Page 72 of Wished

I’m still in Paris. In Max’s bed.

This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. I thought I’d be back in Geneva.

I sit up in bed, yanking the white sheets over my naked breasts. My hair falls over my shoulder and goose bumps rise on my skin at the slight chill in the air. Outside the window the sky is the deep cerulean blue of late May, shining over the elegantly curved roofs of the stone townhomes across the street. The soft coo of the mourning dove sounds again above the noises of a neighborhood waking. But inside Max’s home it’s quiet.

I shiver and slowly glance around the bedroom.

There are plenty of things I didn’t notice last night in the heady blur of lovemaking. The large bed sits in the center of the bedroom, the wood frame a rich walnut, ornately carved. The walls are dove-gray with plaster panels and thick crown molding, with beautiful plasterwork on the ceiling. There’s an antique crystal chandelier, of course. Glossy wood floors—again, of course. The thick, luxurious silk rug Max dropped to his knees on last night and pulled me to his mouth. Matching nightstands, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and tasteful oil paintings of the idyllic French countryside.

Then my eyes are drawn away from the furnishings to the door.

It’s Max. He strides into the bedroom, a small smile curving the corner of his lips.

I can’t deny it.

My heart gallops like a racehorse after the starting shot. I didn’t know how scared I was about this moment, how fearful I was that he’d have forgotten what we did, or that he’d hate me again, until this very moment.

The flood of relief knocks me flat and I sag back against the headboard, my hold on the warm sheet wrapped around my breasts flagging.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice rich and melodic, tinged with a smile.

He’s dressed already. His black hair is wet and glistening from the shower, the thickness smoothed back. He’s in casual clothing, barefoot, a day’s worth of stubble darkening his jaw. He has a breakfast tray in his hands. There’s a plate of tartine smothered in butter and glossy, jewel-red jam, and a French press full of steamy black coffee next to two white mugs.

I stare at Max, at the tray of food, my heart thumping wildly in my chest.

It’s the way he’s looking at me. LikeI’mbreakfast. Like last night wasn’t enough and he’s very, very glad we’re still here together and not back in Geneva.

He remembers me.

He still likes me.

“Morning,” I say. It comes out as a squeak, and I blink at him, scooting back on the bed.

He grins at the noise I make and then lifts an eyebrow at how I’m still clutching the sheet to my chest.

He slides the tray onto the nightstand and settles on the bed next to me. The scent of coffee and cherry jam swirls around us, sweet and pungent. The bed tilts as he moves close, and the sheets scrape over my bare skin, drawing out more goose bumps.

“Why are you blushing?” Max asks with a smile. “Was last night ...?” He trails off, his eyes going sleepy and happy. Then he threads his hands through my messy morning hair, tugs me close, and brushes his warm lips over mine.

I’m sore and achy, and there are places on my body that I didn’t even know could be sore—yet at the heat of his mouth on mine there’s a sudden hard, demanding throb. My eyelashes flutter and I lose my grip on the sheets, baring myself to Max.

He makes a hungry noise and scrapes his hands over my nipples, covering my breasts with his palms. That steady shimmer I’m already addicted to spreads over my skin.

“Did I mention how much I love you?” Max asks, trailing his mouth down my throat to my collarbone. His stubble scrapes over me, and I shiver when he rolls a nipple between his pointer finger and thumb.

But then his words sink in.

Love.

Max just said helovesme.

I said it first. And this morning he said it too.

I grip his shoulders as he pulls me onto his lap. The fabric of his clothing scrapes against my thighs as he tugs me close, settling me against his hard length.

“You ...” I gasp when my nipples scrape against his shirt. “You love me.”

It’s a statement, but also a question.

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