curling through his words.
It’s not my best work, I’ll admit. The balls are totally disproportionate to the shaft. The whole thing looks a bit wonky.
“Ha. I wouldn’t give up hope just yet,” I tease, and he reaches out to smack my arse as I turn away to froth my own milk.
“By the way, the eggs and bacon are in the fridge,” I toss over my shoulder. “You wanted to stay for breakfast? Coffee’sabout as far as my hosting skills extend. If you want actual food, have at it—I like my yolks runny.”
This is the first time I’ve had a man sleep over since Todd. When Max first suggested he stay, my immediate reaction was to create distance. To order the Uberforhim. But I’m glad he stayed.
I don’t hate having him in my calm pocket of the world.
“Lucky for you, I make an excellent British fry-up,” Max says, standing to rummage through my fridge.
“Of course you do,” I mutter.
So far, he seems good at bloody everything.
“Where are your plates and pans?” he asks.
I point to the cabinets and show him where my utensils are, sipping on my coffee while he gets to work frying up bacon, grilling sourdough, and—impressively—making the perfect poached eggs.
“This is really good,” I say around a mouthful, ogling the way his abs shift as he scoots his chair in.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, his face content as he watches me chew. “Take today off. Spend it with me.”
I look up from my meal. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” he asks, shrugging. “It’s Friday. Everything is on schedule with the hotel, and the launch party is all sorted for next week. You deserve to take a day.”
“I’m not taking the day off. I agreed to dinner with you last night. The sleepover wasn’t part of the deal—”
“But aren’t you glad I stayed?” He winks cheekily.
It’s like he can read my bloody mind.
I point my knife at him. “You’ve had more than enough.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve barely even started with you,” he rasps, his morning voice gravel thick.
We watch each other with darkened gazes, and my body reacts before I can stop it—it’s become Pavlovian. My thighsclench upon the thought of Max’s hands, his mouth, his everything.
