Page 45 of BillionHeir
The admission should be positive, but he sounds somber, almost guilty. I wait patiently for him to continue, letting him work out whatever he is feeling.
“I shouldn’t even be alive right now,” he says, squeezing my hand slightly. “I don’t deserve this.”
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I respond with something I have only just worked out myself. “You are a good man, Maxwell Banks.”
He opens his mouth to contradict me, but I am not allowing it. I let go of his hand and twist on the mattress so that I am looking straight at his face as I speak.
“You are a thoughtful boss, a loyal friend, and a generous human. Those things have all been made clear to me in just the short time I have known you. Maybe you have made some mistakes in the past, but who hasn’t?”
It is hard to see in the dim candlelight, but I am pretty sure he has tears in his eyes after my little speech.
“Well, thank you for your vote of confidence,” he says, not sounding altogether convinced, but more upbeat than he was before.
“It is not easily earned, I will have you know.”
“I am well aware. Jackson told me that you were a ball buster. He wasn’t lying. But there is more to you than other people see, too.”
I cock my head to the side, trying to figure out what he is getting at.
“For one thing, you are an amazing nurse. It is like you were born to take care of others. You never made me feel like a burden, even when I was at my worst. It was a great comfort to know that you were devoted to my care. But you are so much more than a nurse. You are fiercely competitive, have the patience of a saint, and sometimes you take my breath away with your thoughtfulness. It feels like you always know just what I need to hear.”
Before I can respond, he leans in and presses his lips to mine.
Chapter 17
_______________________
Maxwell
I kissed Chloe once before, and I have thought about it at least a hundred times since.
But this kiss is nothing like our first. When our lips connected before, we were both tentative and shy. Neither of us was sure about where the other stood. There was a sense of caution to it.
But this time, all of that is gone. It has been replaced with pent up need, sexual tension, and an unmistakable yearning for more. This is not just another chaste good night kiss. This is a full-on, no-holds-barred, hands fisted in hair kind oflocking of the lips with all the built-up tension of the last several weeks electrifying the air around us.
At first, there is a small part of my brain that worries she may not be as into this as I am. I am an intelligent man who is well aware of all the stories of uninterested women being hit on by oblivious men. I do not want to be the kind of asshole who pushes himself onto someone. I pull away to ask if this is okay, but she instantly reaches out and grasps at the short hairs on the back of my head, pulling me back in.
Satisfied that she is right here with me, I lean more deeply into the kiss. I bring my good hand up to the side of her face and slowly brush my fingers down the smooth skin of her cheek and neck. Our kissing intensifies as my hand travels across her shoulder, down to the small of her back. I press her toward me, urging her closer despite the tray filled with food and wine in front of us.
She comes to me willingly, gracefully rising up on her knees between kisses, inching closer to me. I push the tray as far away as possible, then grab her gently by the waist and pull her forward until she is straddling me, mess be damned.
She squeaks into my mouth at the sudden change of position, but I can tell she is pleased with the situation when she pulls back to smile down at me. She only allows me to admire her beautiful face for a moment before she leans in for another kiss and lowers her weight onto my lap.
I groan when I feel the heat between her legs pressing against me. It is incredibly hard to be a gentleman right now, though I am not sure that she wants me to.
Where should I draw the line? Should I leave the ball in her court? I am not usually the kind of man who questions what I am doing, but I don’t want to mess things up with this woman. She already means too much to me.
She either picks up on my thoughts or starts having doubts of her own, because I feel the moment her mind kicks on. Her muscles suddenly tense and she pulls away. Her face is flushed, from kissing or embarrassment, I am not quite sure.
“Sorry,” she says, looking over my shoulder at the wall behind us.
“Don't be sorry,” I say, reaching up to push a stray strand of hair out of her face. I shift my body so that I am in her line of sight and smile at her, trying to bring her back around. “There is nothing to apologize for. We are two consenting adults, aren’t we?”
“I suppose you are right,” she says with a small smile. “Okay, then I am not sorry.”
“Good girl,” I say with a laugh.
I start to think that maybe we are out of the woods, but then her eyes flick to mine briefly before she looks away again. “It is just . . .”
