“Your house is cold,” I said.
Maybe not the nicest of comments, but the words popped out.
“You’re chilled?” He frowned down at me as he deposited me in front of the designer coffee machine. I stared at the various gadgets and spouts, defeated. I just wanted caffeine. He rubbed his palms up and down my arms. Mmm. Heavenly.
“What type of drink do you prefer?” he asked.
“I drink it black, maybe a splash of half-and-half.”
He clucked. “Well, what type of coffee do youenjoydrinking the most?” he asked.
“Latte,” I said breathlessly. “Or a mocha.” I’d do many naughty things for a mocha. The chocolatier, the naughtier my shenanigans.
“One mocha. Then I’ll turn up the temperature.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“But I will because I want you to enjoy being here, and right now, your skin looks like a plucked goose.”
I scowled, he chuckled, and we were back to Ida Jane and Maxim. He busied himself grabbing milk and chocolate syrup. At my raised eyebrow, he turned shy. “I like sundaes. When I was small, there was a McDonald’s that opened nearby, and they carried sundaes. When Nadia had a little extra money, we’d splurge and share one for dinner.”
I nodded because my father had a soft spot for those. “My daddy likes the peanuts. Said it’s not a sundae without them.”
“Exactly.” Maxim’s nod was grave. “This may be thick for your drink, but I’ll talk to my assistant about your preferences.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” I said. We were close once more because Maxim had set the chocolate syrup next to the machine, which was hissing and chortling away. He turned my body so that my back pressed against the counter. He snuggled against my front, his big, thick arms caging me in, warming my chilled flesh.
“I want to. I want you here. I want you happy. I want you safe.”
His eyes confirmed the words he’d spoken. I nodded; my throat too tight for a verbal response. He raised his hand and touched my bruised cheek, his thick fingers gentle as they traced each curve and each color. My cheek still bloomed black and purple, but the beginnings of yellow spun out at the edges. “It’s healing.”
“It is.”
“And you had it looked at? You’re sure your cheek isn’t fractured?”
“I didn’t, but it’s fine.”
His eyes narrowed the deep V pulled between his brows. “You can’t know that—”
“It’sfine, Maxim. It hurts less than my hand.”
He picked up my right hand. I was surrounded by him…safe. He bent his head, the soft hair tickling my neck as he inspected my knuckles.
“That’s healing, too.” His lashes lifted and those icy blue eyes sparked with an internal fire as he took in my lips, my flushed cheek, the desire in my eyes I couldn’t hide. I wanted this man.
He was beautiful. He was thoughtful. He was nurturing with and to me. I knew he didn’t share those parts of himself with others, but Maxim was drawn to me—even if he hated that he loved that connection.
“I want you whole and healthy,” he whispered. “While you’re beautiful now, I miss the smooth creaminess of your skin.”
He brought my palm to his chest, over his heart, which thudded out a reassuring rhythm. My breath caught as he brushed his lips over my bruised face, never touching my lips even when I turned my head toward him, searching.
“Did you check your messages?” he asked.
“Not yet—”
“Do, because there’s something we need to discuss.”
I grunted, but he pulled back.
