Page 82 of Wished

In bed Max pulls me into him, my back curving into his front. He kisses my neck, his warm breath whispering over my skin and the sheets gliding over my legs. He’s warm, the bed is soft, the curtains stir in the breeze, and through the open window the waves crash against the shore.

“Love you,” Max says, his voice a low rumble in the dark, sea-lit night.

Everywhere his mouth touches shimmers like a star lighting in the sky. I close my eyes and fall into his whispered love.

The night is heavy with jasmine and the sweet perfume of flowering mimosa. Max brushes a hand over my hip, the sheets rustling, his mouth pressing a kiss behind my ear. Then he reaches out and clasps my hand.

I fall asleep in his arms, hoping that tomorrow all of this is gone.

28

It’s not.

I imagine I’m still in Saint-Tropez, because while I was hoping this would be gone, in the secret place in my heart, I was wishing that it wouldn’t.

I have to admit, when Max brushes a kiss over my mouth and says in a sleep-tinged voice, “Morning, love,” there’s a traitorous leap in my heart before it sinks with the realization we’re still together and Max still isn’t himself.

Luckily, seconds after waking, Emme knocks on the third-floor bedroom door and shouts, “Can we go to the beach today? Mom said she needs rest and we should go out! Do you want to go? Yes or no?”

Max lifts himself up on his forearm and gives me a hooded look, his expression sleepy and hungry at the same time. His bare chest skims against my back and I feel his hardness pressing into me. He wore boxers to bed, I wore a nightie, and there is only a thin layer of cotton separating us. His hair is messy, his morning stubble thick and dark, and a stream of morning sun shines through the curtains, casting a golden glow over his bare skin. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and strokes his fingers up my arm, tracing the spill of sunlight.

“You’re beautiful in the morning,” he whispers, his gaze following the steady progress of his fingers.

“Yes or no?” Emme shouts through the door.

“No,” Max growls, too quiet for Emme to hear.

“Because I really want to paint the beach! Anna? Are you awake?”

Max brushes his hand over my nipple and it peaks under the slight pressure.

“Yes,” I call, my voice a half-croak, half-gasp.

Max gives me a happy, self-satisfied grin.

“Do you want to go to the beach?” I can hear Emme bouncing up and down, her feet thudding rhythmically on the third-floor landing.

Max flips me over and executes a quick move where his legs cage mine and his arms pin me beneath him.

“Say no,” he mouths, slowly shaking his head.

A slow throb rolls through me as he settles over me. His weight is delicious. Erotic. My eyes nearly roll backward in ecstasy. Which settles it.

“Yes!” I shout.

“No,” Max says at the same time.

“What?” Emme asks.

I start to yell yes, but Max presses his mouth to mine.

“Hey!” I say, which he takes as an invitation to French, sending his tongue to quest over my lips and into my mouth.

“Anna? What?” Emme shouts.

“Yes,” I say, the sound buried under Max’s mouth.

“What!”

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