Page 87 of Smooth Sailing
“I’ve also never not used one, and it is probably too soon to tell you this, but I’m all in with you. I believe with all my heart you’re the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with, and because of that,” she drew a finger down his chest, “I want to be as close to you as possible.”
He thrust slowly and gently inside her. Then stilled, saying, “Magnificent mind, inside and outside of the bedroom. I’m the luckiest man.”
Every inch of her body was alive where his gaze roamed over her. Desire darkened his eyes but softened them into something deeper that reached beyond hunger. He drew her close, wrapping her in his arms as his hands slid over her back, his fingers making her skin hum. Each touch was a promise, his breath against her neck igniting a heat that left her aching and restless. She pressed closer, craving the sensation of his heartbeat thrumming against hers.
Her need quickened as his hands moved over her with a reverence that took her breath away. He knew exactly where to linger, where to draw out her sighs and soft gasps, stoking her desire until it built like a slow, sweeping tide. She melted into the sensations, letting go of the guarded distance she’d held, surrendering fully to their love.
Their movements became a cascade of urgency, each kiss, each touch drawing her deeper into the steady rhythm they created together. She clung to him, solid and real beneath her hands, grounding her as her breaths grew shallower, in sync with his. Their heartbeats blurred, lost in each other as everything beyond them dissolved. Her release crested and broke, a wave that left her gasping, every nerve sparking alive in its wake, just as his own shuddered into being. Their bodies found a breathless symmetry.
They melted into each other like watercolors bleeding together in the velvet silence that followed. His palm found a home over her heart, his thumb painting drowsy patterns across her skin. She traced the familiar landscape of his jaw, marveling at how a simple touch could hold entire worlds within it.
“How did you find out where I was staying?” She indicated the room, where bright afternoon sunlight streamed through the open French doors, highlighting the faded pattern of the once-elegant wallpaper, its edges curling slightly near the crown molding.
“I called Felix. He told me.”
“But why didn’t you wait? My dad had said at dinner this would be a quick trip.”
The mattress shifted as Max propped himself on one elbow, the antique bed frame creaking softly beneath them. “I’ve been to your house. I saw the bookshelf full of romance novels and figured you appreciate the ‘grand gesture.’”
She rolled onto her side to face him, impressed and intrigued, as a burst of laughter from the street punctuated the moment. The gauzy curtains danced in the afternoon breeze, carrying the sweet, warm scent of pralines from the shop below. “How do you know about the ‘grand gesture?’ Your mom?”
“Wow, that’s sexist.” He pulled her closer, making her squeal as he tickled her ribs. The ceiling fan wobbled slightly as it spun, its chain tinkling against the dusty glass shade. “I’ll have you know Jackson and Asher got me into them. His sister, your friend, Hope, dared them to read one. They did and liked them. Now, she’s their book dealer with the best recommendations. They might have passed a few my way.”
She kissed both his cheeks, relishing the taste of salt on his skin and the solid warmth of his body against hers. “I’ll have to thank her.”
Curled into each other, their heartbeats steady and sure, she smiled against his chest. She’d believed she was too much—too intense, demanding, and hungry for life and love. But Max didn’t just handle her fire; he matched it, stoked it, and made it burn brighter. She wasn’t too much at all. She was exactly enough, exactly right, for the one person who mattered.
Epilogue
May 20th, 4:30 p.m.
Max leaned in the booth at The Hill, the cracked vinyl-covered cushion releasing a leathery crackle-squeak. Paloma stole a french fry from his plate, and something soft and unfurled in his chest at its casual intimacy. His gaze drifted to the copper-topped bar where they’d first officially met—where she’d perched on that corner stool in that red dress that had nearly stopped his heart, though he’d been too proud then to admit it. The setting sun painted her skin in shades of gold through the window beside them, and his pulse did its familiar dance—the one it had been practicing since she’d first turned business into pleasure with a stolen old-fashioned and talk of indoor gardens.
The same band playing the night they’d first met was on stage, their sultry bass filling the air. Strange how much had changed since that evening, yet some things remained the same. Her light sweater fell off one shoulder, so different from the red dress she’d worn like armor that first night. But instead of her sharp, impatient fingernails tapping the bar top, they traced lazy patterns on his palm. The ice in their drinks clinked with the gentle melody of contentment rather than the nervous rhythm of his restless stirring.
“I still can’t believe Lilith’s brother bought this place,” Paloma said, breaking into his thoughts. He followed her gaze to his friend chatting with a couple near the spot where they’d first shaken hands, pretending the touch didn’t spark something deeper than a business arrangement.
“I can. The last time we all hung out, it was like his old life was slowly killing his soul. You should’ve seen his face when he told me he’d made an offer. Like a kid on Christmas morning,” he replied, remembering how different things had been then: Tate trapped, Asher looking at Lilith, and Max stuck in a groove so deep he couldn't even see the edges. He glanced at the same dented and scuffed antique mirror behind the bar that had caught Paloma’s reflection that night, her eyes bright with possibility as she pitched him the project that would change everything.
“That’s great. He seems like a nice guy,” she replied.
“Uh, oh,” he teased. “I know you have a thing for nice guys.”
Paloma turned from the crowded restaurant that was slowly becoming a bar as more tables were cleared away for dancing. “Only one certain nice guy,” she said, her gaze falling to his few remaining fries. He pushed his plate closer, anticipating her next snack attack.
“Speaking of Christmas.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick envelope, and she withdrew the latest issue of Sterling’s magazine, Hearth & Haven. “Did you see? They reposted snippets of our interview.”
He took the glossy pages, studying their photo. They stood in the conservatory, sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling, highlighting the blooming climbing roses. “We look good together,” he said softly, meaning far more than the photograph.
“We are good together,” she replied, covering his hand with hers. The gold band on her finger caught the light—not an engagement ring, not yet. They were too busy to plan a wedding, but he wanted to show his commitment. His hands had trembled as he’d given it to her. And she’d cried happytears when he’d explained what it meant to him—a promise to grow together, like the homes and hotels they created.
The past few months hadn’t been easy. Building a relationship while juggling projects in two states tested them. But where he’d once seen his impulsiveness as a flaw, it was a treasure to her. She loved his surprise visits. And when those weren’t possible, they made the most of video calls.
The last part of the Louisiana project would be smooth sailing, a mix of pleasure and business. He and his team would arrive in another week to work on the gardens and grounds of the two hotels.
The bass notes from the band shifted into something slower, more intimate. He recognized the opening notes—their song, the one that had been playing that first night at the bar when she’d pitched him the Thompson project. He’d been too caught up in his doubts back then to notice how the melody suited them. Now, watching her sway unconsciously to the rhythm, he had to have her in his arms.
“Dance with me?” he asked.
