Chapter Twenty-Six
Paige
“Fuck,” Maddox mutters, his nostrils flaring as I press my back against the door.
I’m well aware Beau and Eli could come back at any moment, but finding Maddox like this, a discarded towel at the bottom of the bed, the sheets rumpled by his body, I don’t care.
His long legs, dusted with light brown hair, are spread wide, his muscles taut under all that golden skin. One hand is back to working himself in slow, lazy strokes as he leans against the headboard, his lower lip clamped between his teeth.
The recording plays in the background, the dirty soundtrack to the only other time we’ve been in a similar situation, spurring this moment on.
“How many times?” I ask, needing to know, throat dry as my eyes trail a line over the bumps and ridges of his stomach, the veins on his forearms, his long, thick fingers wrapped around his length. “How many times have you played it back? Got yourself off to it?”
His jaw flexes, cock straining in his grip. “Enough that I’ve got every second memorized.”
Heat licks down my spine, pooling between my legs at the thought of him jerking off at night, alone, thinking about me. Even the idea that he’s done it here, while on tour, in his own bunk, only separated by a thin curtain, has my pussy tingling.
“Your moans sound better than any song I’ve ever written.”
My breath catches at how genuine he sounds, and I walk around the perimeter of the small room. I thought being in such close quarters was bad enough before, but this… Maddox lying here, naked and mouthwateringly sexy, it’s damn near stifling.
And still, all I can think about is that one word. That stupid, dangerous word.
Loophole.
It rings like a siren in my head, mixing with the intoxicating scent of salt and sweat and sex that’s already permeating through the air.
Stopping in front of the dresser, I turn slightly, just enough for him to see the shape of my hand gliding down my stomach, teasing the waistband of my jeans. Maddox inhales sharply, legs moving slightly on the bed.
“Unlike you, I don’t need a recording to get off. I can do it better than you ever could.”
His tongue drags across his bottom lip. “Do it then.”
“Excuse me?” I breathe out.
“Touch yourself.” His thumb brushes through his arousal, smearing it over his cockhead. “Right now. Let me see how much better you are.”
Lust detonates in my bloodstream because, God help me, my body wants to give him this. This intimate and vulnerable moment of making myself come while he does the same from across the room.
“Paige,” he rasps, voice cracking like thunder. “Fuck those pretty fingers. Let me hear you moan to the same sounds I’ve listened to nearly every single night since I touched you.”
Every. Fucking. Night.
“You think I won’t?” I scoff, trying to take back some of the control I lost as soon as I walked in here. But still, my fingers itch at the thought of sliding into my panties.
“I think you’re dying to.” His grin is wicked, shameless as he strokes upward, squeezing the tip hard enough to make himself groan. “Let me hear those breathy little gasps you made when you thought I couldn’t break you.”
The statement hits hard, not because it takes something from me, but because he did. And I loved every second of it.
And even now, even angry that I’ve caught him, I want to be broken again.
He lifts his other arm, bringing it up behind his head, abs flexing, every part of him tight and on display. My eyes trace the veins bulging beneath his skin. He’s sin made of flesh, desire carved out of bone and muscle.
Catching my eyes, he smirks, infuriatingly beautiful for someone so emotionally unavailable. So perfectly, deliciously untouchable. He cocks his head, eyes flicking to my hand, then back up, daring me.
“I bet you’re dripping just watching me.”
The fucking nerve of this man. Not only for saying this, but for being right.
I should walk away, should call him out for turning this into a game where I’m always the one losing control. But instead, I meet his gaze and flick the button on my jeans, letting my hand slip beneath the waistband. Not for him. For me and this ache I’ve had all day.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he purrs, enjoying every second of this. “You’re soaked.”
“I hate you,” I whisper half-heartedly, hand sliding into my panties and feeling just how right he is as I find my clit and press down. The relief is instant, and I moan, my other hand flying back to brace against the dresser as pleasure radiates through me.
“No, you don’t.” His breaths grow ragged over the sound of his strokes speeding up. “You hate that I didn’t give you more that day in the studio when you were begging for it. You hate that I’m not doing it now.”
