Chapter 15 Lacey
LACEY
Kissing Max is a chant of finally, finally, finally in my brain. It thrums through my limbs. It’s like collapsing into a comfortable chair after a long day, or that first blast of the heater when you’ve been cold.
All the tension in my body — which is a considerable amount anyway, and built up even higher because of him, coiled tighter and tighter each time our hands brushed, or he looked at me like he might like to eat me — bursts, and I can’t control my hands.
They wander over Max’s torso, which is built in a solid sort of way.
Just like the things he creates — something beautiful and functional, warm and pliant, but firm under my touch.
I push up under the hem of his flannel as he works on my neck, and when the fabric stops my path, I start unbuttoning my way up to his throat.
Then, wanting more of him, I shift, making space between my legs and tugging him toward me.
He gets the hint instantly, pulling back for a moment to shrug his shirt off, dropping it on the floor before returning to me. And I’m breathless at the sight of him — the expanse of his broad chest, the fact of it rising and falling so rapidly. Because of me.
“Fuck,” he mutters, low, when I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him in close, so he presses against my core — the only thing between him and me the thin fabric of my panties.
I let my head drop back against the arm of the couch, unable to think through the raw, rough wanting.
I have never felt like this about a man before, like I could never possibly get enough of him.
Like I just want to wrap my arms around him and get as close as I possibly can to this.
Whatever tangible and electric connection exists between us.
Almost like he’s already planned it, Max reaches up, untying the little ties on my shoulder and pulling the overall dress down with a rough tug, revealing a wireless, lacy black bra. It makes my skin hot, seeing this careful and intentional man reduced to short, jerky movements like this.
He shakes his head and lowers his mouth to my chest, sucking on my nipple directly through the fabric. With his cock hard against me and the feel of him between my legs, I’m not sure anything sexier has ever happened in my entire life.
“You want this?” he asks, pulling back, panting slightly, his eyes unfocused, pupils practically swallowed, the look so animalistic and needy it sends my heart jumping into my throat.
I could say, of course, or do you realize how long I have? But, not wanting to slow things down, I say, breathlessly, “Yes.”
That rough tug on my overalls made me think this would happen fast — pulling down or pushing aside my panties, Max burying himself inside me, something like what I’m used to with hookups back home. A quick and thoughtless chase for pleasure.
But all at once, he slows down, busying himself on my neck, kissing, sucking, biting while rocking into me gently, teasing at what’s to come. He trails his hands over my body, pulling the bra off, runs his tongue and teeth over my breasts until I’m aching for him and practically whining.
Then, he slides down my body, planting his knees on the couch and tugging the panties off, down over my feet, throwing them so they land somewhere on the floor behind us.
I gasp when he takes my ass in his hands and lifts my hips toward him, bringing his mouth to me as naturally as anything in the world.
“Max.” I breathe his name more than say it, arching up off the couch like something’s shot through my spine.
Electric. The pleasure of the act, both the simple fact that he’s doing it, and also that he’s doing it so well, ricochets through my body, making me laugh, then sob, then clamp my legs on either side of his head.
“Tell me what you like,” he says, his lips brushing over my clit, and I barely stop myself from saying something cliche like, you.
“I want you inside me,” I plead, thinking I should be embarrassed about being so direct, but not finding it within me. All I can focus on is the desire.
Max laughs, and I feel the breath of it against my core, which makes me whine again.
“Don’t worry,” he says, a dark tone to his voice. “I’m getting there. But first…” Gently, he eases a knuckle into my opening, pressing his lips to my clit for a second before saying, “Tell me what you like.”
I’m two seconds from coming apart already, just from the delicious, stretching pressure of his fingers, and the whispered promise of what he’s going to do with his mouth.
But, instead of telling him that, I manage, barely, to whisper, “Okay.”
With my hesitant coaching — faster, harder, there, just like that — Max brings me to the very edge with his mouth and fingers, then draws out the moment for as long as he can, pulling back each time I think I’m close, so I laugh and sob, gripping onto the couch and begging him to let me come.
“I like it when you say please,” he murmurs, his lips against the inside of my thigh, and it’s that — even without his tongue on my clit — that makes me come, hard and fast, body jerking around the stretch of his fingers.
I’m still quaking from the orgasm when Max’s hands find my hips, turning me, adjusting our bodies so I’m kneeling over the arm of the couch, my ass in his hands. He lets out a low noise, then, just loud enough that I can hear him, “This okay?”
I nod. “Yes. I’m— I’m on birth control.”
“I’m going to fuck you now, Lacey,” he says, his hands tightening on my hips like a punctuation mark. I rock back against him, heart in my throat, mind and body clouded in a haze of tangled desire.
“Please,” I choke out, and Max delivers exactly what I ask for.
I wake up slowly the next morning, immediately aware of the fact that it’s Max with his arms around me, his breath in my hair, his nose nuzzling at the nape of my neck.
We’re in my bed — one of the guest beds, really — curled together like we could be washed out to sea and want to make sure we aren’t separated when the water comes.
There have been times in my life that I woke up not knowing quite where I was, opening my eyes, trying to orient my body with reality.
Especially when traveling for work. But now is not one of those times — throughout the night, I’d wake slightly when he moved to get closer, his hands anchoring on my hips and pulling me in tight.
I’ve been aware of him the entire time.
He doesn’t talk in his sleep, but he murmurs, and the sound of it was almost soothing, a gentle, low sound reverberating through my skull.
Especially when he pressed his lips to the top of my spine, his hands skirting over the curve of my waist like the gentle, fluttering movement you do when you find something special and you’re not quite sure if you should touch it.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, and I can’t stop a smile from spreading over my face as I blink against the early morning sun, flooding in through the blinds.
