Chapter Twenty-Eight Gemma
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gemma
The door swings open to reveal—holy shit—Max. And he looks good. Similar to last week, he’s in a pair of gray joggers but this time wears a fitted white t-shirt that molds perfectly to his washboard abs and muscular biceps. He isn’t wearing shoes or socks.
“Hello, Gemma,” his velvety voice purrs.
The scent of his cologne settles over me, making him even more alluring.
“Hi,” I reply, my advanced education shining through with my complex response.
His wolfish glare threatens to set my panties aflame. He steps aside for me to enter. I’ve seen his apartment before, obviously, but the view will never get old. I cross through the living area to the wall of windows.
“I wouldn’t leave this spot if this were my view. It’s breathtaking,” I say.
“It is,” he says, his hungry eyes boring into mine. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Please,” I respond.
I follow him to the kitchen where he carefully pours two healthy glasses of red. I accept the glass, clinking against his in a silent cheers before taking a sip.
“This is delicious. Thank you.” I lick a drop from my lower lip.
He tracks the movement. “You’re welcome.”
I perch on a barstool, putting the island between us. He leans against the counter opposite, casually crossing one leg over the other. I watch the way his joggers hang low on his hips.
Seeing him like this—relaxed, at ease, a glass of wine in hand—is positively intoxicating.
“So, it’s been a few weeks—how have you enjoyed being back in London?” I ask, forcing myself to make conversation. We’ll be in each other’s company at April’s engagement dinner tomorrow night, after all.
Usually, I approach my dates with the simple agenda of sussing them out over a glass of wine, unzipping, getting off, and grabbing an Uber home.
I never bring them back to my flat—that’s my sacred space.
But between work and our arrangement, Max and I see each other regularly now, and what can I say?
I’m curious about the man behind the giant cock.
He lifts a brow, as if my question surprises him. “It’s good to be back. Though I’ll admit, seeing my family again hit me harder than anticipated. I feel like I’m missing out on time with them. Especially Anna.”
His vulnerability catches me off guard.
“I get that,” I say, nodding. “I know Anna has missed you. She’s really happy you’re back. Maybe you can visit more once the hotel is open.”
The corner of his lips twitch. “Maybe.” He shifts his stance, eyes studying me in a way that feels far too intimate. “How is the campaign going?”
“I’m looking into the private collections at the new Contemporary Art Gallery. I think I’ve found one with lots of beautiful paintings that would work perfectly with the hotel’s aesthetic. The collection belongs to a young Lord Harrington.”
“I’ve heard of him,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Of course you have. You rich people flock together. Is there some sort of secret society that us plebs don’t know about where you all sit around in a circle, jerking each other off and comparing offshore accounts?”
He laughs. The sound rich and sexy. “Not that I’m aware of. I’ve heard about him through Grayson.”
“Ah, the billionaire. That makes sense,” I say, taking another sip.
“The Harringtons come from old money, so it doesn’t surprise me that they have private collections. Most do.”
“The gallery manager gave me his contact details,” I say.
“Excellent. We can go see him together.”
“With Henry. He mentioned he was going to talk to you about it soon,” I add.
“No. Just us,” he says, his voice dropping. His tone leaves no room for argument.
Okay, then.
He sets his wine down and steps around the kitchen island into my personal space, planting a palm on the counter next to me. “I must admit, I’m finding it very difficult to focus on art right now.”
I wet my bottom lip, tipping my head back to watch him. “Really? Then what is it you’re focusing on right now?”
“I think you know exactly what has my attention, Gemma.”
His eyes dip to the hollow of my throat. Mine dip to his very obvious erection.
“Let me take your coat,” he offers.
“Thank you,” I say, standing to turn my back to his chest. I slowly shrug it off my shoulders, revealing my emerald lingerie underneath. A smile flits across my lips upon his low growl behind me.
“Christ, Gemma. If I’d known you were wearing that, I wouldn’t have bothered with the wine.”
“Good boys wait,” I reply.
“I can assure you, I’m not a good boy.” He tosses my coat over the back of the barstool.
His fingertips skate across my collarbone and down my arm in a lazy exploration, leaving goose bumps in their wake. The simple touch melts my insides. All my senses are heightened. Suddenly, he drops his hand and steps back.
“Turn around. Slowly,” he instructs.
