Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
As they left Beppe’s, Maxwell took Jasmine’s hand, and she glanced up at him. To his surprise, she didn’t pull away.
“The tiramisu was the perfect ending to a perfect dinner,” she remarked.
They had lingered over the dessert, splitting the hunk of cake and fighting over the last piece. Maxwell let her win.
“Perfect, until you made that lame joke at the end,” he pointed out.
“The waiter laughed,” Jasmine said defensively, bumping him with her hip.
“Of course he did. Poor guy felt obligated so he could get his tip.”
They stopped next to his vehicle.
“Did you really not think it was funny? Because I have more jokes. I can make you laugh.”
“That’s all right,” he said, reaching for the door.
Jasmine pushed away his hand. “Let me try one more time. Seriously, I have a ton of them.”
“It’s really not necessary.”
“Let. Me. Try.”
He hid his amusement with an exaggerated sigh. She was so competitive. “Fine. Go ahead. Let me hear what you have.” He folded his arms over his chest.
“Ready? Why don’t scientists trust atoms?”
“You have got to be kidding me. Don’t,” Maxwell groaned.
“Because they make up everything.” Jasmine waited expectantly.
He dropped his head back and stared up at the sky. “That was terrible, and I’ve heard it before.”
Jasmine shoved his chest. “Come on, it’s a pretty solid joke.”
“Your joke telling is about as good as my sister’s.”
“So she’s hilarious?”
“Corny as hell.”
“You’re such a hater,” she said, folding her arms over her chest and cutting her eyes at him.
“I’m a hater, so you say. You suck at telling jokes. We both have our flaws.” Maxwell leaned in, trapping her against the Range Rover. “Lower your arms.”
“No.”
“I said, lower your arms.”
Pouting, she stared up at him defiantly. “Why should I?”
“Because I said so.”
She didn’t move right away, purposely obstinate. Then slowly, she lowered her arms.
“Better,” Maxwell said quietly, dipping his head.
He tasted her soft lips, and her tongue slipped out to tap the tip of his. He groaned, his right hand moving under her thick hair to cradle the back of her neck. As she melted into him, one hand lifted to fist in his black shirt, and he experienced that tug all the way down his spine.
He angled his head to deepen the kiss. Matching his ardor, her free hand slid up his chest, palm flat over his heart, and he wondered if she could feel how hard it was working.
Kissing her was an experience. An event. Unfairly intoxicating considering how many kisses he’d had in his lifetime. None of them compared to this. It was downright criminal the way she used her mouth.
Keeping one hand at her nape, fingers tangled in her thick curls, his other hand lowered to her side, and his thumb traced the curve of her waist in the loose dress.
She raised up on tiptoe, closing the last centimeter of space between them.
Her mouth opened to take him in, and he slipped his tongue inside, listening to the small catch in her breath as his mouth glided over hers with firmer, more demanding pressure.
Her fingers, curled in his shirt, tightened as she anchored herself to him.
Maxwell pressed her against the hard vehicle, hips grinding, his body coming alive with hunger.
Jasmine pulled back and looked up at him, her naturally full lips swollen from his kisses. He gently traced the curve of her jawline with his thumb.
“Come home with me,” he breathed.
Her hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, her nails lightly grazing his skin under the shirt’s collar. Every nerve in his body came alive and was attuned to the pressure of her touch.
She didn’t respond to his statement with words. Instead, she turned and opened the car door. Then she looked over her shoulder, a soft, flirtatious smile on her lips before she climbed in.
* * *
“Entrez, mademoiselle,” Maxwell said with a sweeping arm gesture.
Jasmine stepped into his condo. “This is where the magic happens?”
“The magic happens wherever I am.”
“Excuse me.”
He chuckled as she strolled deeper into his home, her heels clicking on the gray hardwood floor.
He let her take her time, watching as her eyes examined the high ceilings and clean lines, glancing through the arched doorway leading to his dining room, occupied by a round, walnut table and four chairs.
Beyond was a glimpse of the kitchen, its countertops completely bare.
Open shelving and glass door cabinets displayed neatly stacked dishes.
“You’re as neat at home as you are in the office,” she remarked.
“I believe everything has a place, and putting them in their place each and every time keeps me from having to hunt for what I need. Besides, it makes it easy to have unannounced visitors.”
