Page 55 of Smooth Sailing
Chapter Twenty-Five
October 18th, 9:10 p.m.
Max stood at the island counter in the condo, making drinks for himself and Paloma. Water from his wet hair trickled down the side of his neck, a reminder of the recent shower fun.
Grabbing bourbon, he poured two shots into each of their glasses. He was unable to wipe the grin off of his face. The last week was fantastic. Their first time together and all the days that followed.
Like last night. They’d driven separately because her to-do list had her working outside the Sterling house. He’d missed her but had been greeted with the most glorious surprise—Paloma at the door completely naked. She’d removed his clothes in under a minute, and in less time, he had her bent over that stupid couch he was starting to love.
Today was just as fun. He’d kept it professional during the working hours, but barely. And who could blame him? She might have looked professional and proper in her ankle-length tweed skirt and camel-colored ankle boots. However, on the way to work, she’d told him she’d selected the outfit in case things got too hot in his truck again and they couldn’t make it inside the condo.
Her huskyvoice repeated that declaration in his brain all day. He’d barely gotten anything done and kept having to correct his mistakes.
Then, finally, they were in his truck. She’d taken his hand, placing it under her skirt. He’d moved up her thighs to where her panties should have been, but instead of lace and cotton, there was her warm, wet flesh. Lust had exploded through him, and he’d pulled over the truck, determined to have her right then and there at the side of the road.
“Not yet,” she chastised, her throaty laugh filled the cab, going straight to his dick. “What happened to that anticipation you love?”
“It’s disappeared, alongside your panties,” he grumbled but returned to the road. He’d kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other between her legs, teasing her until she was rocking against his palm.
They hadn’t made it inside. When he pulled into the condo’s covered lot and had the truck in park, she was on his lap, unzipping his jeans. Then they had an encore in the shower.
Glancing toward the bedroom where Paloma sat with her laptop, heat spread through his veins. Both encounters had been amazing, but that last time in the shower, when they had taken more time to explore each other . . .
He capped the bourbon and closed his eyes, recalling how the steam kissed her skin. The way after, they’d kissed for an eternity, exploring with their hands and lips. Then she went down onto her knees and took him into her mouth. She looked up at him with water dripping from her lashes and hair, and he’d damn near come. He’d silently praised all that was unholy that he hadn’t because the way she had teased him with her tongue and lips until he’d come all over her chest had been a nearly divine experience.
After, he’d brought her under the water and cleaned her slowly. Then he’d turned off the shower and carried her to the bed. There, he’d feasted on her until she was shaking and gasping his name.
He shook his head; too much of his blood was rushing south. He focused on finishing their drinks. He poured Vernor’s into hers. In his, a splash of water, half a lemon, and a bit of honey. With both glasses in hand, he carried them to the bedroom.
He paused in the doorway. Paloma’s long, smooth legs rested on the blue comforter. And he really liked the way she looked in his gray sweatshirt. He wished they could stay forever in this bubble.
Her gaze met his, and her smile stirred something more than desire—a glimpse of possibility.
“You’re staring,” she said, her voice low and teasing, shifting her attention from the laptop to him to the drinks. “Oh, those looking as temping as you.”
He handed her a drink and scooted next to her. Adjusting a pillow behind him, he rested against the headboard. “Working?” he asked.
“Catching up on emails.” She closed her laptop and turned to him. “You like to cook, but what are your other hobbies?”
“My hobbies?” he echoed. “Why are you asking?”
“Well, you’ve been inside me, and you’re my friend. I don’t know much about you outside of work.” She grinned. “Besides that you like swinging.”
“One time . . .” He shook his head, pretending to be exasperated, but was touched by her interest in him.
She tsked. “That’s more than ninety percent of the population.”
“If you’d seen how many people were there, you might have to lower that percentage.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m glad that party was in Chicago. It’s less likely I’ll run into any of them. I’m sure they’re nice people, but it’d be awkward for everyone.”
“I feel like maybe I’m missing something.” He pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, then let it go. “Should we…”
“No,” he said. An unexpected possessiveness held him in this grip. “I can’t tell you what to do, but there’d be no ‘we.’ If I saw another person touch you—” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “I couldn’t stand idly by. Or join in. Not with you.”
“Not with you,” she echoed softly. Then she looked at him and grinned. “Okay, swinging is out. So, what do you do when you have free time?”