Watching Max’s perfect composure crack at the sight of my body makes me feel invincible. His stare is ravenous, eating up every inch of me. I may be the one standing bare while he’s still dressed, but I’ve never felt more in command.
Women will always hold all the power.
I turn around slowly, giving him a full 360-degree view of my body. When my gaze finally lands on his stormy eyes, the flimsy material between my legs dampens. This man looks like he’s struggling to restrain his urgency for me.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Tempting little thing.”
“Who, me?” I ask, my voice innocent.
“You’re a troublemaker,” he says, stepping closer. “Do you know what happens to troublemakers?”
“I’m hoping you’ll show me.”
“Mmm…” He hums in appreciation, tracing the delicate strap of my bra with his thumb and forefinger.
His knuckles follow a path from my shoulder down to my breast, sending shivers across my skin.
My nipple stiffens as he leans in, peppering soft kisses along my jawline.
I close my eyes, my head falling back as a sound of contentment escapes my lips.
“Tell me,” he murmurs against my skin, his fingers traveling down my stomach. “If I touch you, will I find you wet?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Your doorman is just really hot. I can’t help it. Sorry.”
He laughs against my neck as his fingers toy with the elastic of my thong.
“Take this off,” he whispers.
I oblige, carefully stepping out of the lacy thong and dropping it to the floor.
He continues dotting kisses along my throat, alternating between soft and gentle, then a scrape of teeth, as his hand dips lower. I hold my breath, my body tensing as his fingers finally run over my wet center.
When he makes contact with my slit, the groan that escapes him is nothing short of wild.
“Fuck,” he says, collecting my juices on his fingers. I watch with hooded eyes as he lifts his hand to suck my liquid off. His nostrils flare and my pussy throbs at the sight.
“All I’ve been able to think about since last week is how good you taste,” he says.
I bite my bottom lip. He dips his hand back to my core, circling my needy clit before collecting more wetness.
This time when he lifts his hand, it’s my mouth he’s offering a taste to.
Silently, I lean forward and wrap my lips around his fingers.
I begin circling my tongue, taking him deeper into the back of my throat.
I clench my thighs when his breath becomes labored, his eyes darkening as he watches me.
When I finally release his fingers with a soft pop, his chest rises and falls rapidly.
A small bead of pre-cum wets the crotch of his joggers. I reach for his cock, but he shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says, staring down at me and gripping my jaw. “Understand?”
Even in my heels, he towers over me. I lift my brow, considering whether to defy him for a split second. I’ll play along. For now.
“Yes.”
“Good girl,” he says, cradling my head and crashing his lips against mine.
I moan as his tongue runs along the seam of my mouth, and I open for him.
His touch is gentle, but his kiss is savage.
He tastes like expensive wine and whisky.
Every sweep of his tongue and press of fingers against my skin threatens to unravel me. His touch scorches me with need.
He reaches around me to unclasp my bra, and it falls to the floor. Weighing my heavy breasts in his palms, he begins to knead.
I place one leg between his thick thighs. He slightly bends his knee, an invitation I accept, rubbing my core against his leg. I fuck his thigh shamelessly. He grunts and groans as my arousal soaks the fabric of his joggers.
I circle my hips and grind, feeling the cotton rub against my delicate skin in the most delicious way. But it’s not enough. I need more. His hand slides down to cup my arse, fingers digging into my flesh as he moves me faster over his leg, building up the friction. He breaks the kiss.
“Are you going to come on my leg, Gemma?” he asks, his voice gravelly and rough. His eyes are locked on mine, watching my face as pleasure builds.
“Yes,” I gasp. His answering smile is wolfish as he increases the pressure, his strong thigh flexing beneath me.
“I’m going to watch you fall apart. And then I’m going to take you to my bedroom and make you come again. And again.”
Fuck, if I wasn’t about to explode from rubbing myself on him, the absolute certainty in his voice sends me over the edge. My head falls back as my release crests, my body shuddering against him as I ride out the wave.
When I finally catch my breath, he lifts me effortlessly, cradling me against his chest. I let out a surprised yelp as he carries me down the hallway to his bedroom, placing me gently onto the mattress.
He stands before me, his face painted with desire. I prop myself up on my elbows. When he removes his shirt, I take a moment to appreciate the view. His toned stomach tenses as he approaches the bed.
“Not bad, Browne,” I say, wiggling my brows.