“I’m saying you’re gorgeous, and yes, I’d love to take you to bed.” He shakes his head, almost laughing at himself. “But I also want to wake up next to you, which feels a thousand times crazier.”
Heat climbs my cheeks; the intensity in his eyes is almost too much. “Crazy doesn’t always mean bad.”
“That’s the thing,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m torn between protecting you from the chaos that is my life and pinning you against the wall and taking everything you’ll give me.”
My breath catches, equal parts fear and thrill. “And if I’m reading you right,” he continues, “maybe you feel something for me too?”
I swallow hard.
Max exhales like he’s been holding it forever. “We have the chance to explore something real here—together. Only if you want it, though. No pressure. Just… possibility.”
I step into his space, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. My voice is steady, deliberate. “Looks like we want the same thing.”
Then I rise onto my toes and kiss Max Donovan.
14
MAX
A Real Date
I’m still looking at Nora, noticing the faint tremble in her jaw, when she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to mine. The loft disappears. No cameras, no kitten, no skyline—just the warm shock of her lips and the slow ignition that follows.
The first contact is soft, almost questioning. I answer by tilting my head, deepening the angle so we fit better, breathe better. Her lower lip yields beneath mine, satin-soft with a faint taste of coffee and something sweeter—maybe the courage it took to admit what she just did. The honesty between us hums louder than Melody’s purr ever could.
My free hand finds the curve of her waist, not pulling, just anchoring—an unspokenI’m here if you want me.She leans in, chest to chest, and the simple trust in that movement sends a burn through my sternum.
She parts her lips, breath catching, and I seize the invitation with a gentle slide of my tongue. The sigh she lets out is so soft I feel it more than hear it, a ripple that travels straight to my spine. I taste the faintcitrus of her lip balm, the electricity of her pulse. My thumb traces the delicate bone beneath her ear, memorizing the shape.
Nora answers, shy at first, then braver—fingers sliding up my shoulders, finally tangling in the hair at my nape. The tug is light but certain, like she’s staking a claim. Heat coils low in my stomach, tight and urgent, yet every movement stays unhurried. We’re exploring, not racing.
I angle us until her back meets the edge of the chair, giving her something solid while giving myself permission to press closer. She sighs into my mouth, body molding to mine, and the honesty of that surrender floors me.
When I break away for air, our foreheads stay touching, breaths mingling. Her eyes are half-lidded, pupils wide; my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to reach hers.
“Okay?” I whisper.
A flush blooms across her cheekbones, but her smile is sure. “More than okay.”
Relief—and something fiercer—courses through me. I kiss her again, slower, savoring the slide and give, the quiet humming in her throat. My hand skims her ribcage, feeling the staccato of her breaths, then settles just above her hip, thumb stroking small circles through wool. She shivers, not from cold.
She catches my lower lip between hers, nips lightly, and a groan slips out before I can stop it. I feel her smile against my mouth—pleased, powerful—then she soothes the sting with a soft swipe of her tongue. The contrast slices my control to ribbons.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard. “If we keep going, I won’t want to stop.”
Color rushes to her cheeks; she bites her lower lip—my new favorite shade of pink. “Noted,” she whispers, though the reluctance in her smile mirrors the ache in my chest.
I stroke a thumb along her jaw, calming my own pulse. “Let’s hit pause. I want to spend the whole afternoon with you, not just—” I gesture helplessly between us “—this heat-of-the-moment sprint.”
She exhales a soft laugh. “What did you have in mind?”
“Anything normal.” I tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “Let’s make flyers for Melody, grab street tacos, argue about who wrote the best tragic romance. You pick.”
Her shoulders relax; the tension melts into a warm, anticipatory hum. “Tacos and book debates sound… perfect.”
“Perfect it is.” I steal one last gentle kiss—slow, closed-mouth, a promise rather than a plea—then step back, giving her room and giving my self-control a fighting chance. Melody meows from the sofa as if echoing the decision, tail thumping approval.
I offer Nora my hand, palm up, ridiculously formal. “Ready to go out on a real date with me?”
