Chapter 5
Max
For four years, that rhythm had been my heartbeat. It was predictable. It was safe. It was lonely, though I would never have admitted that to a soul, least of all myself.
Then Imogen Sterling moved in, and she took a sledgehammer to my rhythm.
But she didn't destroy it. She... syncopated it.
I sat on the leather sofa in the living room, a tablet balanced on my knee. On the screen, the Minnesota-Duluth power play formation was looping in slow motion. I was supposed to be analyzing the goalie’s lateral movement. I was supposed to be finding the gap in the armor.
Instead, I was watching the girl lying on her stomach on my Persian rug.
It had been five days since The Deal. Five days of hiding her art supplies in the back of my truck so she could sneak into the conservatory. Five days of enforcing mandatory study hours. Five days of living in a 1,200-square-foot apartment with a walking, talking, glitter-bomb temptation.
Imogen was studying. Actually studying.
She had her History of Art textbook open in front of her, surrounded by a fortress of index cards.
She was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants that rolled down at the waist and a black tank top that she had slept in.
Her hair was piled into a messy bun that defied the laws of physics, held together by a single pencil.
She was chewing on the end of a highlighter. Her brow was furrowed in concentration. She looked serious. She looked determined.
She looked fucking delicious.
I forced my eyes back to the screen. Focus, Vane. The butterfly slide. Look at the angle of the skate blade.
"Max," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. It wasn't the bratty whine she used for her father. It was the husky, tired voice she used only with me.
"What?" I didn't look up.
"Did you know that Dadaism was essentially a reaction to the absurdity of World War I? They basically decided that if the world made no sense, art shouldn't either."
I paused the video. "Yes, Imogen. I took the class freshman year."
She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms over her head. The movement pulled her tank top up, exposing a strip of pale, soft skin at her stomach. My eyes snapped to it like a magnet. I watched the way her ribcage expanded, the way her navel was pierced with a small silver ring.
"It sounds like us," she mused, staring at the ceiling. "The absurdity. You're the war, and I'm the urinal signed 'R. Mutt'."
"I am not the war," I said, finally looking at her. "And please don't compare yourself to a urinal."
"I'm just saying," she said, turning her head to look at me upside down. "This whole arrangement is absurd. You, sitting there like a statue. Me, actually memorizing dates. My father thinking he's won."
"He has won, so far," I pointed out. "You haven't been drunk in five days. You haven't caused a scene. You're passing your quizzes."
"That's not him winning," she said softly. "That's us winning."
The word hung in the air. Us.
It shouldn't have felt good. It should have felt like a burden. But the tightness in my chest eased, replaced by a warm, treacherous hum.
She sat up, crossing her legs. She looked at me with that intense, analytical gaze—the same one she used when she was sketching. She was dissecting me.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm supervising," I lied smoothly.
"You've been on the same five seconds of game tape for twenty minutes," she countered. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. "Is the goalie that good, or am I just that distracting?"
"You're breathing loudly," I said, tapping the screen to restart the clip. "It's disrupting my focus."
She laughed. It was a genuine sound, throaty and real. It did things to my blood pressure that no amount of conditioning could fix.
"Liar," she whispered.
She stood up and walked toward the kitchen. As she passed the sofa, her hip brushed against my knee. It was accidental—or maybe it wasn't—but the contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
I clenched my jaw, my hand tightening on the tablet until the plastic creaked.
Five days of this. Five days of her walking around in half-naked sleepwear. Five days of her smelling like peonies and trouble. Five days of me enforcing rules while my own internal rulebook was being rewritten page by page.
She opened the fridge. "We're out of almond milk. Again. You drink it like water."
"It's for the protein shakes," I muttered.
"You're a machine," she said, grabbing a bottle of water. She leaned back against the counter, taking a sip. A drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth, tracking a slow, shiny path down her chin, over her throat, and disappearing into the neckline of her tank top.
I watched the drop. I wanted to follow it. I wanted to lick it off her skin.
I stood up. The movement was abrupt, aggressive.
Imogen’s eyes widened slightly over the rim of the bottle.
"I'm going to shower," I said roughly. "Finish the chapter on Surrealism. I'm quizzing you in thirty minutes."
"Yes, Sir," she drawled.