“I didn’t beg,” I pant as I plunge a finger inside, my teeth biting into my lower lip to smother a moan.
“Maybe not with your words,” he says, his smirk filthy. “But your body did. The way you fucked my hand like a needy little slut, knowing the guys could’ve come back into the studio and saw you through the window. How you know they could come back any minute now and find you here like this.”
A cry tears from my lips, the image turning me on more than I ever imagined, as I circle my clit with slow and steady precision, my body building with desire and the need to be filled by him. I add a second finger, my knees shaking.
“You look so fucking sexy like this,” he groans. “You gonna come for me, baby? You gonna come knowing I’m right here watching?”
He leans forward, bracing one arm on the bed, eyes never leaving the place where my hand disappears.
“Fuck, I can’t stop imagining how tight you’d feel around my cock while you make those fucking noises.”
My head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, pleasure spiking. “Maddox…”
“Open your eyes,” he commands, voice rough and desperate. “I want you looking at me when you come. I want your face imprinted on the back of my fucking eyelids.”
I obey, my vision blurring with need. My hips rock against my hand, small shudders wracking my body as I rocket closer to the finish line.
He’s off the bed before I even realize he’s moved, towering in front of me.
I stare at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking, so close that I could drop to my knees and finally taste him.
I whimper, torn between raw need and stubborn pride, because if he asked, I’d kneel for Maddox Knox.
Not until he gets on his for me first.
A deep and guttural noise rips from Maddox, his strokes speeding up as he brings his hand to his mouth and spits, fucking spits into his palm, spreading it over himself, forearm flexing, hair wild, his hand working in fast, messy strokes. He’s devastatingly gorgeous. And all for me.
“Fuck, Paige,” he groans, my name reverent and ruined, right before he breaks.
His hand slams down on mine as he leans forward, hips jerking, cock pulsing thick, white ropes of cum that stripe his abs as his body convulses. With his forehead pressing to mine, he milks himself through his orgasm, his breathing shaky.
Then he straightens, our eyes locking, before his fingers dip into the mess on his stomach, bringing them to my lips, dragging them across the seam.
“Open,” he says, the word laced with possession.
And I do. Because this isn’t some power play or surrender. This is mine, my choice, and I want to see the exact moment his cocky mask slips when I lick him clean.
His thumb slides in, and I suck greedily, tasting salt and musk, and it’s too much. Too intimate.
Too him.
My orgasm hits me seconds later, and I bite down, moaning around him as my body shatters beneath my fingertips.
My back arches, my knees give out, and Maddox’s hand clamps down on my hips, holding me steady as I ride my fingers, curling them deep, fucking myself harder, riding out every brutal wave.
While he watches.
My body is a live wire of overstimulation, my high ricocheting through every nerve ending. Not just from the orgasm. But from the way he’s looking at me now. Not with satisfaction, not like he’s won. But with something softer, something that terrifies me more than any dirty words ever could.
He steps forward, brushing a damp curl from my cheek, fingers trailing across my jaw to my chin, tilting it upward with his thumb and forefinger.
My hands rise to his ribs, not sure if I’m using him for support or to push him away. His skin is warm under my touch, slick with sweat, muscles still twitching from what we’ve done.
He studies me, not like I’m a conquest or some mistake, but more like a secret he doesn’t know how to keep.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have kept that recording, Paige,” he murmurs, gaze flicking to my mouth. I wait, bracing for the punchline, the usual Maddox deflection. But nothing comes. Instead, he leans in and presses a single, feather-light kiss to my lips, whispering, “But I’m not sorry that I did.”
Sex, I can handle.
Control, I can fight.
But this? It’s something else entirely, something I see hidden deep in his eyes the second he pulls back.
He’s not the same man when we’re alone, the one who touches like it might be the last time, lets himself want me for one second before burying it so deep he forgets it ever happened.
He lingers, his thumb tugging at my lower lip before he lets go.
“I’m gonna clean up,” he says quietly, grabbing the towel from the bed and wrapping it around his hips.
Giving me one last look, he steps out, leaving the door slightly open behind him.
Not slammed, not shut.
Open.
And somehow, that feels louder than anything he could’ve said.