25
Five O'clock Shadow
Max
The honeymoon suite—which is a silly name since it hasn’t seen honeymooners for years—is dimly lit and somewhat chilly. The fireplace is empty and unused, and the curtains are closed.
And yet, I’m flushed with heat.
Standing wedged between Mitch’s strong thighs, cradling his face as if letting him go might mean waking up from a wonderful dream, I smile when he looks at me as if I’ve just said the earth is flat.
“Don’t go back?” he asks. “To New York?”
I nod. “Or hockey. I’m sure living without it would be hard for someone like you, but isn’t your well-being more important?”
“I can’t give it up.”
“But you said it’s not your everything.”
A heavy frown darkens his face as if covered by a shroud of sorrow. “It’s not, but without it, I feel like I’d be nothing.”
I tilt his head up. “You’re not nothing.
You have the brewery. You have the guys.
” I run my fingers through his hair, the softness of his strands reminding me of better days soaking up the sun, lying side by side in the grassy dunes, without a care in the world.
A twinge of longing flares in my chest. I so desperately wish we could return to that time. “You have a lot right here.”
“And I sacrificed it all for hockey,” he admits. “Without it, who would I be?”
Like burning brimstone, his eyes search mine, and I sink closer, drawn in by their intensity.
I take his arms and wrap them around my waist. He drops his forehead onto my stomach.
“You’d be the guy who loves harder than most, who wants to help everyone, but never helps himself.”
“I’m not that guy anymore.”
“Yes, you are. So, what if you don’t play? You’re still strength personified.”
“Only when I’m around you.”
My throat runs dry; I wish I’d brought up some champagne.
He takes my hand, kisses the inside of my wrist, while his other hand drops to my ass. “It’s you, Max. You’ve always made me feel like I matter. Like I’m someone. I mean, maybe not your favorite someone, but I’ve always felt that with you.”
“Mitch, I—”
He squeezes his eyes together. “No, wait. I need to say this. We can’t change what happened back then.
I get that. And we can’t make up for the time we lost. Nothing will fix the hurt we caused each other.
” He looks up, takes my hand that’s gripping his shoulder and brings it to rest over his heart. “But we both know what’s what here.”
What I need to say clutches at my throat as if desperate to stay in. “We’re starting over,” I croak, the words barely audible.
“That isn’t true either.” His big, hopeful green eyes search mine, demanding the truth.
Damn it, Max! Tell him how you feel!
“Rebuilding our friendship will take time,” I answer, chickening out.
“This isn’t about friendship.” He releases my hand, but I keep it pressed to his chest. He pulls me closer, laying his lips on my lower stomach. I hear him take a deep inhale. “Let’s not pretend that we’re looking to be friends. I know what you want here.”
I force a swallow, then the words. “And what is that?”
Peeking through his dark lashes, he looks up at me, his eyes full of desire.
“We’re both hurting and want to feel something. Anything.”
He kisses me softly along my stomach. Even through the satin dress, the warmth of his lips on my skin is so intense I wish there wasn’t a barrier of fabric between us.
“We both need to feel wanted.” He slides his mouth over, kissing my hip. “To feel important.” He lowers his face, kissing right above my core and whispers, “To feel trusted.”
With the lightest touch, and enough pressure to bring out goosebumps on my skin, he moves his hands down the backs of my thighs to my knees, then inches my skirt up. His fingertips stop right below my ass, tickling my sensitive skin.
“Don’t you want to stop fighting? Don’t you want to give in to whatever this is?” he asks, kissing my stomach, squeezing my backside hard. “Because honestly, right now, everything feels out of control. And I want to forget about it all. If only for a little while, I want to lose myself in you.”
I’m not stupid. The friend I loved so much it hurt, who left and took my heart, is gone. I realize that. But somehow, I need this new person even more. And like he said, I want to lose myself in him, too. When everything around us seems so temporary and fleeting, at least I know I can trust this.
I hitch up my skirt, then plant my knees on the chair, on either side of his thighs, and straddle his lap. A strange wave of understanding connects us from heart to heart as we stare at each other, taking this in.
I run my arms around his neck, pulling him into my embrace, resting my lips at his temple and sigh with such shaky emotion it sounds more like a moan.
He swipes his lips, soft as velvet, along my collarbone. I unbutton his shirt and slide my hands underneath, relishing the warm, solid feel of his skin. Then, I wrap my arms around his waist, kiss his neck as his pulse throbs against my lips.
He relaxes, and grips my hips, then slides me closer, letting me feel exactly how much he wants this.
That old, familiar reassurance, the sort I only knew with him, rushes through me. The comfort folds around me like his powerful arms do.
Mitchell Adams has always been so much bigger than me. Literally. His mere presence is intimidating. But beneath me, wedged between my thighs, it’s as if he’s surrendering. The delicate way his fingers dance along my back summons so many emotions; my eyes brim with tears.
And then our mouths meet. With the slant of his lips to mine, he grants me permission, and I slip my tongue over the seam with a moan. It’s a kiss unlike any other. Intimate as if I’ve kissed him a thousand times, but unknown as if it’s for the first.
The reasons why this chemistry between us is converging now are inexplicable. It’s not the best timing, and doesn’t make any sense, but I surrender to it, unable to pull away.
I shove his shirt off his shoulders, then bring my mouth down to sink my teeth into his firm muscle and press my palm against his erection, earning his growl.
He grips a fistful of my hair and tugs my head back, meeting my gaze with his needy, volcanic one that transforms my desire into a helpless craving.
