Page 33 of Smooth Sailing
She bit her lip, heat rising to her cheeks as she averted her gaze. “Maybe.”
He stepped closer, bringing with him the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and clean sweat. “What do you have against nice guys?”
Confused looks and gentle letdowns—the echoes of “You’re just . . . intense” and “We want different things” rang in her mind. Then Max’s easy smile during their shared lunches, the warmth of his praise after a job well done. The thought of that smile fading, replaced by the same overwhelmed expression she’d seen too many times before, had her chest tightening.
“I have nothing against them.” She pointed at the soil on his arms and aimed for a teasing, light tone. “You’re getting into this project, aren’t you?”
He glanced down and grinned. “Can’t plant a garden without getting a little dirty.”
Was it her, or did his tone sound suggestive? Afraid she’d see the answer in his eyes, she stared at his neck, unable to look away from a drop of sweat that trickled from his clavicle to his chest.
“You’re too much of a nice guy to be so dirty,” she muttered, knowing damn well her words made no sense.
“Nice guys like getting dirty too.” Leaning closer, his heat reaching out to her, he said, “And if we’re going to stick to stereotypes, you’ve forgotten the most important one about nice guys.”
“And that is?” She still didn’t move away but kept her gaze glued to his neck as if avoiding his eyes would save her from where this was heading.
He rested a palm on her hip, and a shiver raced up her spine, her skin tingling where his hand rested. “Nice guys finish last.” He hunched forward, running his lips along the hollow of her collarbone, a spot that always ignited her desire. He paused, then did it again before moving to her ear and whispering. “Meaning you finish first . . . repeatedly.”
His quiet confidence made her pulse race and her breath catch. It wasn’t only the physical desire in his tone but the promise of being cared for and truly seen that heated her everywhere. There was an unspoken understanding that with him, she could let go and trust he would follow through on his promises—at least where her body was concerned.
She took in the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, the sound almost deafening in the electric silence. His nearness was intoxicating, every inch of him drawing her closer, tempting her to cross the line she’d sworn she wouldn’t.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, but her body betrayed her resolve even as the words left her lips. The heat radiating from his skin called to her, and she leaned closer.
He stilled. “Do you want me to stop?”
Every logical thought, every hard-earned lesson warned her away—mixing business and pleasure would unravel all she’d built, thread by careful thread. But when Max looked at her with those steady blue-gray eyes, her carefully constructed walls began to crack and crumble like ancient stone.
She bit her lip, torn between desire and caution. “I . . . I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to reach out and touch him.
He waited, his body still except for his chest’s steady rise and fall. His eyes, dark with desire, never left hers, but there was no pressure in his gaze—only patience. He wouldn’t touch her again, giving her the space to decide.
Another bead of sweat trailed down his neck. She had to fight the urge to lean forward and taste it. His jaw clenched slightly, the only sign of his struggle. But he still waited. His self-control and willingness to let her set the pace only made her want him more.
Her resolve weakened with each passing second. The memory of their almost kiss, the tension that had been building for weeks, and their undeniable chemistry came crashing down on her.
With a shaky exhale, she decided. Fear and excitement mingled in her chest as she met his gaze. “No,” she breathed. “No, I don’t want you to stop.”
The last thread of restraint snapped, and the tension between them ignited into a flame she couldn’t control. With a pounding heart, she stood on tip-toes and kissed him. The touch sparked through her, creating a wildfire.
His hands wrapped around her, pulling her against him until there was no space between them. The desire she’d buried since their kiss last week surged to the surface, and she gave in completely. Running her hand up his bare back and into his hair, she gripped the strands tightly.
Heat flooded her core with his deep, guttural groan. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth with a slow, deliberate sweep. She parted her lips for him, and he claimed her, his kiss fierce and consuming, drowning out everything but the need to be closer, to feel more of him.
Her body ached with a raw, unrelenting need, and she pressed into him, her hands roaming over his body, wanting to memorize every inch, and becoming drunk on the intoxicating heat of his touch.
“More,” she begged.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he demanded, and she listened without hesitation.
After a few short steps, he lowered them until she sat on the cold walnut table. On his knees, he pushed open her legs and settled between them. They were eye to eye, making it easy to kiss him and keep her legs around him. She scooted closer and rocked against his torso, desperate for friction.
“Do you need more?” he asked, his breath warm and tantalizing as it ghosted over her skin. His lips traced a path along her jaw, then descended with a slow,deliberate hunger, pressing rough kisses against the exposed curve of her neck and chest.
“Y-yes.” Her confession blended with the heat of his touch.
His palm skated up her thigh, stopping at her lacy underwear. “Can I taste you?” he asked.