She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew "Sir" wasn't just a title; in this apartment, with the way I looked at her, it was a loaded gun.
I turned and walked toward the bathroom, needing cold water and distance.
"Max?"
I stopped in the doorway. "What?"
"You forgot your tablet."
I looked back. She was holding it up, smiling. A wicked, challenging smile.
"Come and get it."
I stared at her. The air in the room shifted. It went from domestic to dangerous in the span of a heartbeat.
The Deal was supposed to be about safety. But looking at Imogen Sterling, with her messy hair and her defiant eyes, I realized safety was the last thing on either of our minds.
The shower didn't help.
I stood under the freezing spray for ten minutes, willing my blood to cool, willing the erection that was straining against my skin to subside. It didn't work. The cold just made me more alert, more hyper-aware of the fact that she was just on the other side of the wall.
I turned off the water and dried off aggressively. I pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants and nothing else. It was my apartment. I paid the rent. If she couldn't handle a shirtless man, that was her problem.
When I walked back into the living room, the lights had been dimmed.
Imogen hadn't finished the chapter. She wasn't studying.
She was sitting on the sofa—my spot—with her legs curled under her. She had put on music. Low, thrumming R&B that pulsed through the room like a heartbeat.
She looked up when I entered. Her gaze dropped to my chest, tracing the lines of my abs, the V-taper into my sweatpants, the ink on my right arm. She didn't look away. She devoured.
"You didn't study," I said, my voice low.
"I got bored," she said simply. "Surrealism is all about dreams and subconscious desire. I figured I'd focus on the practical application."
"Is that right?" I walked over to the sofa. "And what is the practical application?"
"Desire," she whispered.
She stood up. She was so small compared to me. The top of her head barely reached my chin. But she held herself with a confidence that filled the room.
She took a step toward me. Then another.
"You're tense, Max," she said. "I can see it. Your shoulders are practically touching your ears."
"I'm fine," I said. I didn't move. I was a statue. I was the wall.
"You're not fine," she murmured. She reached out. Her hand hovered over my chest, right over my heart. She didn't touch me yet. She just let the heat of her palm radiate against my skin. "You're vibrating."
"Imogen," I warned. "Step back."
"Or what?" she asked. "What are the consequences for this one? Corner time? No TV? Writing lines?"
She pressed her hand flat against my pec.
The sensation was electric. Her hand was cool, my skin was hot. Her fingers curled slightly, digging into the muscle.
"You make all these rules," she said, looking up at me through her lashes. "Curfews. Schedules. Dress codes. You control everything."
She took a half-step closer, until her thighs brushed against mine.
"Does it bother you?" she whispered. "That you can't control this?"
She moved her hand down. Over my abs. Over the rigid line of my stomach. Lower.
I caught her wrist.
My grip was fast, bordering on bruising. I stopped her hand inches from the waistband of my sweatpants.
"Careful, Princess," I growled.
"Why?" She didn't pull away. She leaned into my grip. "Are you afraid you'll break?"
"I'm afraid I'll break you," I said.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes went wide, dark pools of arousal. She licked her lips.
"Try," she challenged.
The word snapped the last thread of my restraint.
I didn't think. I reacted.
I yanked her toward me, releasing her wrist and wrapping my arm around her waist. I spun us around, slamming her back against the nearest wall. It wasn't gentle. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp.
"You want to play games?" I snarled, leaning down, trapping her with my body. "You want to push the buttons?"
"Yes," she breathed, her hands coming up to grip my biceps. Her nails dug in.
"Fine," I said. "Game on."
I captured her mouth.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a possession. It was a raid. I kissed her like I had been starving for a decade and she was the only sustenance left on earth. I slanted my mouth over hers, forcing her lips apart, my tongue sweeping in to taste her.
She tasted like coffee and peppermint and sin.
She moaned, a low, vibrating sound in her throat that drove me insane. She melted against the wall, her body softening, molding against the hardness of mine. Her hands slid up my arms, over my shoulders, into my wet hair, gripping tight.
I ground my hips against hers. There was no hiding it now. The thick, hard ridge of my erection pressed firmly against her stomach.
She gasped into my mouth, arching into the pressure.
"Max," she whimpered.
"Shut up," I growled against her lips. "You wanted this. You begged for it."
