19. Max
Chapter 19
Max
P regnant.
The word lodges in my chest. It echoes—once, then again—until it’s no longer a word but a pressure behind my ribs.
She’s pregnant.
And she’s looking up at me with glassy eyes, breath catching at the edge of panic. She’s waiting for me to pull back. To turn away. And for a second, I nearly do. Not because I want to. Because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with this.
Fuck, it makes perfect sense. All the puzzle pieces I’ve been trying to place finally fit. I’m not the type to run from responsibility. But…this isn’t my responsibility.
She’s not mine. Not technically. Not in the ways that matter on paper. But she’s mine in other ways. In the way I think about her when I’m alone. In the way her voice lingers after she’s left a room. In the way I’ve caught myself watching her, learning her, collecting the soft, impossible pieces she never meant to give away.
My gaze drifts to Silas. It’s clear from the way he's watching me that he already knew. He knew and didn’t run. Of course he didn’t. That’s who he is—reckless, loyal, and endlessly hopeful. He’s always been the one to love first and fall hardest, even when the landing isn’t clean.
Genevieve’s hand shifts, moving to rest against her stomach, and something inside me knots. That hand is trembling. So is her mouth. She’s bracing for impact, steadying herself against the possibility that I’ll walk.
I should say something. I should ask who the father is. I should ask why she didn’t tell me sooner. Why she didn’t tell him.
But I already know the answer.
I figured Sebastian out weeks ago. I don’t know what went down at the launch party for Elysian Cove, but I know the two of them were intimate, and it ended poorly—most likely by his own design.
If I didn’t already know her, I’d think this was a game. Billionaire Bingo or some ridiculous gold-digger bullshit. After what happened with Elise, I should be running in the opposite direction.
But I do know her.
I exhale slowly through my nose, reaching for something to hold onto that doesn’t feel like it’s breaking apart in my hands. My thoughts are too fast and too loud. They keep running into walls—timelines, logistics, consequences—but the only thing I can focus on is her.
The silence stretches. No one fills it. Genevieve won’t look away, and neither will I. Her hand is still on her stomach, still trembling. Silas hasn’t moved, but he doesn’t need to. His presence is loud even when he isn’t speaking. He’s waiting for me to say something—decide something—but he won’t push. That’s not how he works.
Commitment has always been a controlled variable in my life. A contract. A structure. Something to be negotiated, not stumbled upon. Even the women I’ve cared about have existed at a safe distance.
She told me before anything happened. She hasn’t asked me to stay. Hasn’t angled for sympathy. No promises, no pleading. Just the facts. She’s pregnant. She’s scared. She’s not asking me for anything. But everything in me knows she deserves more than nothing.
Silas finally breaks the quiet. “You’re overthinking again.”
My head turns slowly toward him. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
He leans back on the armrest, one knee bouncing. “You’re stuck in your head. Always have been. It’s not a crime to feel something, Max.”
“I don’t make decisions based on feelings.”
“No,” he agrees, mouth twitching at the corner, “you make decisions based on risk analysis and self-preservation. But this isn’t a boardroom.”
I say nothing, and that’s enough to draw out his next move.
“She doesn’t need a white knight,” he says, tone easy. “She doesn’t need a rescue plan. She needs someone who sees her. Who stays.”
I glance back at Genevieve, who hasn’t said a word since she dropped her secret into the room and waited for it to explode. She still hasn’t looked away. Not even once.
“She needs someone who won’t walk away,” Silas finishes.
The implication isn’t subtle. But it’s not pressure. It’s not framed as a dare. It’s just Silas, calling things what they are and leaving the choice to me.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. But everything inside me has shifted.
I’ve spent years making careful decisions. I don’t gamble. I don’t indulge. And I don’t attach myself to things I can’t control. This woman? This situation? It’s chaos. A wildfire wrapped in soft skin and the most beautiful eyes.
And yet I’m still standing here, trying to find a way to walk that won’t feel like retreat.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to leave.
She’s still looking at me. Holding her breath. Not because she doesn’t trust me. Because she doesn’t trust herself to believe what she sees.
I cross to her without a word, step between her knees where she sits curled on the edge of Silas’s couch and slide a hand beneath her chin. Her eyes flutter closed at the touch, but she doesn’t pull away. She’s bracing for the drop.
I don’t give it to her.
Instead, I tilt her face up and kiss her.
Not soft. Not cautious. Not slow.
Firm. Certain. Mine. She’s mine.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, mouth parting on a gasp. That sound lodges somewhere deep in my chest and breaks something loose. I angle her head, take more. She gives it. Gives me everything without hesitation, her lips moving against mine with heat and hunger that makes my pulse surge.
Behind us, Silas shifts. I feel the cushion dip, his weight pressing in beside her, his voice near my ear. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
Genevieve makes a soft, muffled noise when Silas slides a hand along her thigh, up and up until he reaches her waistband and then starts his descent, leggings and panties in hand. My mouth moves to her jaw, then lower, tasting the curve of her throat while Silas captures her mouth in another kiss. She gasps again, the sound caught between us.
Her hands are shaking. Not from fear. From need.
“You sure?” I ask, my voice rough.
She nods. “Yes.”
That’s all I need.
She’s half-naked already—her cami shoved down beneath her breasts, the swell of them flushed and rising with each breath. Her leggings are tangled around one ankle, her thighs trembling as she’s stretched out across the cushions.
Silas traces the slope of her breast with his knuckles, then leans in to suck her nipple between his lips. She arches, eyes wide on mine as her mouth parts with a moan she can’t control.
