She steps closer, the scent of the peach body oil my mother left for her drifts into my space. It’s warm, sensual, and completely at odds with the anger simmering just beneath my skin.
I’m not a jealous man. I’m not an unreasonable man. I have to keep reminding myself of that, because something inside me is clawing at the walls, reacting to the way she sounds when she’s being entertained by another man.
“I don’t like—” I stop myself before I admit the truth. I don’t like hearing her give what belongs to me to anyone else.
But this is insane. I know it is. So I let my admission die there.
My jaw tightens as need crashes into restraint—two forces colliding with nowhere to go. I want to break something after my mother called and interrupted my time with Max for news I couldn’t care less about. I could bite a bullet after Max walked out on me because it was the equivalent of hanging up the phone in my face. But looking into her eyes and seeing that defiance and danger makes me want to taste her. Slowly. Thoroughly. As if patience is a skill I’m about to throw out the window.
And she has no idea that all of this is roaring inside me.
She lowers her voice. “And when you were clearly frustrated—”
“Max, you don’t under—”
Her look stops me cold.
Not heat. Not flirtation.
It’s correction. The kind that pulls the reins without raising her voice.
I hate how it works on me.
I hate even more how much I like it.
Okay, Little Mama. I see you.
“When you were clearly frustrated,” she repeats, calm but firm, “you didn’t bring it to me.”
“Max—”
“One week, Bear,” she cuts in. “Burden me and I’ll burden you. Those are the rules.”
I know I agreed to this. I know this is supposed to be like every other time. Every other woman. But the longer I’m around her, the harder it is to ignore the truth. She's nothing like the others. Not even close.
Max moves through my world like she belongs here, she’s already started running numbers and tech through my business with ease, and she has a rare ability I’ve only ever seen in my mother to silence me with a single look.
And the way she’s standing her ground now—not budging an inch—does something unfamiliar to my restraint. Something I don’t have a name for yet.
Something that makes giving in feel like the most dangerous choice… and the most necessary one at the same time.
Thirty seconds ago, we were on the brink of a full-blown argument. Now she’s standing close enough I can feel her warmth, and every instinct in me wants to pin her to the nearest surface and forget where we are.
I don’t.
But I do step into her space. I close the distance slowly, letting her feel the decision behind it.
“I’m sorry, Mama. It won’t happen again.”
Then I pull her into a kiss.
My hand settles at her neck, firm enough to be possessive, gentle enough to promise control. A reminder of the strength I’m choosing not to use. Of the restraint I’m forcing myself to keep.
It’s not an apology.
It’s a warning.
“But just so we’re clear,” I murmur against her lips, my voice calm but edged with precision. “This isn’t over. There are…burdensyou’ll be addressing later.”
