Chapter 7 - Jennie
I can't believe this is happening.
Sitting across from Max in his sunlit apartment, watching him laugh as he tells me about the time he and Lewis accidentally set off the station alarm with an "experimental" chili recipe, I feel something I haven't felt in so long: normal. Happy. Safe.
His blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, and his relaxed posture makes it impossible not to smile back. I find myself studying the shape of his mouth, the stubble along his jaw, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead when he leans forward.
My coffee has gone cold, forgotten as our conversation flows from topic to topic—his favorite trails in the mountains surrounding Cedar Falls, my nursing career that I hope to return to someday, books we've both read, movies we both love. Simple things. Normal things that have nothing to do with fires, abusive exes, or running away.
Just two people getting to know each other.
Except there's nothing "just" about it. Every time he shifts in his chair, I can’t help but notice the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his hands, the way he occasionally glances at my lips when he thinks I'm not looking.
He's not making a move, respecting my request to take things slow, but there's a tension building between us that makes my skin flush and my pulse quicken.
It's been so long since I've felt this kind of attraction. So long since I've wanted someone to touch me, to see me—the real me, not the frightened woman running from her past. And Max does see me; I can feel it in the way he listens, really listens, when I speak.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring at him.
I blush, caught. "Nothing. Just... thinking."
"About?" His voice drops an octave, and I clench my thighs together.
"About how nice this is," I admit. "Being here. Talking with you."
"It is nice," he agrees, his eyes never leaving mine. "Really nice."
There's that tension again, like an invisible thread pulling us toward each other. I know he's waiting for me to set the pace, to define the boundaries of this fragile new thing between us. The ball is in my court, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I want to play instead of running from the game.
"Max?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
I look down at my hands, suddenly shy despite my certainty. "You can kiss me. If you want to."
When I glance up, his expression has transformed—surprise giving way to a slow, confident smile that makes my heart race.
"Glad you said so," he murmurs, already rising from his chair. "Because I've been thinking about it since you walked through my door."
He moves around the small table until he's standing before me, then extends his hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet, our bodies now just inches apart. His uninjured arm slides around my waist, drawing me closer still, while his other hand—freed from its sling—comes up to cup my cheek.
"You sure about this?" he asks, his thumb tracing my lower lip.
"Very," I breathe, already leaning into his touch.
His mouth meets mine with unexpected gentleness—a soft, questioning kiss that quickly deepens as I respond. My hands find his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt as his tongue teases the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I willingly grant.
The kiss transforms from sweet to hungry in seconds. Max's arm tightens around me, pulling me flush against him as my fingers tangle in his hair. It's been so long—so very long—since I've been kissed like this, like I'm precious and desirable and worth the slow exploration of lips and tongue and breath.
We break apart only when oxygen becomes necessary, both breathing hard. Max's eyes have darkened to a stormy blue, his pupils dilated with desire.
"You're incredible," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine.
"So are you," I reply, my voice unsteady with want.
His next kiss is deeper, more urgent, and I respond in kind, all thoughts of "slow" receding as heat builds between us. I let my hands roam over his broad shoulders, careful of his injury but eager to touch, to learn the contours of his body. He groans against my mouth when my fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt, finding warm skin and hard muscle.
"Jennie," he breathes, his lips leaving mine to trace a path along my jaw to the sensitive spot below my ear. "Tell me if this is too fast."
"It's not," I assure him, tilting my head to give him better access. "It's perfect."
His mouth trails down my neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake as his hand slides beneath my sweater, warm against my back.
"Can I—?" he starts, his fingers playing with the hem of my sweater.
"Yes," I answer immediately. "Please."
He lifts it slowly, giving me every opportunity to change my mind, but all I want is more—more of his hands on my skin, more of his mouth on mine, more of this connection that feels both new and somehow familiar, like coming home to a place I've never been.
My sweater joins his shirt on the floor, and we're moving through his apartment, a stumbling dance of desire that leads us to his couch. I should be self-conscious—my body has changed since having Amelia, curvier than before—but the way Max looks at me, like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, silences the cruel voice in my head that sounds too much like Derek.
"You're gorgeous," Max murmurs, his hands spanning my waist as he lowers me onto the couch. "So beautiful, Jennie."
He follows me down, careful to keep his weight off me, and claims my mouth again. I lose myself in the kiss, in the delicious friction of his bare chest against mine, in his throbbing bulge pressed against my thigh.
My hands explore the planes of his back, the definition of his shoulders, the narrow trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans.
When his palm cups my breast through my bra, I gasp against his mouth, arching into the contact. He takes the encouragement for what it is, his thumb brushing across the stiff nipples as his other hand works at the clasp.
"Max," I breathe, his name both plea and permission.
My bra falls away, and Max draws back just enough to look at me, appreciation clear in his gaze.
"Perfect," he says simply, before lowering his head to replace his hand with his mouth.
The sensation of his tongue against my sensitive skin sends electricity racing through me, pooling low in my belly.
His hand slides down my stomach to the button of my jeans, pausing there in silent question. I answer by lifting my hips, helping him as he slides the denim down my legs, leaving me in just my underwear. He stands to remove his own jeans, and I take in the sight of him—powerful thighs, the impressive bulge confined by his boxers, the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel.
