Page 34 of Smooth Sailing
Her hands, resting limply on his shoulders, tightened into fists. She pressed them against him to anchor herself. “Yes,” she repeated, the single word carrying the weight of her surrender.
His eyes darkened, and a wicked smile curved his lips as a shudder of pleasure seemed to ripple through his body. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear that,” he murmured, his voice thick and hungry. “Lift.”
She did, and he slid her underwear down her legs slowly, all the while his hot gaze locked on hers. Only when he’d pushed up her skirt, exposing her to him, did he look away. “So fucking perfect,” he said, before shifting and kissing one knee then her other.
With the same unhurried patience, he kissed a trail up her inner thigh. Reaching the apex of her center, he licked her with the flat press of his tongue and she damn near passed out. “Max,” she moaned and rocked, digging her fingers into his hair.
Hearing his name on her lips seemed to ignite something primal within him. He devoured her with an intensity that made her legs tremble, her release building like waves against a breakwater. A low rumbling sound crept through the haze of her senses. She couldn’t place it, her mind too clouded to process anything beyond the sensations Max was pulling from her. The noise grew louder, and a flicker of awareness bloomed in her subconscious, though it was lost when her climax overtook her. She gasped, pulling on Max’s hair.
Then, he was gone.
She sat up, looking for him. “Wha—”
“Someone’s here.” His blue eyes were nearly black, and his pupils were blown so large, but she couldn’t tell if it was desire or panic.
“Hello? Ms. Wagner,” called Elodie, the click of her high heels growing louder.
Chapter Sixteen
September 21st, 5:05 p.m.
Shit. That sound. The distant mechanical groan that had barely cut through the hazy bliss of Max between her legs. A garage door.
Paloma’s heart pounded, her ribs practically rattling with each beat. Max bolted upright, his warm hands vanishing from her thighs, tugging down her skirt. A whiplash of emotions coursed through her. Moments ago, she’d been lost in sensation, her world narrowing to touch, heat, and pleasure. Now, reality crashed into her, sharp and immediate.
Her mouth was desert-dry, and her gaze dropped to his erection pressing against his jeans. And damn. He was big. Not crazy scary big like the girth of a soup can and the length of a tire iron. But, the kind of substantial that made her thighs clench with possibilities. The kind of size that in skilled hands . . .
The sharp rap of footsteps on the hardwood jerked her back to the present. Two sets were getting closer, and the living room lights were suddenly far too bright.
“Get over there,” she urged in a harsh whisper “And hide your dick behind a pineapple or something! Where’s your shirt?” She lurched to her feet, snatched up her portfolio, and dropped it again as she whirled around, shoving cushions aside, yanking up the rug corners. Where the hell had her underwear landed?
She spied the black lace crumbled next to the coffee table’s leg. Scooping them up, she tucked them in her skirt pocket like an unwanted confession. Her skin prickled, and damp dread welled inside her with each echo of Elodie Thompson’s heels on the hardwood floor, each click a countdown to . . . what? Discovery? Disaster?
Max crossed the room, his hair disheveled from her fingers, his still-bare chest heaving, a smudge of dirt streaking his jawline. “Your shirt,” she hissed. “Where is it?”
“I tossed it somewhere,” he muttered.
“Paloma?” Elodie’s voice rang out around the corner, and then she came into view. “Are you here? I thought that was your car—oh!”
Her gaze darted to Max, who had grabbed his T-shirt from a makeshift workbench and was putting it on. “I didn’t realize you two were . . . hard at work already,” Elodie said, her voice a touch lower, silkier than usual. Her gaze returned to Max again, lingering, and Paloma had the crazy urge to tell the woman to stop checking him out—as if either of them had a claim to him.
“Not me. Just Max. On the garden. He’s working on your garden. I came—” She choked on her panic and shitty choice of words, which were coming out all wrong: too fast and much too loud. One breath in. Another out. “I arrived here a few minutes ago to drop off the main floor bedroom changes.”
Bill’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he glanced between them, his expression shifting from curiosity to speculative. The awkward silence stretched, thick with unspoken secrets and suspicion. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. His gaze fell to the table she’d lay on with her skirt up around her waist.
Elodie followed her husband’s gaze and squeaked. “What’s that on my walnut slab?”
Holy Hell, no! That wasnotevidence of her orgasm on the surface. Elodie wiped her hand on the wet spot of the ten-thousand-dollar table. Paloma gasped, her heart hammering.
Max stepped forward. “I’m sorry, I set a butterfly pea flower there.”
What the fuck was a pea flower? “Mrs. Thompson, I—” Paloma’s voice cracked. After a solid year of re-building her business and carefully cultivating clients in Michigan’s exclusive neighborhoods—poof, all gone because of one amazing orgasm.
“Do you have any idea what organic compounds can do to raw wood? This isn’t sealed yet!” Elodie’s voice rose sharply. She bent closer to examine the mark on the wood.
The mark—oh god, the mark that Elodie had just touched—seemed to glow like a neon sign of Paloma’s indiscretion.
Bill stepped closer. “Honey—”
