Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
MAX
I'm going to hell.
That's the only coherent thought in my head as I kiss Claire Harris like she's oxygen and I've been drowning for ten years.
Because I have been. Drowning in guilt and grief and the weight of a promise I made to a dying man. And now his daughter is in my arms, her lips soft and sweet against mine, and I can't make myself stop.
I don't want to stop.
She makes a sound against my mouth. A whimper that shoots straight to my cock and obliterates what's left of my self control. My hands slide into her hair, those gorgeous coils wrapping around my fingers as I tilt her head back and deepen the kiss.
She tastes like coffee and something sweeter. Like everything I've denied myself for years. Like home.
"Max." She breathes my name against my lips, and the sound of it nearly breaks me.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Swollen lips. Flushed cheeks. Those dark eyes heavy with desire.
Marcus's eyes.
The guilt tries to rise up, tries to choke me. I shove it down ruthlessly.
She's not Marcus. She's not a child. She's a woman who drove two thousand miles to find me, who sat with me on this cold floor while I fought my way out of a flashback, who looks at me like I'm worth something despite all evidence to the contrary.
"Tell me to stop," I rasp. "Last chance, Claire. Because once I start, I won't be able to."
Her answer is to grab the front of my shirt and pull me back down.
The kiss turns feral. I'm on my knees now, then on my feet, pulling her up with me. My hands find her hips, her waist, the curve of her ass through that soft dress. She fits against me perfectly, her head tilted back, her body arching into mine.
"Bedroom," she gasps between kisses.
I don't need to be told twice.
I walk her backward, my mouth never leaving hers. We stumble over something. A book, maybe. I don't care. Don't care about anything except getting her horizontal beneath me as fast as humanly possible.
The bed catches the back of her knees and she falls, pulling me down on top of her. The weight of my body presses her into the mattress and she moans, her legs wrapping around my hips like she was made to be there.
"Fuck." The word rips out of me as I grind against her. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel her heat. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
"How long?"
"Since you walked into my shop." I kiss along her jaw, down the column of her throat. "Since you looked at me with those eyes and I realized you weren't a little girl anymore."
"I haven't been a little girl for a long time, Max."
"I know." I find the spot where her pulse races and scrape my teeth across it. "That's the problem."
She arches beneath me, her fingers digging into my shoulders. "No more talking about problems. No more talking at all."
"Bossy."
"You have no idea."
A laugh escapes me. Genuine and unexpected. When was the last time I laughed during sex? When was the last time I laughed at all?
Then her hands find the hem of my shirt and all traces of humor evaporate.
She pulls it over my head and her eyes go wide. I know what she's seeing. The scars that map my torso like a roadmap of violence. The tribal tattoo sleeve that documents missions I'll never speak of. The body of a man who has seen too much and survived anyway.
"Max." Her voice is soft. Reverent.
She traces a scar along my ribs with one finger. Another along my shoulder. A third across my chest.
"Does it bother you?" I ask roughly.
"You're beautiful."
The words crack something open inside me. Something I've kept locked away for longer than I can remember.
I kiss her again. Softer this time. Trying to pour into it everything I can't say with words.
Then I start peeling off her dress.
The fabric slides up her thighs, over her hips, past the soft curve of her belly. She lifts her arms and I pull it over her head, tossing it somewhere behind me.
She's wearing a simple cotton bra. White with a tiny bow between the cups. It's the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"I'm appreciating." I trace the edge of the fabric with one finger. Watch her shiver. "I want to take my time with you. Memorize every inch."
"We have time."
"Do we?"
The question carries more weight than I intend. Because I don't know what this is. Don't know what we're doing or where it leads or how I'll face myself in the morning.
All I know is that right now, in this moment, she's mine.
I unclasp her bra with hands that aren't quite steady. Pull it away and let it fall. Her breasts are perfect. Small and round, nipples already peaked from the cold or from want. I lower my head and take one into my mouth.
She cries out. Her back arches off the bed, pressing more of herself against my tongue. I suck and lick and graze my teeth over the sensitive peak until she's writhing beneath me.
"Max, please."
"Please what?"
"More. I need more."
I switch to her other breast, giving it the same attention while my hand travels south. Over her stomach, past the waistband of her underwear, to the heat between her thighs.
She's soaking wet.
"Jesus, Claire." I groan against her skin. "You're drenched."
"It's your fault."
"Damn right it is."
I slide one finger inside her and she gasps. Tight. So fucking tight. I add a second finger and start to move, slow and deliberate, learning the rhythm that makes her gasp and moan.
"You feel incredible," I murmur against her throat. "So hot and wet. I could do this for hours."
"Please don't." She grabs my wrist, stilling my hand. "I want you inside me. Now."
"Patience."
"I've been patient for three days. I've been patient for ten years." Her eyes lock onto mine, blazing with need. "I'm done being patient."
Something snaps inside me.
I rear back and strip off my jeans. Then her underwear, tossed aside with hands that shake from the effort of not simply taking. She's spread out before me like an offering. Dark skin against white sheets. Curves and valleys and secrets I'm desperate to explore.
"You're fucking mine," I growl as I settle between her thighs. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Max. Only yours."
The words unlock something primal. I notch myself at her entrance and push inside in one long stroke.
We both cry out.
She's tight around me. Impossibly tight. Her inner walls grip me like a fist as I struggle to hold still, to give her time to adjust.
"Move," she demands. "Please, Max. Move."
I pull back and thrust forward. Hard. She gasps and wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper.
We find a rhythm. Slow at first, then faster as desperation takes over. The headboard slams against the wall. The bed creaks beneath us. None of it matters. Nothing matters except the feel of her beneath me, around me, taking everything I have to give.
"Look at me," I command.
Her eyes flutter open. Dark and endless, filled with something that terrifies me.
I keep my gaze locked on hers as I drive into her again and again. Watch her fall apart beneath me. Watch her rebuild and shatter once more.
"Come for me," I grit out. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
She shatters.
Her whole body seizes, inner walls clamping down on me so tight I see stars. She cries out my name, and the sound of it on her lips pushes me over the edge.
I bury myself to the hilt and let go.
The orgasm tears through me like wildfire. I empty myself inside her with a groan that comes from somewhere deep and primal. Somewhere I didn't know still existed.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
I'm still inside her. Still on top of her. Our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing ragged.
Then she laughs.
It's a soft sound. Delighted and satisfied and so purely Claire that my chest aches.
"What's funny?" I ask.
"Nothing." She traces patterns on my shoulder blade. "I just never imagined it would be like that."
"Like what?"
She smiles up at me. That smile that's so like Marcus's and yet entirely her own.
"Like coming home."
The words should terrify me. Should send me running for the hills like I've been running for ten years.
Instead, I lower my head and kiss her softly.
Because she's right.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel like I've finally come home.