thrilled at the raw, masculine possession that laced his voice. She should find him arrogant, or at least sexist. She couldn’t.
Maximo could barely keep his desire leashed. She was so enchanting, pale and vulnerable, in the midafternoon sunlight that filtered in through the picture window, when she was normally so strong, wearing her independence like armor. The artist in him longed to paint her; the man in him simply wanted to make love to her until neither of them could think or move.
He settled for picking up a sketch pad and a clutch pencil. “Sit on the couch.”
She backed away from him and lowered herself onto the chaise-style couch, reclining. She rested her head on the gentle slope of the armrest and put one arm high above her head, raising her plump breasts.
He wanted to capture everything, every curve, every line. The dent in her sweet lips, the pout in her nipples, the perfect V at the juncture of her thighs … Mostly he wanted the molten fire in her golden eyes to translate to the canvas.
Her body, tense at first, began to relax as he began to sketch. His hand moved fluidly, shaping her curves, shading the dips and hollows of her body. He drew the fullness of her breasts and ached to cup them. She arched her back as though she knew what portion of her body he was stroking with the pencil, as though she knew and wanted his touch as badly as he wanted to touch her. His body hardened painfully.
He added her small waist, her soft belly, the small bump where their baby sat. He moved lower and she gasped, her pulse pounding at the base of her neck. She moaned softly as he traced the outline of her sex on the paper. She pressed her legs together and slid her foot up her smooth thigh as he continued his study of her, as he continued to capture her forever.
A throaty growl escaped her throat. “Max.” It was a plea, and it was one she didn’t need to make twice.
He placed his notebook on the table and joined her on the chaise. Her hands were on him, pulling his shirt over his head, fumbling with the closure of his pants.
“What is it that you do to me?” he growled, moving his hand over her curves, tracing them as he had just done with a pencil. This was much more satisfying; flesh on flesh instead of lead on paper.
He kissed her neck, nibbling the tender flesh of her throat. “I hope it’s the same thing that you do to me.”
“Without a doubt it is.” He shoved his jeans down along with his underwear, and relished the sensation of her hot skin against his. “I think this is going to be fast.”
She gripped his buttocks with her hands and looked him in the eye. “Good. I don’t think I could handle slow.”
He positioned himself and sank into her tight, wet heat. He had to grit his teeth to keep from exploding then and there. It took all of his strength to stay still, to keep it from ending without her reaching satisfaction, too.
He had never felt this, this overwhelming desperation to claim a woman, to make her his, to lose himself inside of her body. Before Alison it had been years since he’d been with a woman. But this was about much more than prolonged, willful abstinence. This was something more … something unfamiliar, something that seemed to have taken on a life of its own.
His self-control snapped. He moved uncontrollably, pounding into her. She pulled her knees back so he could thrust harder, deeper. The only sound was their labored breathing and the slap of flesh meeting flesh. There was nothing gentle about their coming together. It was fire and brimstone, passion and torture. She cried his name out as she came and he followed, pumping into her, releasing everything he had into her body.
She kissed his neck, a smile curving her lips. “You’re amazing, do you know that?”
He had no idea what he’d done to earn the trust he heard in her voice, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it. Wasn’t sure that he could fulfill all of the hopes that he saw shimmering in the depths of her beautiful eyes.
They lay in silence for a long time and he was content to simply move his hands over her curves. A small sigh escaped her lips and he wanted to understand it. And he suddenly realized he wanted to know more than that. He wanted to know everything about her, who she was and why. He couldn’t recall ever feeling that need before, not concerning anyone.
“Tell me about your sister,” he said, not sure why it suddenly seemed important to know.
“She was my best friend.” Alison burrowed against him. “She never let having Cystic Fibrosis affect who she was. She was always smiling, even when she was sick. Kimberly was the glue for our family. When she was gone everything fell apart. My parents fell apart.”
“How old were you?”
“I was twelve when she died.”
“They didn’t have any right to fall apart, not when you needed them,” he said.
“No argument from me. But my dad just couldn’t stay anymore. I don’t think he could walk in the house, or look at us without remembering. And that just left Mom and me.”
“And she didn’t look after you, either?”
“She had enough trouble dealing with her own issues. She depended on my father. She needed him for everything. Without him, she had no security and she just … It never pays to lean on someone so much because one day they might just be gone. But then, you know all about that.”
“I do,” he said slowly. “But I didn’t depend on Selena. She depended on me. I wasn’t there for her, and because of that she had to live the last month of her life completely unhappy.”
“That’s not fair, Max. If you could have done something to fix Selena then I could have fixed my parents.”
He let silence stretch between them. There was no point debating with her. She had been a child, while he had been an adult man, Selena’s husband. And she’d been hurting, spiraling into depression, and he hadn’t even realized it. Not truly. She’d said she hadn’t wanted to talk, and at that point he’d been so tired of trying that he’d simply accepted it.
Alison ran her soft hand over his abs, and his stomach tightened, his whole body aching, ready for her again. If it was only his body that was affected it wouldn’t be so dangerous, but his chest felt too full when he looked at her, when he touched her. It was too much. It wasn’t what this was supposed to be about.
He thought about what his father had said. About the paternity test. Alison had even commented that if they’d made a mix-up at the lab in the first place, it was possible they had made a mistake and that he wasn’t the father.
If that were true she would be free to go back home. They wouldn’t even have to get married.
He’d imagined that thought might make him feel free, that the prospect of escaping marriage might make the tightness in his chest lessen. Instead it sent an intense pain shooting through him, targeting his heart. It shouldn’t hurt like that to think of her leaving.
“We should have a paternity test done,” he said firmly. “Just in case. Like you said, they made one mistake, they might have made more.”
Her sweet little body that had been so soft and pliant against him went rigid in his embrace. “If you think it’s necessary.”
“It would be responsible.”
