Chapter 31
31
Max
If Grey hadn’t used her name, Max would have sworn he’d been signalling someone else. But there he was – half in her universe, half inside another one: the entrance to a room she’d never been in but knew, from the plans they’d studied this afternoon, was the mud room.
Max had no idea what a mud room was or why a house would need one. But Grey gestured for her to follow him. Although, for all she knew, it was the killer, smelling just like him. She would follow him anywhere.
To her death.
This was a major fucking problem.
A mud room – a Barbarani mud room, at least – turned out to be a narrow space lined with dark oak shelves the colour of red wine. A few coats and scarves hung there, next to a pair of riding boots; who they belonged to, Max didn’t know.
She drew a deep breath to steady her galloping heart as Grey latched the door behind them. Smells of earth and leather washed over her along with something dry and grassy – something she’d smelled in riding stables at farm-stays with her parents, years and lifetimes ago.
Was this about what Giovanni had said? Max had to admire Grey’s composure after Giovanni’s mini-rage at him. It didn’t sit well with her – it had been a total overreaction, hadn’t it? And why was Giovanni so hard on Grey and not Jett or any of the others? Why did he expect so much from him? If this was all Grey had ever experienced when it came to family, other than his dad, then his neurotic personality was somewhat explained. His need to control everything, to fix everything, to be in charge – you got that way from not being able to control anything. Max knew that from experience. But was it also from never feeling like he measured up? From always being told to jump and every time he reached the bar, have it shoved another foot higher above him? How did that mess a person up?
‘That’s enough, Maxella.’
She’d turned to examine the hanging jodhpurs, just for something to do that wasn’t staring directly at him. She hadn’t realised how close he was. It wasn’t leather she was smelling anymore, but Christmas paper and sandalwood and whatever that goddamn cherry cologne was that should be on the Restricted Goods list at airports. ‘What do you—’
‘Start saying what you mean,’ he said, his gaze above her head, ‘and stop trying to communicate it in other ways.’
‘What other ways?’
His eyes snapped to her. Well, to her chest. ‘Nella has ten thousand dresses, and this is the one you chose?’
A weight dropped below her naval; her skin prickled but it wasn’t from cold. She doubted she’d ever feel cold again. ‘There’s a potential killer out there,’ she said, twisting so she didn’t have to look at him, or so he didn’t see her cheeks heat, or her nipples taut through the stupid thin material of Nella’s stupid red dress, ‘and your main concern is my dress?’
‘No.’ His voice was closer than she’d thought. She turned back and her traitorous nipples grazed against the onyx suede of his jacket. ‘My main concern should be the killer.’
He raised an arm and placed it on the wall above her head, her back against the hard, oak wood of the storage cupboard. ‘My focus needs to be the Barbaranis,’ he said.
Her heart was a bruised fist punching her rib cage. It physically hurt to be this close to him.
‘But I cannot’—he leant down, his eyes dark pools of liquor she was already drunk on—‘focus.’
Closer.
‘Maxella.’ Her name was a caress, but his eyes were glaring, his hand, unfurled from a controlled fist above her, now grazing the thin silk strap of Nella’s dress. But his skin didn’t touch hers.
Her shivering, treacherous body let out a shaky exhale.
‘It’s not the dress,’ he said. All she had of him was his smoky, spiced scent. ‘It’s everything I know is underneath the dress.’ His hand moved from the strap and her skin singed from the shock of his touch. Not on her flesh, but through the silk, his fingers tracing an impossibly delicate line down the curve of her hip.
She could no longer convince herself this wasn’t happening. She could no longer convince herself she didn’t want it to be. He was eroding her with every breath, with every inch he closed between them, her sandcastle fortress that she’d always thought was made of stone, disintegrated in the pull of his tide. A final, whispered defence: ‘You can’t have it both ways, Grey—’ She swallowed.
‘That’s the problem, Max ,’ he said, cutting her off. His fingers stilled. ‘I want it every way.’ His mouth crashed against hers with such force her head knocked back against the oak board. Even that didn’t feel like enough. She should shove him away, stop it. Instead she grabbed his belt and tugged his hips flush against hers. The hardness pushing into her stomach should terrify her, but instead it flooded her with a terrifying new power – a dangerous magic she was never meant to wield. ‘ Max .’