I moved my hands. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose the long, elegant line of her throat. I trailed kisses down her jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin under her ear.
"Good girl," I murmured. "So desperate."
She shuddered. "Please."
"Please what?" I bit down on her pulse point. She tasted of salt and sweat.
"Touch me," she begged. "Please, Max. Touch me."
I pulled back, just an inch, to look at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and red from my beard burn. Her eyes were glazed. She looked wrecked.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I slid my hand down her side, over the curve of her hip. I hooked my thumb into the waistband of her sweatpants.
"You know the rules," I whispered, my voice rough. "We don't do this. You're the Dean's daughter. You're my assignment."
"Fuck the rules," she hissed, grabbing my hand and shoving it down.
I let her. My hand slid inside her sweatpants, then inside her panties.
She was soaking wet.
The realization made my vision blur. She was slick, hot, and ready for me.
I groaned, a guttural sound torn from my chest. I cupped her, my fingers sliding into the heat of her.
"Fuck," I swore.
She threw her head back, hitting the drywall with a thud. Her legs fell open, giving me access.
I didn't wait. I started to move. Rubbing. Circling.
"Max!" She screamed my name, her nails raking down my back.
"Quiet," I ordered, kissing her hard to swallow the sound. "The walls are thin. You want the neighbors to hear what a little slut you are?"
She whimpered into my mouth, biting my lower lip. "Yes. No. I don't care."
I picked up the pace. I was relentless. I was the goalie, the engineer, the perfectionist. I knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply. I treated her pleasure like a formula, and I was solving for X.
She was unraveling in my arms. Her knees buckled, and I had to use my body to hold her up against the wall.
"That's it," I whispered against her ear. "Take it. Fall apart for me."
"I can't... I can't stand..."
"I've got you," I promised. "I've always got you."
I slipped a finger inside her.
She froze. Her entire body went rigid. A sharp inhale.
It was tight. impossibly tight.
I paused. My brain, hazy with lust, tried to catch up. She wasn't just tight. She was... un-navigated.
I pulled back slightly, looking at her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. She wasn't pushing me away, but she was holding her breath.
"Imogen?" I whispered, my hand stilling.
She shook her head frantically. "Don't stop. Please don't stop. I want... I want to feel it."
"Imogen," I said, my voice sharper this time. "Look at me."
She opened her eyes. They were wide, fearful, and incredibly vulnerable.
"Tell me," I commanded.
"I..." She bit her lip. "I haven't... I mean, I've done stuff. But not... not this. Not all the way."
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
The Brat. The party girl. The girl who danced on ice sculptures and wore dresses that were illegal in three states.
She was a virgin.
I slowly, carefully withdrew my hand.
She let out a sob of frustration. "No! Why did you stop? Did I do it wrong? Is it... am I weird?"
"No," I said firmly. I pulled my hand out of her pants, then grabbed her face in both of my hands, forcing her to look at me. "You aren't weird. You're perfect."
I kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her mouth, softly this time. A reassurance. An apology.
"But we aren't doing this against a wall in the hallway," I said. "Not for your first time. And not when you're just reacting to adrenaline."
"I want you," she argued, grabbing my wrists. "Max, I want you. It hurts."
"I know," I said, rubbing my thumb over her cheek. "I know it hurts. I'm hard as a rock, Imogen. I want to be inside you so bad I can barely see straight."
I took her hand and pressed it against the bulge in my sweatpants, letting her feel the truth of it.
"See?" I rasped. "I'm dying here."
She squeezed, her eyes widening.
"But," I pulled her hand away, lacing our fingers together. "I am in control. Remember?"
She nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes.
"We are going to do this," I promised, my voice low and heavy with intent. "But we are going to do it right. When you're ready. When we have a bed. And when I have a condom."
I kissed her one last time, hard and quick.
"Go to your room," I said.
"Max..."
"Go," I ordered, spinning her around and swatting her ass lightly. "Before I change my mind and ruin you right here on the floor."
She squeaked, then scrambled down the hall, her door slamming shut seconds later.
I leaned my forehead against the wall, breathing heavily. My heart was racing like I’d just played a triple overtime game.
I looked down at my hand. It was shaking.
Imogen Sterling was a virgin. And she wanted me.
The game had changed. The stakes had just gone through the roof.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn't sure if I could make the save.