Chapter Fifty Gemma
Chapter Fifty
Gemma
Max slept over. And I let him. On purpose. I’ve gone soft.
Though I’ll admit, we didn’t get much sleep, which is why I’m making a coffee strong enough to power a small aircraft.
Walking over to Max, who’s sitting in my dining nook—shirtless, might I add—I set down the mug I made him.
“What’s this?” he asks, staring at the foam art, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“It’s a penis,” I state.
“Christ, I hope this isn’t supposed to be mine,” he says, a grin curling through his words.
It’s not my best work, I’ll admit. The balls are totally disproportionate to the shaft. The whole thing looks a bit wonky.
“Ha. I wouldn’t give up hope just yet,” I tease, and he reaches out to smack my arse as I turn away to froth my own milk.
“By the way, the eggs and bacon are in the fridge,” I toss over my shoulder. “You wanted to stay for breakfast? Coffee’s about as far as my hosting skills extend. If you want actual food, have at it—I like my yolks runny.”
This is the first time I’ve had a man sleep over since Todd. When Max first suggested he stay, my immediate reaction was to create distance. To order the Uber for him. But I’m glad he stayed.
I don’t hate having him in my calm pocket of the world.
“Lucky for you, I make an excellent British fry-up,” Max says, standing to rummage through my fridge.
“Of course you do,” I mutter.
So far, he seems good at bloody everything.
“Where are your plates and pans?” he asks.
I point to the cabinets and show him where my utensils are, sipping on my coffee while he gets to work frying up bacon, grilling sourdough, and—impressively—making the perfect poached eggs.
“This is really good,” I say around a mouthful, ogling the way his abs shift as he scoots his chair in.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, his face content as he watches me chew. “Take today off. Spend it with me.”
I look up from my meal. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” he asks, shrugging. “It’s Friday. Everything is on schedule with the hotel, and the launch party is all sorted for next week. You deserve to take a day.”
“I’m not taking the day off. I agreed to dinner with you last night. The sleepover wasn’t part of the deal—”
“But aren’t you glad I stayed?” He winks cheekily.
It’s like he can read my bloody mind.
I point my knife at him. “You’ve had more than enough.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve barely even started with you,” he rasps, his morning voice gravel thick.
We watch each other with darkened gazes, and my body reacts before I can stop it—it’s become Pavlovian. My thighs clench upon the thought of Max’s hands, his mouth, his everything.
“Fine. A half day,” I concede.
“Sorry?”
“You can have half a day with me. Then I’m going into the office.”
His smile is mischievous. “Deal.”
He stands, rounding the small table, and stalks toward me with heat in his eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he slides his arms beneath me and lifts me.
I squeal, smacking his chest. “Max! Where are you taking me?”
He keeps walking us down the hallway, totally unbothered. When he turns the corner toward my bedroom, I release a breathy laugh. “I’m not sleeping with you again. I’m too sore, my vagina will fall off.”
“Just relax,” he says. “I’m not trying to fuck you.”
I arch a disbelieving brow. “Then where are we going?”
“To shower,” he replies, pushing the bathroom door open with his foot and setting me on the floor.
Pulling the shower curtain open, he turns the tap, holding his hand under the spray to test the temperature.
“Max,” I warn, crossing my arms. “We both know the moment we’re naked in the same room, it’s game over.”
“I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he says, turning to me. He unties my bathrobe slowly, pushing it off my shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the way he’s seen my body so many times now, yet his breath still hitches when he takes in my naked form.
He makes me feel beautiful.
True to his word, he doesn’t touch me. We just silently wash each other.
There’s no groping. No grinding or wandering hands.
No cocky grin or filthy words. Just us and our soft, careful movements.
He lathers shampoo between his palms and massages my scalp, gently working through any tangles in my hair.
When he’s done, I return the gesture, running my fingers through his dark strands.
When we rinse each other clean, he holds my waist, and we kiss. Over and over again. It’s unhurried and patient, without desperation. We simply take our time, relishing in the feel of each other.
It’s only when the water turns cold that I realize I’m not waiting for the morning to end.
Not this time.
I’m wishing it went longer.