Chapter Twenty-Five Gemma
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gemma
I arrive at exactly nine. Max buzzes me up and by the time I reach his apartment, I find him leaning against his doorframe. Gone is his expensive suit and in its place, he’s wearing low-slung gray joggers—help me, God—and a tight black t-shirt.
His hair is damp and pushed back, his skin glowing.
He’s so effortlessly handsome it’s annoying.
“Gemma,” he coos.
I prowl toward him, my heels clicking. “Max.”
“Let me take your coat.” He extends his hand, and I peel off my jacket.
He inhales sharply when he sees what I’m wearing—a pleated navy mini skirt and a matching navy lace bodysuit. London’s weather doesn’t dictate my clothing choices. He accepts the coat, hangs it up, and leads me inside.
Like last time, I drift toward the wide stretch of windows and take in the cityscape. It’s breathtaking. Clouds roll like smoke and city lights twinkle through the dark. The outlines of distant buildings blur into the inky sky.
“Would you like some wine?” he offers, heading for the kitchen.
I turn to him. “Please.”
He nods, fetching two long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of red, serving an indulgent pour.
“Cheers,” he says, lifting his glass to mine, and we clink them together.
“Cheers,” I say, taking a small sip.
We study each other, as if we’re both waiting for the other to make the first move. He smirks.
“So, how long have you had the apartment?” I ask, looking around.
“Four years. I bought it after the divorce.”
Something cold settles in my chest at the mention of his past marriage, catching me completely off guard.
The way he presents himself—so calm, cool, and collected—screams fierce independence. It’s difficult to imagine him surrendering that autonomy to someone, caring enough about them to promise forever.
I’m not quite sure how the thought of Max loving someone that deeply makes me feel. Surprised, sure. But also… thrown. It challenges everything I thought I knew about him and makes me want to dig deeper.
“Has it been left empty all this time?” I ask. It looks like his furniture. Sleek, modern, leather, and stone. Soft-focus lighting. This place suits him—well, what I know to be him.
He takes a sip. “I rented it out on a month-to-month basis.”
“So, you kicked them out to come back for two months?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He shakes his head. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a total prick. They moved out a couple months ago. I knew I was coming back, so I didn’t bother finding another tenant.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I’ll relist it when I go back home.”
Home. Right. To New York. That brings me right back to reality.
He assesses me quietly.
“What?” I ask, the question coming out harsher than intended.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“That you’re in a better mood than you were this morning,” I say.
He chuckles, lowering his wine. “I am. I like having you here.”
“Is that so?” I ask, taking a sip to hide my widening smile.
His lips press together to hide his own. “It is.”
“And what exactly do you plan on doing with me?” I ask, batting my lashes like I’m innocent, as if I’m not already soaked with anticipation.
“Tease,” he murmurs, smiling like a devil.
I arch a brow and wait for more, keeping my expression cool.
He sets his glass on the marble with a quiet clink, then braces both palms against the counter, leaning in. My gaze darts to his muscles that flex at the movement.
“What I plan to do, Gemma,” he says, his voice lethal, “is tear off that pathetic little excuse for an outfit”—he then jerks his chin toward the massive sofa across the room—“spread you open on that sofa, and make you come so hard on my tongue you forget your own name.”
My pulse accelerates like a drumbeat. I set my glass down.
“Then,” he continues, slowly rounding the island bench and walking me backward.
“I’m going to lie down on that same sofa, flat on my back, and you’re going to crawl up and straddle my face—reverse.
” He emphasizes the word. “Arse in the air, that pretty little pussy on my face, and you’re going to suck my cock. ”
My throat dries.
“I’m going to tongue-fuck you until you’re dripping down my chin and you’ll suck me like the good girl I know you can be, and swallow everything I give you.
” A devilish smile splits his face as my knees hit the back of the sofa, and I fall into the cushions.
“I wonder how many times I can make you scream my name.”
God help me, I want to find out.
Max leans in close, his face inches from mine. “You like control, don’t you, Gemma?” His breath is warm against the shell of my ear. “But you’re going to give it up for me. Do you want to know why?”
“Why?” I breathe, focusing on the giant tent in his trousers.
“Because you know I eat pussy better than anyone ever has.”
Lust claws at me. I part my legs for him to step between my thighs, which are already trembling like jelly at his filthy words.
Damn, he’s good at this.
“So far, Max,” I purr, “you’re all talk.”
He laughs. “You know I’m not.”
“Then get on your knees and prove it,” I demand.
His stare doesn’t waver as he lowers himself to his knees and runs his hands up my thighs at a punishing pace. When he reaches my skirt, he finds the zipper at the side, and drags it down, the fabric loosening around my hips. He peels the skirt down my legs and tosses it over his shoulder.