If he was playing her, he was going to win an Oscar.
His tongue was hot and hungry, tasting, testing. She retaliated with the same force, her nails scraping through the short hair on the back of his head – the friction of even that sending shudders through her. He moved to her neck, burrowing in the crook of her, her head thunking back. She was unable to stop the moan escaping; his lips caught the vibration in her throat and tremors of gold sparks shot through her bloodstream at the sensation.
‘I just need to get you out of my system,’ his angry mouth spoke against her neck, teeth grazing the vulnerable veins and arteries she willingly exposed. This vampire would drain her of everything she’d once been, leaving her an empty shell when he tossed her aside.
But she didn’t care.
Because right now, nothing mattered, nothing existed except Greyson Hawke’s mouth on hers and his hands, no longer against the wall but gripping her hips so tight it should be painful. But it wasn’t. This was the best kind of prison. Trapped between the mud room wall and Grey’s body, she widened her stance to bring him closer. He cupped her arse, kneading her flesh and needing her mouth with an intensity she’d never imagined could exist within the stoic, critical man before her.
Big hands gripping her thighs, he helped her wrap her legs around him and she tugged him tight against her, grinding herself against him, extracting a sound from him that made her skin prickle with hallucinogenic want. The straps of Nella’s dress had fallen to the middle of her arms. With a mere brush of his thumb, the rest of the material fell away and the way he looked at her exposed breasts made her want to scream, because it was a look she knew didn’t belong to her, and could never be hers. It wasn’t even her dress he was ripping off.
But when he took her breast into his mouth and bit down hard enough for her to cover her mouth to stop her moan from escaping, she forgot every other feeling besides this . She dug her nails deeper into his scalp as he nipped and sucked, her head leaning back against the wall in a futile attempt to ground herself. She remembered how that mouth had curved with such disdain in her direction when they’d first met. Now it was full of her scorching flesh and it didn’t seem to ever be satisfied.
‘It took every ounce of self-control to not do this when you first showed them to me,’ he murmured, his lips tracing delicate, brutal patterns across her skin.
‘I never showed them to you. I was proving a point.’
‘You definitely proved a point,’ he growled before taking her in his mouth again.
‘ Hawke! ’ God, she didn’t want it to stop but she was burning.
‘What do you want?’
She wished he hadn’t asked. She wished he’d just taken it and then she could convince herself later she’d been caught up in the moment, that she wasn’t as culpable. Guilty by association. ‘I want you to fuck me or fuck off.’
A pin from a grenade – her words ripped his mouth from her and she wanted to scream out that she didn’t mean it, that she’d be satisfied with just this – forever – as long as his mouth was on her. Somehow, she was back on solid ground, but he was still gripping her thigh, keeping her upright, otherwise she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold herself up. The hand not holding her tore through the silk of the dress, his fingers leaving marks she’d never be able to erase – tattoos no one else would ever know were there. As soon as his fingers grazed the soft, satiny part of her upper thigh she knew the game was up – she couldn’t hide how wet she was behind a sarcastic barb or cold indifference. She couldn’t hide how much she wanted him.
But he didn’t give the self-satisfied smile she’d expected. As soon as his finger slipped through the band of her underwear and he felt her, his eyes went black and she knew they’d crossed over to a place they couldn’t come back from.
‘Stop messing with me,’ she said against his jaw, which despite him having shaved, was still coarse and brutally light against her lips.
He shook his head – not enough – his lips pressing into the curve of her neck, his fingers circling, tracing but not inside her yet.
‘Please,’ she hissed. ‘Goddamn it. Please .’
The second please was barely off her lips before he thrust one, two fingers inside and Max could have sworn another bomb exploded, but this time it was in her.
Every stroke was a flame of fire. She tried to hold on, to tether herself to some sort of reality, but this feeling did not belong to her, did not belong on the ground. His fingers knew her places like she was screaming them to him, his breath hot and heavy on her neck as he worked her into oblivion.
‘Grey ...’ Her limbs shuddered at the thought of those lips on her completely.
Still inside her, he collapsed to his knees. ‘I need you.’ His gravel voice made her head spin. ‘All of you. Now. Lift this fucking dress.’