“Good morning,” I return, twisting in his arms to face him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Back in San Francisco, when I went on dates — when I slept with men — more than once, I woke up in a situation like this, either the one trying to sneak out or the one being snuck out on.
But when I face Max and take in his expression, it’s clear that he’s content being right where he is. He smiles sleepily down at me, lines on his face from the pillow, and I run my fingers over his beard, up into his hair, remembering how I tugged on it the night before.
“What’s this from?” I ask, tapping the thin white scar over his left eye. It’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask since I first noticed it days ago, and now the curiosity has slipped out.
Some of the heat dies in his expression, and once again, I’m the subject of that searching gaze, like he’s assessing me for something, and I don’t even know what I’m being tested on.
My hair is probably crazy right now. I haven’t brushed it since we were together last night and didn’t put it up to sleep. I surely have morning breath and could use a quick rinse, and for a brief, fleeting second, I wish I’d slipped out to freshen up before snuggling in close to him again.
Then, he says, “I was in a car accident. When I was a kid.”
I realize the thing he was searching for had nothing to do with appearance or smell. It had to do with trusting me — whether or not to share this thing with me.
And, apparently, he’s decided that he can.
“It was a head-on collision on the highway,” he says, lowering his voice. “I was ten when it happened. Both of my parents died, and I was trapped in the car for over two hours while they tried to get me out. A couple of live electrical wires had collapsed on our sedan.”
I’m holding my breath, and I try to let it go, alternating between feeling like I need to make eye contact with him and not wanting him to feel too much pressure.
This explains a lot. The nervousness about road safety. His insistence on the roads being dangerous at night. Not only did he go through a terrible experience, but he lost both of his parents in it, too.
Dropping my gaze, I do what’s natural to me; I grab his hand and hold it in mine, turning it over and kissing his palm.
It means a lot that he’s telling me this.
And, somewhere deep down, I have to grapple with the fact that it means we’ve gone somewhere beyond casual.
“I survived. Went into foster care. Couple of bad placements.” He shrugs, smiles sadly. “Then Ed and Claire took me in. They were older — empty-nesters. Their kids were all awesome. Ed’s the one who taught me woodworking and everything.”
“Max,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That’s—”
But I’m cut off when an insistent buzzing sounds from the side table. At first, I’m just going to ignore it, but then I remember.
“Shit,” I say, gasping and sitting up, bringing my hand to my chest. “Sorry, shit— I completely forgot I have a meeting with Gina today. I’ll be right back, just let me—”
Max is already pulling back, sitting up against the headboard, nodding and waving his hand at me. “No, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was.”
The phone is still buzzing, and I stand at the end of the bed, wearing just my underwear and his shirt from the night before, heart in my throat as I look at him.
I’m distantly aware that I’m making a decision right now.
“Sorry,” I say, darting into the hallway. “I’ll be right back.”
I shoot Gina a message, then dart into the bathroom to brush my teeth, hair, and throw on a bra. At the last second, I decide to keep Max’s shirt on, rather than changing into something else. First, Gaia has a pretty loose dress code, and it’s not like Gina will expect me in a blouse.
And second, because I like it. I like having the scent of him around me, the feeling of the soft cotton against my skin.
Three minutes after getting the call, I’m sitting at Jasper’s desk in the study — which is still pulled to the middle of the room — and loading up a video chat, heart thrumming as the image of my boss’s face fills the screen.
“Lacey! How are you?”
“Good! Sorry, the internet is so spotty here. Does everything look okay on your end?”
“Looks great.”
“How are you doing, Gina?”
“Well, to be honest with you…” Gina stops, laughing and making a face, “we’re not actually doing too hot over here, Lacey. I have to tell you that your absence… it’s made a lot of things clear to us about which leaders on this team are taking on most of the work.”
My heart flutters lamely, and all at once I have to grapple with everything — hearing the thing that I’ve always wanted to hear, while also recognizing that it doesn’t feel nearly the way I thought it would feel.
As though I might not have understood the implication there, she goes on, “And that person is you. Since you’ve been taking your time off and working remotely, we’ve realized two things about your role with us.
First, things don’t function nearly as well without you.
And second, your hard work during your time as the lead for Citadale has earned you a promotion.
Your organization, execution, and quality control skills would be perfect for the role of Operations Lead for the entire gaming department, not just Citadale. ”
The air leaves my lungs. I stare at the screen. This is it. This is the promotion I’ve been salivating over for years. The salary and power — and what this role would do for my resume. It’s unimaginable.
“Lacey, did your screen freeze up?”
“No, sorry, I—” I bring my hand to my heart. “That’s great news. I’m honored.”
“Of course. And we’re honored to offer it.
However, I’ll admit I have an ulterior motive.
Your current position is listed as remote or hybrid, but as an Operations Lead, you’ll need to be here, in-person.
Based on the effect you’ve had over the past few years, we’ve come to the consensus that you are a person we really need to have physically present. ”
“Of course,” I agree, throat dry. “When would— I mean, I’m still on leave. After losing my uncle…”
“Take some time to consider it,” Gina says, her eyes kind but firm. “But if you want to take the promotion, let’s plan for you being back in San Francisco by the all-hands.”
The annual, company-wide all-hands meeting is in less than a month. By mid October, she wants my decision about whether or not I’ll be taking the role.
“Okay,” I say weakly, hoping I don’t sound as deflated as I feel. “That sounds great. And I really appreciate your understanding.”
“It’s never easy, losing someone,” Gina says, understanding shifting over her face, and I remember she lost her husband a year or two ago.
“Take your PTO to get things straightened out and come back to us fully recharged and ready to take on the Operations Lead role. I’m so excited to see where your career goes from here, Lacey. ”
When I get off the phone, I sit for a second.
It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
And all at once, I’m starting to realize that it might not be what I want at all.