“Touch me,” I beg.
He slips his large hand beneath my dress and into my underwear, cupping me. A wicked smile spreads across his face.
“Like this?”
I bite down on my lip and nod, then rock back and forth, rubbing against his hand. The burning desire I’ve felt over the past few weeks ignites, and I shut my eyes, allowing it to consume me.
A torrent of thoughts surges within me, but I’m determined not to stop. I’ll dissect our dysfunctional relationship some other time when my body isn’t so desperate for relief.
Mitch sucks one of my earlobes into his mouth, the sweet sound of his moan tickling my ear, prodding my common sense.
Slamming down onto his hand, I ride his palm the way I can imagine riding his cock. I’m all too willing to keep going, to let my orgasm take over, but I also don’t want to go through this alone. I need him to share this heat.
I reach down, undo his belt, then work the button of his pants. I pull his thick cock free, gripping it firmly enough to make him hiss.
“Too much?” I ask, deviously. I don’t want to hurt him, but I want to be rough. To see how far I can push him because I know he’s the one person who’ll let me push.
Through his hooded eyes, he looks up at me, giving an infinitesimal shake of his head.
“Not even a little.”
But then a deep frown hardens his expression. He frames my face with his hand. “I don’t have a condom.”
Smiling, I turn and kiss his palm. “It’s okay, I’m on the pill and healthy as a horse. And as you know, I haven’t had sex in ages.” I grab his neck with my free hand. His pulse races beneath my thumb. I arch my eyebrow. “Should I be worried about anything?”
“Injured hockey player, remember? Countless checkups and tests. I’m clean.”
“That’s settled then.”
With my legs trapped between the armrests and his thighs, I push myself up, hovering over the tip of his swollen flesh. Our gazes lock for what’s only a few seconds, but feels like an eternity.
“Don’t take it easy on me,” he says, as if reading my mind, and tugs my underwear out of the way. It’s such an intimate move, my breath catches in my throat.
I run his cock along my core, rocking my hips, coating him in my arousal, then lightly tickle my clit with his tip. His eyes drift shut, and he bites down on his lip, letting out a pained groan.
“I wonder how long I could keep this going,” I whisper with a coy smile.
A deep growl vibrates up his throat. He grips my hips, his fingertips digging into my flesh through the dress.
“Stop being a fucking tease, Maxine.”
Taking over, he slips his hand between us, grabs his cock and lines himself up. Then he thrusts, crashing into me with such force that it fractures me into a million tiny pieces. The sudden fullness, the dull twinge deep inside soon fades, as my tight, wet pussy welcomes the intrusion.
I grip his shoulders, dig my fingers into them, and slide up and down his shaft.
My muscles clench around him, my core is so hot, soaked and needy, I can’t for the life of me remember why I ever resisted this.
Why we haven’t been doing this all along?
The lingering heartbreak that’s been hiding in my soul since Mitchell showed up in Oakwhite vanishes as I accept the truth that’s always been there.
The hurt? Disappearing.
My mistakes? Forgotten.
The regrets hovering over me like a dark rain cloud? Gone.
He hisses, dropping his head back. I bunch up my skirt at my waist, glancing down to where our bodies connect and sink down onto him, to the hilt.
I’m so tight, clenching and milking him, and I don’t stop slamming down onto his lap until he shudders and pulls himself out, coming onto his belly with a long, wailing groan.
He then hurriedly brings his hand to my pussy, stroking my clit, sucking on my nipples through the fabric of my dress.
I long for him to bite me. To make me burn. I want him to rip this stupid peach dress off and slam me into a wall. I don’t know where this insane need for pain comes from, but it’s all I can think of.
“Hurt me,” I say, my voice so dark it’s unrecognizable.
Frowning, he meets my deadly serious gaze. I tug the neckline of my dress beneath my breasts. His fingers pick up the pace, while he takes my nipple into his mouth once again, offering it a gentle lick before nipping down on the perked flesh.
I release a throaty moan. “More.”
He continues to assault my nipples, my skin, combining bites with gentle kisses, covering every hurt with comfort, as if knowing precisely what I need.
His thumb circles my clit while his mouth devours my nipples, and I welcome my orgasm with a shuddering mix of whimpers and laughter, unable to focus on anything but the exhilarating thrill cascading through my veins and muscles.
Elated, I drop my head to his shoulder and focus on the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. The delicate caress of his bristly jaw against my forehead.
“Do you think you’ll grow it back?” I ask, stroking his cheek.
He chuckles. “Why? Do you think I should?”
I nod but don’t lift my head.
“Didn’t you say I looked bad with a beard?”
“I never said you looked bad. You were fucking hot.”
“Were?”
“Are,” I correct, smiling. “But you shouldn’t let it get too long. The scraggly look is dated.”
He lets out a soft, low laugh. I hadn’t noticed that his hands were still tucked under my dress until he pulls them out, and now I suddenly yearn for his heated touch.
“Ready to go back downstairs?” he asks.
“Not even a little.” I slide off his lap, fixing my underwear, letting my skirt fall down around my legs. “But I probably should.”
I’m not sure what I see pass through his eyes, but it looks like disappointment. He moves to stand and flinches, but I plant my hands on his shoulders.
“No, you stay here. I’ll be quick. I’m sure they’re almost done, anyway.” I grab his jaw. “And when I get back, I want you to scratch my thighs with this five o’clock shadow of yours,” I add, running my fingernails along his jaw. “Got it?”
The playful smirk I hate so much lights up his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”