Chapter Forty-Three Gemma
Chapter Forty-Three
Gemma
Max: The design team loves the collection. Well done, Clarke.
I smile as I reread the message, a surge of pride blooming in my chest. Of course they love it. The art was a bloody good idea.
We completed the paperwork for Alexander’s collection before leaving his estate.
At least Max seemed to have worked out some of his caveman frustration by the time Alexander finally rejoined us, thank God.
I’m glad he humped his frustration out, because I thought he was going to cock his leg and pee on me if Alexander flirted one more time.
I didn’t take Max to be the jealous type; I’d guessed he’d be the opposite.
Turns out he’s quite the territorial alpha male, and I don’t mind it one bit. He just gets dirtier and dirtier.
My fingers dance across the screen as I type my reply.
Me: Do I get a reward?
Three dots appear.
Max: Only if you’re a good girl tomorrow night.
Tomorrow night. Dinner.
A tickle develops low in my gut, and I catch myself smiling at his text. Is that excitement? Or am I just horny? I can’t tell.
The sound of my doorbell buzzer causes me to jump. “Every single time,” I mutter, clutching my chest.
I pad over to my window, peering out at the street below where the postman has already hurried off, leaving a small, innocuous-looking parcel by the building entrance.
Speaking of being horny, that must be my butt plug.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I snatch the parcel and head back inside, tearing into the wrapping as soon as my arse hits the seat.
The product packaging is sleek and black, wrapped in a pretty pink bow. I unravel the ribbon and flick the lid off the box, revealing the glistening jeweled butt plug tucked into its soft, purple silk box.
“Well, hello there,” I murmur, lifting the plug from its cushioning.
It’s slightly heavier than I expected, stainless steel with a jeweled end that catches the light, casting colorful prisms across the opposite wall.
“This is far too pretty to stick up my arse,” I say to myself.
It’s so pretty I want to carry it around with me. I tuck the box away safely in my tote bag.
I return to the sofa, flicking on the TV. My eyes bounce back and forth between the screen and my phone. I mindlessly open my text thread with Max, rereading our messages.
I freeze, realizing what I’m doing, and toss my phone onto the sofa beside me.
When we parted ways with a professional “Good afternoon” and nothing more, I missed his presence immediately. I longed for it in a way that’s utterly embarrassing.
I instinctively reach for my phone again, contemplating whether to cancel dinner, to pull back so it makes detaching easier. But my fingers pause over the screen, unwilling to type the words.
It’s pathetic and cliché. It’s exactly what I’ve been avoiding for years—that ridiculous, adolescent yearning. The kind that makes you check your phone every thirty seconds hoping they’ve messaged.
I’ve developed feelings for Max Browne. Actual, proper, grown-up, disgusting feelings that go well beyond appreciating his body.
The worst part isn’t admitting that the feelings are there; it’s the knowledge that in five weeks’ time, Gray Hotel will be open, and he’ll be on a plane back to New York.
My gaze fixes on my giant tentacle dildo, which serves exceptionally well as a doorstop for my kitchen door. The deep purple silicone stares back at me.
“You better get the job done once he’s gone,” I say aloud, then immediately cringe at myself. “Oh, God.” I slap my forehead with a loud smack. “I’m talking to my dildo.”