The fire pops. The sudden noise slices the moment just enough for both of us to gasp in shaky laughter—half nerve, half relief that we haven’t set the rug ablaze.
Max’s hands slide to my hips, steady and sure. Before I can guess his next move, he shifts his grip and rises to his feet, lifting me as though I weigh nothing more than Melody. A tiny gasp slips from me—half surprise, half delight. His chest rumbles with a soft laugh against my ear.
“Trust me?” he asks, voice low.
“With my whole book-hoarding soul,” I whisper, looping my arms around his neck.
He carries me down the hallway, dim sconces throwing warm puddles of light across pale oak floors. Each step is unhurried, almost ceremonial. My heart thumps in time with his measured strides. When he nudges open a matte-black door with his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the room beyond: charcoal walls, a massive bed draped in slate-gray linen, and floor-to-ceiling windows that capture the last wash of gold from the late-afternoon sky.
He sets me gently on the edge of the mattress, then crouches to slip off my socks, his fingers brushing my ankle with quiet care. The intimacy of it—barely a touch, yet so deliberate—sends a flush creeping up my neck. He straightens, brushes a thumb along my cheek.
“I want you relaxed,” he murmurs. “Every muscle, every stray thought. Lie facedown for me?”
The request coils heat low in my belly, but I obey, stretching across the cool linen. The pillows carry the faint scent of laundry detergent. I hear him move, feel the mattress dip as he climbs over me, straddling my hips without letting his full weight settle.
Max lifts the maroon wool of my sweater, sliding it across my skin in a warm, slow brush that makes every nerve lean toward him. I raise my arms; he guides the sweater past my wrists and folds it neatly on the bed, but not before I catch the flicker of heat in his eyes.
Warm fingertips sweep hair off my neck; then a trickle of oil lands between my shoulder blades—fragrant with sandalwood and something citrus-bright.
His palms press, slow and sure, thumbs following the line of my spine. Pressure melts the tight knots worry has woven under my skin. He works in silence, save for the soft hiss of his exhale each time my muscles yield. Shoulders first—long strokes outward, then small circles where tension clings. I sigh, the sound spilling like honey.
“Good?” heasks, breath ghosting my ear.
“Perfect,” I manage, voice loose as melted wax.
He moves lower, kneading the curve between ribs and waist, coaxing hidden aches free. Each press feels both tender and possessive—care layered with quiet promise. When his fingers sweep just above the waistband of my skirt, a tremor edges my sigh.
It’s a small gesture, but it sends a jolt of heat through me.
“Max,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
“Hmm?” he responds, his breath warm against my neck.
“What are you doing to me?”
He chuckles softly, his hand tightening just enough to let me know he’s there, fully present. “Just helping you relax,” he says, but there’s a hint of something else in his tone, something darker, more intentional.
I turn my head slightly, my lips brushing his jawline. “I’m not sure I want to be relaxed anymore.”
His hand slides up my side, his fingers tracing the curve of my waist. “Oh?”
“I think… I think I want more,” I admit, my heart pounding in my chest.
He pauses, his thumb stalling just below my breast. “More?”
I nod, though I know he can’t see it. “More of you. More of this.”
I prop myself on an elbow, studying him in the low candlelight. His T-shirt clings in soft folds, hinting at the planes beneath: defined shoulders, a chest that rises and falls in an easy rhythm, the ink of that storm-cloud tattoo just visible at the collar.
“We should probably talk about birth control then,” he says gently. “Before this goes any further. Are you okay with using condoms?”
“I’m glad you’re bringing it up. I’m on the pill,” I say, tucking hair behind my ear. “Regular as clockwork. And Emily dragged me to a clinic two months ago for the full panel, just in case I ever got lucky.” I roll my eyes at the memory.
Max grins. “I’m also tested—clean as of three weeks ago. And I haven’t been with anyone since.”
“Good to know,” I say, a relieved smile spreading across my face.
I let my fingers drift to the hem of his shirt. He opens his eyes, gaze hazy but instantly attentive.
