He shakes his head, then picks me up and drops me on the bed with a bounce. He pushes my dress up savagely and pulls my clit into his mouth while his long fingers plunge into my aching emptiness. I arch my back as he rubs my G-spot. It only takes a minute before I’m pushed over the edge, writhing on the sheets, screaming his name.
That night I do not have nightmares about headless cockroaches.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rhys
By the time I finish my upper-body routine, shower in the gym bathroom and climb up to the master bedroom in nothing but boxers, Max is coming out of the bedroom’s en suite bathroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel. Freshly scrubbed, she looks adorable with the freckles and soft, kissable lips. The peach-scented body shampoo Liam gave me as a gag gift this past Christmas smells delicious on her. My mouth dries, and I want to lick her all over, then make her come on my tongue.
The urge to drag her back to bed and call in sick zings through my head.What’s wrong with me?I’ve never called in sick because I wanted to screw around. But then, I’ve never had Max.
She picks through the clothes still draped over the back of the armchair, while muttering to herself. Based on the tone, she’s anything but satisfied.
“What’s wrong?” I say, watching her from at least five feet away so I’m not tempted to give in to my abnormal slacker impulse. Also, even under the towel, the view of her ass from this angle is great.
“Just…not happy about the picks. I should’ve been more mindful at the store, but I wasn’t in the right mental space.” The smooth tone can’t hide a hint of self-directed irritation.
I head over to see if I can help. Underneath the peach fragrance is warm female, an intoxicating combination of scents.My dick perks up, but I ignore it and look at the options. Almost all of them are black—not Max’s best color—and their cut doesn’t necessarily flatter her, although they don’t detract, either. I glance at her in confusion because she normally has a better sense of fashion. “Can’t take them back?”
“Nope. I bought them from a thrift store that doesn’t accept returns.” She sighs with resignation.
I run my forefinger along her soft arm. Goosebumps spread, the sight gratifying. “We can go shopping later,” I offer, wanting to see her pretty smile.
She says nothing, still glaring at her clothes.
I look over the options and pick out a black scoop-neck dress that catches my eyes. “How about this?”
“Yeah…” She purses her lips as she studies the outfit. “Guess it’s okay.”
“Once you’re in it, it’ll be more than okay.” I give her an exaggerated leer.
A blush colors her cheeks as she bursts into laughter. Unable to stop myself, I kiss her. She tastes faintly of mint. Her lips soften under mine, her hands roaming all over me—from my shoulders to chest to the ridges of my abs. I tighten my muscles, so they’ll be rock hard under her fingers. She brushes her thumbs along the grooves. Lust shoots to the top of my skull. My dick pulses wildly, wanting to be inside her.
Pressing a hand at the small of her back, I pull her close until she’s flush against my throbbing erection. She moans, her tongue tangling with mine in abandon.
Suddenly, she tears her mouth from mine and pushes me away. I indulge her by allowing her to deprive me of her lips, but continue to hold her.
“We have to get ready to get to work,” she says breathlessly.
“Why?” Can’t think of a single reason to stop. “The office can run without me there.”
She shakes her head, as her eyes flash with reluctance. “Because I don’t want people to gossip soon after we decide to fake-date.”
Might possibly be a good point, but—
“And don’t tell me we should have a quickie, because it won’t be enough.”
I shoot her a grin. “Truth. Railing you against the wall would be fun, but it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me.” Her eyes darken with need. Lust pounds through me. “Calling in sick and spending the entire day in bed is more like it.”
For a fraction of a second, her lashes flutter, her throat moving. She parts her mouth, showing the tip of her tongue. My cock is so hard it aches, but she steps back. “We can’t both call in sick. Talk about super obvious.” She pushes me toward the closet. “Get dressed!”
“Bossy…”
“I’m Freckles right now, not Max. Put on a suit before giving orders.”
Chuckling softly, I put on one of the pinstriped navy suits—a three-piece. As casual as SoCal is, people want to see signs that the other party is trustworthy before handing over their millions, and bespoke suits signal exactly that. This one’s my favorite from Italy because the tailoring is exceptional and creates strong, lean lines.
Behind me comes rustling of fabric and snapping of elastic. My senses go on full alert. If I were a dog, my ears would flick to catch the sound better. My mind creates an erotic image of Max putting on some of her super-hot underwear and covering it up with the staid black dress. Matching black lace, like what I saw in Tokyo? Or something else? I swallow, my skin prickling. Looping a tie around my neck, I tilt my head oh so casually—and catch a glimpse of sexy red lace before the black dress falls over her body.