My cock throbs against the zipper of my pants.
I undo the buttons on my sleeves and roll them back. Slowly. She watches every movement, pupils huge, lips pink. Silas kisses his way down her stomach as I settle beside her again, cupping her jaw and brushing my thumb across her lower lip.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I say.
She exhales hard, like she’s been holding the compliment at arm’s length and it finally landed.
Silas gives her panties one final tug, pulling them off. “I think she’s ready for us,” he says.
I run a hand down her body, anchoring myself in the feel of her.
I drop to my knees in front of her and press a kiss to her belly first. Then her hip. Then lower. I kiss the inside of her knee. Then her thigh. Then higher.
Silas leans back slightly to give me room, one arm braced behind her shoulders, the other ghosting over her ribs and down to her hip.
I glance up once and meet her eyes. Wide. Glassy. Desperate.
Then I taste her.
She cries out, hips jerking against my mouth, one hand gripping the edge of the couch, the other finding its way to my hair. I slide my tongue through her, finding her rhythm quickly, teasing her until she’s shaking under both our hands.
I don’t stop. I hold her open with both hands, tongue stroking through her until she’s moaning with every exhale, her body shaking apart in our hands.
“Max,” she gasps, head falling back against Silas’s shoulder.
I groan against her, the sound vibrating through both of us.
Silas kisses her temple, her jaw, her collarbone—his mouth everywhere mine isn’t. His fingers are pinching and tugging at her nipples. “You feel that?” he murmurs against her skin. “That’s what happens when you let us take care of you.”
“Come for us, G.”
She does.
Hard.
Her whole body bows, a cry breaking loose from her throat as her hands twist in my hair and her hips roll against my mouth. She whimpers something incoherent. I don’t stop until her thighs tremble and she tries to pull away, too sensitive to take more.
I press one last kiss to the inside of her thigh, then rise and claim her mouth again. Genevieve looks dazed. Glowing. Gorgeous.
Silas meets my eyes over her shoulder. “Switch.”
I kiss her again, her flavor still on my lips, and then ease her onto her back while Silas kneels between her thighs. He takes his cock in hand and strokes himself once, twice, eyes locked on hers. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” she breathes.
He pushes in, groaning when her hips lift to meet him. Her breath catches. Her eyes find mine.
I don’t look away. I won’t.
She’s not broken. She’s not fragile.
She’s strong. Gorgeous. And she belongs to us.
She’s beautiful like this—flushed and open, lips parted, one hand reaching for me without thinking. I take it, threading our fingers, grounding her while Silas sets a rhythm that makes her hips rock, her throat spilling sounds I want to hear again and again.
Her free hand cups my cheek, and I lean into the touch. I don’t kiss her yet. I wait. Let her feel the weight of it—of both of us.
Silas moves faster now, breath hitching every time she tightens around him. He murmurs something into her skin—praise, maybe, or a plea—and her body arches beneath him.
I reach out, palm grazing the slope of her breast, my thumb circling the peak. She moans, eyes fluttering shut. But only for a second.
“Eyes on me,” I command.
She obeys. And I feel it—the pull. The gravity of whatever this is. Whatever it’s becoming.
Beside me, Silas is watching, too. Not just her—me. There’s no competition in his stare. Just the same thing I’m feeling, mirrored back at me.
Want. And more than that—willingness.
He slows, shifts his angle, dragging another gasp from her lips. I bend to kiss her again, one hand braced against the couch, the other stroking her cheek as she starts to come undone.
And when she does—when her body trembles, her mouth parts on a broken moan, her fingers dig into my arm—I hold her through it.
We both do.
Silas’s voice cuts through the haze again. “Switch.”
He eases back, and I move forward without hesitation. Genevieve shifts beneath me, her chest rising and falling in sharp little gasps as I settle between her thighs. Her skin is flushed, damp with sweat, her lips parted. She’s watching me like she’s not sure what I’ll do next—but she trusts me to do it anyway.
I curl a hand around the back of her neck and kiss her. She melts into it, legs wrapping around my waist with a soft whimper that shoots straight through me. My cock is hard, aching, and when I drag the tip through the slick mess between her thighs, she shivers beneath me.
“Max,” she breathes.
I press my forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”
The first push in steals the air from my lungs. She’s warm. Tight. Still trembling. Her fingers grip my back as I sink deeper, as her head tips back against the arm of the couch and her mouth opens on a gasp. I hold still for a beat, teeth clenched, trying to keep control. Trying to remember that this is about her.
Her eyes flutter open, finding mine again. And whatever she sees there must settle something inside her, because she lifts her hips and urges me on.
I move.
Each thrust pulls another sound from her—soft, breathy, desperate—and I feel her fall apart under me in pieces. Silas is behind her now, one hand tangled in her hair, the other stroking her cheek. He’s watching me, but it’s not a challenge. It’s permission. Encouragement.
It’s the strangest thing—this unspoken rhythm between the three of us. Somehow it works. Somehow it fits.
Silas was right.
Genevieve’s nails bite into my shoulder as she arches, thighs trembling around my hips. Silas reaches between us and strokes her until she’s crying out again, body clenched around me so tight I almost lose it.
I don’t hold out much longer.
My hips stutter, and I bury my face in her neck as I come, bracing myself on one arm and whispering her name against her skin.
When it’s over, I stay there for a moment—wrapped in heat and sweat and her soft, uneven breaths—before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.
She looks wrecked. Beautiful. Mine.
Ours.
And I know, with a certainty that lands hard in my chest, that this is going to be something incredible.