Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rhys
By the time I finish my upper-body routine, shower in the gym bathroom and climb up to the master bedroom in nothing but boxers, Max is coming out of the bedroom’s en suite bathroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel.
Freshly scrubbed, she looks adorable with the freckles and soft, kissable lips.
The peach-scented body shampoo Liam gave me as a gag gift this past Christmas smells delicious on her.
My mouth dries, and I want to lick her all over, then make her come on my tongue.
The urge to drag her back to bed and call in sick zings through my head. What’s wrong with me? I’ve never called in sick because I wanted to screw around. But then, I’ve never had Max.
She picks through the clothes still draped over the back of the armchair, while muttering to herself. Based on the tone, she’s anything but satisfied.
“What’s wrong?” I say, watching her from at least five feet away so I’m not tempted to give in to my abnormal slacker impulse. Also, even under the towel, the view of her ass from this angle is great.
“Just…not happy about the picks. I should’ve been more mindful at the store, but I wasn’t in the right mental space.” The smooth tone can’t hide a hint of self-directed irritation.
I head over to see if I can help. Underneath the peach fragrance is warm female, an intoxicating combination of scents.
My dick perks up, but I ignore it and look at the options.
Almost all of them are black—not Max’s best color—and their cut doesn’t necessarily flatter her, although they don’t detract, either.
I glance at her in confusion because she normally has a better sense of fashion. “Can’t take them back?”
“Nope. I bought them from a thrift store that doesn’t accept returns.” She sighs with resignation.
I run my forefinger along her soft arm. Goosebumps spread, the sight gratifying. “We can go shopping later,” I offer, wanting to see her pretty smile.
She says nothing, still glaring at her clothes.
I look over the options and pick out a black scoop-neck dress that catches my eyes. “How about this?”
“Yeah…” She purses her lips as she studies the outfit. “Guess it’s okay.”
“Once you’re in it, it’ll be more than okay.” I give her an exaggerated leer.
A blush colors her cheeks as she bursts into laughter.
Unable to stop myself, I kiss her. She tastes faintly of mint.
Her lips soften under mine, her hands roaming all over me—from my shoulders to chest to the ridges of my abs.
I tighten my muscles, so they’ll be rock hard under her fingers.
She brushes her thumbs along the grooves.
Lust shoots to the top of my skull. My dick pulses wildly, wanting to be inside her.
Pressing a hand at the small of her back, I pull her close until she’s flush against my throbbing erection. She moans, her tongue tangling with mine in abandon.
Suddenly, she tears her mouth from mine and pushes me away. I indulge her by allowing her to deprive me of her lips, but continue to hold her.
“We have to get ready to get to work,” she says breathlessly.
“Why?” Can’t think of a single reason to stop. “The office can run without me there.”
She shakes her head, as her eyes flash with reluctance. “Because I don’t want people to gossip soon after we decide to fake-date.”
Might possibly be a good point, but—
“And don’t tell me we should have a quickie, because it won’t be enough.”
I shoot her a grin. “Truth. Railing you against the wall would be fun, but it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me.” Her eyes darken with need. Lust pounds through me. “Calling in sick and spending the entire day in bed is more like it.”
For a fraction of a second, her lashes flutter, her throat moving. She parts her mouth, showing the tip of her tongue. My cock is so hard it aches, but she steps back. “We can’t both call in sick. Talk about super obvious.” She pushes me toward the closet. “Get dressed!”
“Bossy…”
“I’m Freckles right now, not Max. Put on a suit before giving orders.”
Chuckling softly, I put on one of the pinstriped navy suits—a three-piece.
As casual as SoCal is, people want to see signs that the other party is trustworthy before handing over their millions, and bespoke suits signal exactly that.
This one’s my favorite from Italy because the tailoring is exceptional and creates strong, lean lines.
Behind me comes rustling of fabric and snapping of elastic.
My senses go on full alert. If I were a dog, my ears would flick to catch the sound better.
My mind creates an erotic image of Max putting on some of her super-hot underwear and covering it up with the staid black dress.
Matching black lace, like what I saw in Tokyo?
Or something else? I swallow, my skin prickling.
Looping a tie around my neck, I tilt my head oh so casually—and catch a glimpse of sexy red lace before the black dress falls over her body.
My blood heats, lust unfurling. Insane. I’m thirty-seven…and acting like a horny teenager.
“What’s available for breakfast?” Max says.
“You. Or in your case, me.” I gesture at my body, then put on my glasses.
Her face settles into stern lines. “Be serious.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
She shakes her head. “Who are you and what have you done to my workaholic boss?”
I shoot her a meaningful look. “That’s the question I should ask you.”
Her eyes widen. She blushes, the color more beautiful than any makeup she could put on. “Stop. You aren’t getting another blow job.”
“I could go down on you.” I start to take off my glasses.
She quickly puts a hand on my arm and stops me. Now her face is scarlet. “Stop it. I meant what I said about not missing work, Rhys.”
She’s adorable when flustered. Hiding my amusement, I heave a long-suffering sigh, then take her to the kitchen, since she needs to eat before heading to work.
The automated espresso machine has already made two servings of Americano—Frederich must have made the adjustment.
I serve one to Max, purposely brushing my fingers against hers.
They twitch a little, letting me know she isn’t completely immune despite her attempt at staying cool and composed.
She takes a sip, then closes her eyes and lets out a satisfied breath. “Tasty.”
I kiss her glistening mouth, taste the lingering aromatic coffee and Max. “Indeed. Today’s coffee’s so much better than usual.”
She narrows her eyes. “You aren’t going to behave this morning, are you?”
“No. But I’ll be good once I’m out the door.” I shoot her an easy grin. “So: a toasted bagel with lox, cream cheese and capers…or a toasted English muffin with lox, cream cheese and capers.”
She sits at the counter. Something like shyness and pleasure crosses her face as she studies me. “I thought you weren’t a fan of fishy things.”
“No, just lobster bisque and caviar. And I don’t mind lobster as long as it hasn’t been bisque-ified.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. A bagel should be fine,” she says with a smile.
Her sparkling eyes follow my movements as I prep breakfast. The silence is shockingly comforting. It’s something I’ve never experienced before.
It’s her presence that makes this rote routine—and my life—peaceful.
In a few minutes I place two plates on the counter.
Her eyes crinkle in appreciation. “This is nice.” She starts nibbling, then, after a couple of bites, says, “Do you want me to lay out the day?”
Normally that wouldn’t be a bad thing. I’ve had her read the day’s agenda during breakfast on business trips before, but—
“No. It can wait until we’re at the office. I want you to be my Freckles for a little longer.”
She nods, a sweet smile blooming on her face. “Okay. But we’re still going to work on time.”