My heart squeezes.
It could be lingering adrenaline.
Or it could be the sight of a large, gorgeous, muscular man cradling my cat like a baby.
Max sets Mr. Biscuits on the pillowy bed on top of the refrigerator. The cat immediately curls into a ball, closes his eyes, and starts to snore.
“I think I’m a cat whisperer.” The crooked smile that’s been ruining my judgment for the past two weeks reappears.
I try to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze.
He eyes me, his attention catching on where my hands grip the edge of the counter so tightly my knuckles have turned white.
Max approaches slowly and stops behind me, close enough that the warmth of his body brushes my back. “Can I touch you?”
The question loosens the knot in my chest.
I nod, and his arms circle my waist. My breath leaves in a rush as Max draws me back against him, surrounding me with heat and strength and the warm woodsy scent that already means safety to my monkey brain.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, his chest expanding against my back in a slow, deep pattern.
I try to follow, but air catches halfway into my lungs.
“That’s okay,” he hums. “Again.”
His heartbeat thumps steadily against my back, giving my body a rhythm to follow.
He breathes in. I breathe with him.
His thumb moves over the sliver of bare skin between my crop top and shorts, the motion so gentle I’m not sure he realizes he’s doing it.
Another breath, and my shoulders lower.
Again, and I lean more heavily against him.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his breath warming the shell of my ear. “Good girl.”
Heat drips between my thighs, and another shiver moves through me. But this one has nothing to do with fear.
Max inhales deeply, a rumbling purr vibrating from his chest and down my spine as his fingers flex against my stomach. His nose brushes the curve of my neck, and he draws in a slow breath that sends goosebumps racing over my skin.
“Better?” he asks.
I tilt my head, giving him more room. His lips hover over my pulse, and the tease of his touch makes a whimper build in my throat. Beneath my top, my nipples tighten into painful peaks.
His body is no longer only warm behind mine. It’s hard. Powerful. Every ridge of muscle presses along my back and ass.
I’m not hanging in the air. I’m here. In my kitchen. In Max’s arms.
And I want him.
I cover one of his hands with mine and guide it upward. His palm skims my waist and stops beneath my breast.
Behind me, his muscles lock.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
His hand moves higher, thumb brushing the underside of my bra. Sparks of need shoot through me.