“You never have to scramble to clean up if the place is always neat and tidy.”
“Exactly.”
She walked into the living room—observing, cataloguing the decor. He leaned against the wall, continuing to watch her.
A charcoal sectional dominated the room with oversized cushions and earth toned pillows.
A cream and brown rug anchored the space, surrounded by a comfortable looking leather recliner and an armchair around a glass coffee table.
On the far wall, floor to ceiling windows overlooked the Midtown skyline, and an unlit fireplace took up half of the left wall, with a huge television suspended above it.
She swung in his direction. “Did you hire a decorator, or do you have really good taste? Because somehow you managed comfort and style without appearing too... matchy.”
“Some of the decorating was done by me, but most of the ideas came from my sister, Audra—the one who tells corny jokes like you do.”
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
Maxwell straightened with a laugh. “She has an eye for design and helped me out.”
Her eyes were drawn to a vase, roughly two feet tall, sitting on a table by itself. The glaze was a cream color layered with brown and gold swirls like rivers running from the top to the bottom.
“What a gorgeous vase,” she said, walking over to it. “Where did you get this?”
“I made it.”
“You made this?”
He nodded, strolling over to stand beside her. “Last year, right before I finished my residency. I needed something to do with my hands, to distract me as I considered my next steps. I know what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I know what you’re thinking, because I’ve seen that look before.”
“And what look is that?”
“Disbelief. You’re trying to figure out if I really made this vase, and if I did, how does it fit with your opinion of me.”
“Guilty.” She returned her attention to the vase. “Do you have other pieces that you made?”
“Yes. I’ve been doing pottery since college. I took it as an elective and really enjoyed the process and continued taking classes at a studio near the school. Honestly, at first I was no good.”
“Are you telling me you were actually bad at something?”
“I’m bad at a few things, but I don’t advertise them.” He turned and nodded toward the hallway behind him. “Want to see my studio?”
“Absolutely,” she said enthusiastically.
He led the way down a short hallway and showed her inside his studio.
There was a pottery wheel centered on a wide mat and a work table along the wall with neatly arranged tools.
Above the table, shelves held pieces in various stages of completion.
A couple were raw clay, others had been glazed with different colors.
She studied his work with her mouth hanging open. “You’re really talented.”
“I don’t know how I feel about the way you said that. You sound surprised.”
She laughed. “Not surprised in a bad way. Surprised... Well, you journal and now I find out you make pottery. I’m having to reassess my original opinion. There’s a wonky-looking bowl on your desk at the office. Did you make that?”
“First piece I made that didn’t collapse.
I consider it my good luck charm. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent at the wheel and how many pieces I went through before I ended up with that one.
It taught me to be persistent, that’s for sure.
Once I had completed an actual piece, I couldn’t shake the sense of satisfaction, and I knew I would have to keep doing pottery. I wanted to get better.”
“You’re pretty good,” she said, sounding immensely impressed.
“Thanks.”
They made their way back into the living room.
“Would you like something to drink?” Maxwell asked.
“I would love something to drink. Water.”
She sat on the sofa while he went into the kitchen. When he returned with two glasses, he noticed she had slipped off her heels and was massaging her foot.
He handed her one of the glasses.
“Thank you.” She drank some of the water.
He placed his glass on the table and then patted his thighs. “Put your feet here.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re hurting, and I’m going to make them feel better.” He patted his thighs again.
After a moment’s hesitation, she scooted back on the sofa and lifted her feet onto his lap.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know, but I want to.”
His hands closed around her feet and moved with firm, unhurried motions. His thumbs pressed into the arch in a way that made her close her eyes.
“You’re really good at this,” Jasmine murmured, sinking back against the arm of the sofa.
She watched him through the slits in her eyes as he worked with quiet, intense focus. He was massaging her feet, yet the place between her thighs had grown dewy and tight with want.
“A girl could get used to this kind of treatment,” she whispered.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhmm. Being taken out for a nice dinner, enjoying an interesting conversation, having her feet rubbed, and being made love to by a gorgeous man who behaves as if there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing.”
Maxwell stopped, and the room became completely silent and still.
“We haven’t gotten to that last part.”
“I know.” Jasmine sat up. “What are you waiting for?”