When he rejoins me on the couch, his weight partially supported by his good arm, I can feel the restraint in his movements, the careful control he's maintaining for my sake.
"You don't have to be gentle," I tell him, surprising myself with my boldness. "I won't break."
Something flashes in his eyes—hunger, relief, desire—and his next kiss is passionate, more demanding. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me wet and ready through the thin fabric of my underwear. I moan into his mouth as his fingers circle, tease, press against me through the barrier.
"Need to feel you," he murmurs against my lips. "All of you."
"Yes," I agree breathlessly. "Please, Max."
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear, sliding them down and off in one smooth motion. Then he's standing again, removing his boxers, and I take in the sight of him fully naked—all strength and hard lines and obvious arousal.
"Turn around," he says, his voice rough with desire. "On your knees."
The command sends a thrill through me, and I comply eagerly, turning to kneel on the couch, my hands gripping the back as he positions himself behind me.
His hands slide up my sides, over my back, into my hair, and then between my thighs again, exploring, stroking, finding the slick evidence of my arousal.
"So wet for me," he murmurs, his fingers sliding inside me and stretching me gently. "So perfect."
I can feel his hard cock against my ass, the throbbing length pressing insistently as his fingers work me into a frenzy of need. When he finally withdraws, I whimper at the loss, but then he's positioning himself at my entrance, slowly pushing his thick cockhead inside.
"Max," I moan, the stretch and fullness overwhelming in the best possible way. "Oh god, yes."
He groans as he presses deeper, his hips flush against me, one hand gripping my hip while the other tangles in my hair, pulling gently to arch my back.
"You feel amazing," he says, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. "So tight, so hot."
Then he begins to move, setting a rhythm that starts slow but quickly builds as our bodies demand more. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through me, hitting spots that have never been touched quite like this before. I push back to meet him, wanting him deeper, harder, more.
He obliges, his pace increasing. The sound of skin smacking skin fills the room, along with our heavy breaths and moans. His hand in my hair tightens, pulling my head back as he leans forward to kiss my neck, my shoulder, and any part of me he can reach.
"So good," I gasp as a particularly deep thrust hits exactly right. "Right there, please don't stop."
"Not stopping," he promises, his movements becoming more urgent, less controlled. "Not ever. So perfect, Jennie. So beautiful taking me like this."
I can feel myself climbing toward my orgasm, every muscle tensing as I chase the release I desperately need.
"Close," I manage to say. "So close."
Max shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly I'm there—pleasure crashing through me in waves, my inner muscles clenching around him as I cry out his name. He follows me over the edge moments later, his cock pulsing inside me, his climax moan muffled against my shoulder.
For several heartbeats, we stay like that, connected and trembling with aftershocks. Then Max pulls out, helping me turn so that I'm sitting on the couch facing him. Without a word, he pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me as our breathing gradually returns to normal.
"That was..." I begin, but words fail me.
"Yeah," he agrees, understanding what I can't articulate. "It really was."
We sit in silence, my head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, maybe even regretful at how quickly things escalated. Instead, I feel... peaceful. Right. Like this was exactly where I was meant to be.
"Jennie," Max says finally, his voice soft but serious. "I want you to know that wasn't just... I mean, I don't want you to think that I..."
I lift my head to look at him, finding uncertainty in his expression that mirrors the jumble of emotions in my own heart.
"I know," I assure him. "It wasn't just sex for me, either."
“Good. Because I want this—us—to be something real. I want you, Jennie. Not just physically, though obviously that's pretty incredible too." His smile makes my heart flutter. "I want all of it. The romantic, the sexual, the everyday stuff. I want to see where this can go."
The sincerity in his eyes and his expression's openness fills me with a hope I'd almost forgotten how to feel.
"I want that too," I admit. "But we do need to take some things slow, especially where Amelia is concerned. She's been through so much change already."
"I understand completely," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "We'll go at whatever pace works for both of you. No pressure, no expectations. Just... possibility."
"Possibility," I repeat, liking the sound of it. "I think I can work with that."
He pulls me closer for a gentle kiss, one that speaks of tenderness rather than passion. When we part, his smile is soft, intimate. "Just so we're clear, though—I'm definitely interested in repeating what we just did. Frequently. Enthusiastically. In various locations and positions."
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in months. "I think that can be arranged."
As we settle back against the couch, my body pleasantly sore and utterly satisfied, I allow myself to imagine a future here in Cedar Falls. A future with Max, with stability for Amelia, with the kind of happiness I'd stopped believing was possible for someone like me.
It won't be simple. There will be challenges, adjustments, moments of doubt. Derek still casts a long shadow, and Max has his own demons to wrestle. But sitting here in his arms, I find myself ready to try—ready to build something new from the ashes of what came before.
"What are you thinking about?" Max asks, his fingers playing with my hair.
I smile up at him, unwilling to burden this perfect moment with heavier thoughts. "That I'm glad I came to Cedar Falls."
"Me too," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Really, really glad."
And in that moment, I believe that maybe—just maybe—we're both exactly where we're supposed to be.