Page 86 of Smooth Sailing
She had,and it had been cruel. “You’re right,” she admitted softly, the words catching in her throat. “I kept one foot out the door, didn’t I? Always ready to run.” She gave a quiet, rueful laugh. “And then I got mad at you for not chasing me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, an almost-smile that always made her heart skip. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Me waiting for a sign, you waiting for me just to know.”
She stepped toward him, close enough to catch his scent of cedar and possibility. “So where does that leave us?”
“That depends,” he said, offering the bouquet again. This time, she took it, her fingers brushing his. “Are you still running?”
The flowers were cool and damp against her palms, their fragrance rising like a promise. “No,” she said finally, meeting his eyes. “I’m ready to grow roots.”
He cupped her cheek, kissing her gently. Her skin heated at the intimacy of his touch, at the rightness of being here with him.
“Max,” she said. “I’m falling for you too.”
He bracketed her in the corner of the balcony, his arms on each side of her, close enough that their bodies touched. “Then let’s grow something beautiful together.” He pulled her closer, claiming her mouth in a kiss that tasted of promise and possibility, of gardens yet to bloom.
He drew her closer, his kiss deep and sweet as chicory coffee. She melted into him, the world narrowing to this moment, to only them. Running his hands up her back and into her hair, tilting his head, he whispered against her mouth, “I know it’s only been a day.” He laughed. “Not even a full day, but damn, I’ve missed you.”
“I don’t deserve you,” she sighed.
“Don’t say that.” He leaned back and then kissed her nose, followed by her forehead. “We’re perfect for each other. We deserve each other.”
He angledhis head, and their kiss went from sweet to heat in a heartbeat. His closeness wasn’t enough, and she pressed tighter, moaning into his mouth.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by the distinctive clatter of plastic beads hitting the balcony tiles. Paloma broke away with a laugh, glancing down at the strand of purple beads now coiled near their feet. Below, a group of tourists raised their hurricane glasses in a cheerful salute. “Keep it going,” someone shouted, and another hollered, “That’s hot!” followed by wolf whistles and a, “Take it off, baby!”
Laughing, Paloma turned slightly from Max and looked at their feet. A tangle of purple and green beads dangled from the balcony’s black and rust bars. She nudged the beads at her feet until they fell. “Show’s over, I’m not showing you my boobs,” she said.
A woman shouted, “What about him?”
“He’s not showing anything either.” She winked at the blonde below. “At least not to you.”
The woman placed two fingers in her mouth and let out an impressive whistle, followed by two thumbs up. Paloma laughed harder, in love with this city, the day, and the man holding her hand.
She led him inside her room, not bothering to close the balcony and twisting around to kiss him. “Show me how much you’ve missed me,” she breathed, nuzzling the warm spot beneath his ear where his cologne mixed with something distinctly him—like sun-warmed cedar and fresh earth after a rain.
“I’ll start with a kiss.” His lips brushed her temple. “Then with your shiver when I touch you here.” His fingers traced her collarbone, that hollow that had ached for him. “Followed by the soft sounds you make . . .” He pressed his mouth to her throat. “Then how perfectly you fit against me, and me inside you.”
They’dreached the bed, and he sat; she straddled him. “I know you like to go slow,” she said, removing his shirt. “But I need you like I need to breathe.”
He hiked her dress to the tops of her thighs. “We’ve got our whole lives to savor each other. Let’s indulge now.”
“Thank all the gods in the world.” She rose to her knees, lifted her arms, and allowed him to remove her dress.
“Okay, maybe I need a moment to savor this sight.” His hands run up her sides, stopping at her breasts. There, he ran his fingers along the lace of her red bra, leaving a trail of fire where he touched.
“God, Paloma. This color on you . . .” His busy hands moved down her stomach to her matching panties. “More red. More lace. All perfection,” he muttered, pressing his thumb against her clit. She gasped, rocking against his jean-clad erection.
Scooting back, she unbuttoned and unzipped him. She gripped the waist of his jeans and boxer briefs, sliding them and herself down his body. Craving his taste as much as the feel of his body, she stopped to lick his pre-cum before taking him deep into her mouth and throat. His groan could probably be heard down Bourbon Street.
He slid his hands into her hair, pulling slightly, turning her on even more. As if he couldn’t help himself, his hips rocked. Unable to take all of him, she wrapped a hand around him and worked the rhythm and pace she knew he loved.
The curses and sounds from him were nearly feral. His tugs a little harder on her hair. She reveled in both. “Stop,” he grunted, “You feel too fucking good. But this isn’t going to end until I’m buried inside you, and you’re coming apart around me.”
One hundred percent in love with his plan, she gave him one final suck that ripped another guttural groan from him and then she kissed her way up his body.Laying on him, she traced the line of his jaw with trembling fingers, her heart racing from desire and a certainty thrumming through her veins. This was Max—her Max, who studied gardens with the same care he studied her, who chose flowers that told their story, who flew across states to fight for them.
“I have a condom, but I’m on birth control . . .” she whispered against his lips, the words carrying all the trust she’d found in his steady hands and patient heart.
He looked into her eyes. “I’ve never not used a condom.” Rolling her onto her back, he settled between her legs and asked, “Why do you want to go without?”