She gladly gripped the rumpled silk, nails piercing through to her skin as he pushed her legs apart. How was she meant to hold herself up when her body could barely cope with the soft graze of his jaw against her ...
She clamped a hand over her mouth, half the dress cascading from her grip. She tasted blood as she bit down against the liquid flames coursing through her at every stroke of his tongue. Nails digging into his hair, she shuddered as he moaned into her, hungry for more, like he’d never be satisfied. Her own body unable to control the way it sparked at every nip, every taste ...
Fuck.
She was going to come and she hadn’t even felt all of him. Her body ruptured, spears of light shattering her pieces ... ‘Not yet, Grey ...’
He gripped her hips again, spinning her roughly so her front was against the wall. His jaw grazed the back of her neck, his breath tickling her, his lips barely skimming her neck. She could smell herself on him. Something primal inside her roared.
‘You said you imagined this was how I fucked.’ She felt the pressure of him against her arse and she arched back into him as he said, ‘Is this what you want?’
‘I’m not going to beg again,’ she said but the wanting in her voice was too strong. She couldn’t put up any more walls between them.
‘But I like it when you beg.’ He pushed her legs apart; the dress didn’t need much more convincing to hike up her arse. ‘Makes it seem like you don’t hate me.’
‘I can still hate you and want you to bend me over and fuck me.’
I don’t think I hate you. I don’t think I hate you at all. I think I ...
She felt him smirk into her shoulder as his hands worked up her front – over the curve of her stomach to the dress’s neckline. Her breasts fell into his palms, and the sound he made as his rough thumbs grazed her nipples was enough to send her over the edge.
Not yet. If this was all she’d have of Greyson Hawke – up against a mud room wall – she wanted to prolong it as long as possible.
‘ Christ , Maxella! You have no idea what you do to me.’
She had some idea. She curved her back, the hardness of him between her cheeks, and twisted to meet his mouth with hers as he ground her into the wall. ‘Show me then.’ She tried to turn to help him with his belt but he pushed her forward, her fists against the wall.
‘You might be too short for this, Conrad.’ The clink of a belt buckle. A zipper growled.
‘I’m not.’
‘Always has to be an argument, doesn’t it?’ His pants were off – she could feel him completely now against her cheeks, the tip of him wet.
‘Hurry up !’
‘You might need to stand on a box ...’
‘I thought you were good at following orders?’
‘Is that what this is, Conrad?’ he whispered, his cock pressing against a part of her she didn’t even know could be turned on. ‘Is this an order?’
She rose to her tiptoes, biting her lip to stop the whimper escaping. ‘Yes, it’s a goddamn order !’
His hands left her. Her stomach plummeted but then she heard a tiny tear of foil and the snap of the condom. Everything burned where he wasn’t touching her. Would her skin ever be able to bear the absence of him? She looked back at him, maybe just to convince herself it really was him or that she wasn’t just masturbating in the dark. Fuck – he really was so much taller than her.
And large. In every sense.
He must have clocked the doubt in her face. His fingers stroked her, thumb rolling her clit. Her legs shook, everything trembled. ‘I’ll find a way to make it work – I’ve been imagining this since we first met, so I’ve had a lot of practice.’
‘Shut up , Greyson.’ She pressed back into him, grinding up and down his length.
With a growl, whatever resolve he had left snapped and he pushed her back into the wall. ‘Bend over,’ he ordered.
She didn’t need to be told twice. She bit her lip as he pushed inside her – not because it was painful, but because she was going to scream with pleasure at finally being filled by him. His movements started slow, his hands gripping her arse. As he gained momentum she met each thrust with her hips, the movement driving him deeper, blackening her vision.
It wasn’t meant to feel like this. It was meant to be quick and sweaty and laced with shame and regret. But this, although it wasn’t tender or loving, was filling her with a burning, golden light she’d never allowed in before.
The light sparked as he pumped harder, her palms flat against the wall, her hair cascading down between her arms.
She shouldn’t look.
He buried his face into her clavicle and her arms reached up instinctively to cradle him, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling him into her.
Greyson Hawke – turned on, vulnerable, only for her – was the last of her grip. The light shattered through her bones, shredding her open from the inside. She let go, his lips searing against her neck, her body spasming from her untethering.
She was left with the debris of two impossible thoughts.
She would never come back.
She had to tell him about the note.