4. Maxim
MAXIM
I watch Brooke work with the focused efficiency that characterizes everything she does, and every innocent movement drives me closer to the edge of my self-control.
The way she bends to load the dishwasher gives me a perfect view of her curves in that tight skirt, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from walking over there and pressing myself against her from behind.
She's humming softly under her breath—some melody I don't recognize—and the unconscious sound combined with the way she unconsciously sways her hips is pure torture.
I've been coming up with excuses to stay after poker games for weeks, telling myself it's just being helpful while really craving these stolen moments when her professional mask slips and I glimpse the real woman underneath.
Tonight feels different, though. More charged. Like we're both teetering on the edge of something that could change everything between us.
"Tell me about your MBA program," I say, genuinely curious but also needing the distraction before I do something stupid like pin her against the nearest wall and find out if she tastes as good as she looks.
Her face lights up as she describes her thesis on emerging markets in Eastern Europe, and I'm captivated by more than just her intelligence.
It's the passionate way she gestures when she talks about something she loves, how her eyes sparkle with excitement, the unconscious way she bites her lower lip when she's thinking through a complex concept.
Most people in my world assume the children of powerful families coast through life on name recognition and trust funds.
But Brooke is working two jobs to pay for her education, building something entirely her own without family money or connections to smooth the way.
There's something deeply attractive about that kind of determination and independence.
"What kind of consulting firm do you want to start?" I ask, moving closer under the pretense of helping her stack plates.
"Something focused on helping small businesses navigate international markets," she says, her voice warming with enthusiasm. "Most of them can't afford the big consulting firms, but they have incredible products and just need guidance on expansion strategies."
"That's brilliant," I tell her, and I mean it. "You'd be helping level the playing field, giving smaller companies access to expertise that's usually reserved for major corporations."
She looks surprised by my genuine interest, and I realize that most people probably don't take her seriously. The thought irritates me more than it should—this woman has a brilliant mind and ambitious plans, and anyone who can't see that is an idiot.
The moment shifts dangerously when she reaches across me to grab a wine glass from the high shelf, her breasts brushing against my chest in a contact that's brief but electric. She freezes, looking up to find my face inches from hers, and the hunger in her eyes matches my own devastating need.
Her lips are parted, swollen with desire, pupils dilated into black pools that swallow the rich brown of her irises.
I can feel the rapid, erratic flutter of her pulse beneath my thumb as it traces lazy patterns across the delicate skin of her inner wrist, each beat a silent confession of want.
The scent of her perfume—something light and floral with hints of jasmine and warm vanilla—mingles seductively with the lingering aroma of expensive Cuban cigars and aged whiskey from the poker game, creating an intoxicating blend that makes my head swim with primitive need.
Her skin radiates a delicious warmth that draws me closer, making me crave the taste of her, wondering if her mouth would carry the subtle sweetness of the wine she's been sipping all evening.
"Maxim," she whispers, and my name sounds like both question and invitation, like surrender and challenge all rolled into one breathless syllable.
I'm hovering on the edge of crossing every professional boundary I've ever maintained, of lifting her onto this counter and claiming her mouth while my hands explore every curve I've been fantasizing about for months.
The air between us crackles with sexual tension so thick I can barely think straight, and when her tongue darts out to wet her lips, my control nearly shatters completely.
My fingers itch to trace the delicate arc of her collarbone, to follow that tantalizing path downward where her silk blouse clings to the swell of her breasts.
I imagine the gasp she'd make against my lips as I pressed her against the cool marble, the heat of her body melting into mine.
The wine glass still dangles forgotten from her fingertips, and I envision taking it, setting it aside, then replacing it with my touch—firm yet reverent, possessive yet worshipful.
Her perfume envelops me like a narcotic, clouding my judgment with promises of ecstasy if I'd just surrender to this magnetic pull between us.
Her breath comes in shallow little pants that match my own labored breathing, each exhale a silent plea that makes my hardened body throb with need.
"You have no idea what you do to me," I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended. My hands frame her face, thumbs tracing her cheekbones with devastating gentleness that contrasts sharply with the primitive need clawing at my chest.
"Show me," she challenges, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying enough heat to set my blood on fire.
Christ, she's going to be the death of me. The combination of innocence and seduction in her voice, the way she looks at me like I'm something she wants to unwrap slowly and thoroughly—it's driving me insane with want.
I lean closer, until our foreheads are almost touching, until we're breathing the same air. "If I start showing you what you do to me, I won't be able to stop," I warn her, my voice dropping to a growl that surprises us both with its intensity.
"Maybe I don't want you to stop," she replies, and the bold admission sends heat shooting straight to my groin.
The sound of the kitchen staff leaving through the back door breaks the spell, their laughter and conversation a sharp reminder of where we are and all the reasons this can't happen. Not here, not like this, rushed and desperate in my brother's restaurant where anyone could walk in and find us.
But the promise in her eyes tells me it's not a matter of if anymore—it's a matter of when. The anticipation is killing us both, building to a crescendo that will have to break soon before it destroys what's left of my sanity.
I step back reluctantly, putting necessary distance between us though every instinct I have screams at me to close that gap and claim what I want. What I need. The few inches between us feel like a vast, painful chasm that my body aches to bridge.
"We should be careful," I say, though the words taste like ash in my mouth, bitter and hollow against the sweetness of what could be. My hands clench at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
"Should we?" she asks, tilting her head in a way that makes her look younger, more vulnerable, but no less determined. Her eyes darken with desire, pupils dilating as they hold mine steadily. "Or should we stop pretending we don't want each other? This game we're playing—it's exhausting, isn't it?"
The direct challenge in her voice makes my cock throb painfully against the confines of my pants. She's right—we've been dancing around this attraction for months, playing games and maintaining professional distance that's become increasingly meaningless.
"This is complicated," I manage to say, though my body is screaming at me to forget about complications and take what she's offering. My voice sounds strained even to my own ears, thick with barely restrained desire that threatens to overwhelm my last shreds of rational thought.
"Everything worth having is complicated," she replies, her brown eyes steady on mine, unwavering and filled with a quiet confidence that makes my pulse quicken.
The warm amber flecks in her irises catch the dim light as she studies my face.
"The question is whether you think I'm worth the complications.
Worth whatever consequences might come after we cross this line. "
Before I can answer—before I can tell her that she's worth any complication, any risk, any consequence that comes with wanting her—she's moving past me toward the door, her hip brushing against mine in passing.
"Good night, Maxim," she says softly, and there's something in her voice that sounds like a promise.
After she leaves, I stand alone in the empty restaurant, my body tight with unfulfilled need and my mind racing with possibilities. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, and I can still feel the phantom touch of her skin against mine.
This woman is going to drive me to distraction, and I'm beginning to think I don't care. The careful control I've maintained for years is crumbling under the weight of my want for her, and for the first time in my life, I'm considering throwing caution to the wind for a chance at something real.
Something that could either be the best decision I've ever made or destroy everything I've worked to build.
Right now, looking at the empty doorway where she disappeared, I'm leaning toward thinking it would be worth the risk.