My bodysuit has two buttons that clip together at the crotch, and he pops them open, rucking the lace up over my stomach.
I’m fully exposed, and the cool air kisses my slick skin, alerting me to just how wet and ready I am.
“Fuck, Gemma,” he growls, hooking his hands under my knees and dragging me forward until my arse nearly hangs off the sofa. “You’re glistening.”
I tilt my pelvis slightly and bite my lip to keep from begging.
He doesn’t waste time, burying his face between my legs with a guttural groan. His mouth latches onto me like he’s starved, tongue licking a long strip before plunging deep inside my pussy.
“God, yes,” I cry, my head tipping back, my spine arching off the cushions.
His hands pin my thighs apart.
“Hold your legs up for me,” he commands.
I obey, replacing his hands with my own. I’m completely spread, shaking and uncaring that he can see all of me.
He pulls away, lips shining, eyes blazing. Then, he delivers a sharp slap right to my pussy, making me jolt.
I cry out, the sting shooting straight through my core.
“You like that,” he says, his voice thick like treacle. Before I can answer, he does it again—another smack right against my clit.
The pain is there, but it’s perfect. My breath shudders and I swear I grow wetter.
His smile is dangerous as he leans in again, lapping firm circles around my clit as two fingers push deep inside.
When he bends them just right and rubs the spot that makes my vision blur, I unravel.
Moaning, I babble a string of incoherent praise as he does exactly what he promised—eats my pussy better than anyone ever has.
His fingers don’t stop, alternating between scissoring and stroking that perfect pressure point, dragging every last drop of pleasure from me.
My fingers itch to pull at his hair and bury his head even deeper, but I’m helpless as I hold myself wide, utterly at his mercy.
Heat builds in my core, and I know I won’t last much longer. It feels too good. “Max,” I whimper.
He hums, and the vibration finally sets me off. My orgasm slams through me. I convulse around his fingers, mouth open in a soundless gasp. And still, he doesn’t stop. His tongue drags through every ripple of my release, drinking me up.
Finally, his fingers slow. My chest rises and falls like I’ve run a marathon. I gasp for breath.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.
He pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s just finished his favorite meal.
I release my legs and wince at the discomfort of being in that position for so long—not that I’m complaining.
He places a kiss on my inner thigh, and the tenderness rattles me.
“Still all talk?” he asks, his tone smug.
And the tenderness is gone.
I scoff. “Just take off your pants, already.”
He stands, shoving his joggers down his legs and yanking his shirt over his head.
I’m already moving, shifting down and pushing him back until his shoulders hit the sofa cushions. I climb over him slowly, facing away, and lower myself until my knees are on either side of his head.
His hands grip my arse cheeks, dragging me down to his mouth like he’s hungry all over again.
His cock is long, hard, thick and twitching against his stomach, waiting for me.
At the sight of its glory, I don’t make him wait long.
I wrap a hand around the base and drag my tongue up his length, tasting him. Salt and musk. He jerks beneath me, latching onto my pussy. We moan at the same time, finding relief in each other.
I take him into my mouth, my tongue curling around the tip before sucking with purpose.
He grunts, loudly, his mouth working between my thighs.
My hips rock against his face, each flick of his tongue making it harder to focus.
I push myself to take more, relaxing my throat to choke down another inch.
The sounds we make are unrestrained and wild, totally primitive.
He laps at my clit. I moan around his cock.
His hips buck. I swallow him deeper.
We lose ourselves in each other, locking in a sweaty, filthy, perfect rhythm.
He begins to swell in my grip, and I know he’s getting close. He twitches in my mouth, so I stroke him with fever—sucking, licking, and swirling him into a frenzy.
“Fuck, Gemma,” he growls into me. The vibrations he makes against my most sensitive parts spark my next orgasm. “You’re gonna make me come.”
His finger teases my arsehole and my back arches, my moan strangled around his cock. And just like that, I fall apart with a sob. My body locks up, every muscle clenching as I whimper around his length.
The feel of me coming on his face must tip him over, because seconds later, a primal sound tears from his throat and his cock jerks against my tongue.
Hot, thick liquid fills my mouth, and I swallow around him, sucking him through it while he keeps lapping at my pussy.
We’re both panting.
He unlatches his mouth. “Fuck. I think I blacked out.”
I lick my lips and smile. “Well done, Browne,” I say breathlessly, adjusting myself so I face him. “Not bad.”
He huffs a laugh.
I stand, gather my scraps of clothing, and pad over to my coat.
He sits up in the same spot I left him last night.
“You’re leaving again?” His voice is dangerously low.
Shrugging on my coat, I swing open his front door. “Yep. Same time next week?”
His answering growl is all I hear before I slam it shut.
I’ll take that as a yes.