56. Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Six
Mialina
Ishift backward in search of the solid warmth I remember surrounding me as I fell asleep, but my bottom slides across an empty stretch of cool fabric.
Frowning, I open my eyes and reach behind me, patting the space where Maximo should be.
He’s clearly not here.
I lift my head and glance around the penthouse.
Pale morning light fills the room. The fire continues to burn, keeping our nest of blankets and cushions cozy and warm.
Beyond the glass, the storm that tried to tear Chicago apart seems to have exhausted itself. The snow has stopped drifting past the windows, and the wind has fallen silent.
I push myself upright and wait for the floor to shift beneath me. When nothing happens, I remain perfectly still, concentrating on the tower, but there’s no subtle sway.
Phew, I can remove death by skyscraper from today’s schedule.
My gaze returns to the empty place beside me. The blankets are rumpled where Maximo slept, but there’s no other sign of him.
As I stare at the space he occupied not that long ago, fragments of a dream begin to resurface. My mouth moving over Maximo’s as he pressed me into the blankets. My hands beneath his shirt, exploring his bare skin.
He was so muscular beneath my palms. And then he held my wrists above my head and told me to keep my eyes on him.
A blush spreads across my face.
It all felt so real.
I did dream this, didn’t I?
There’s no possible way I kissed Maximo again, much less did everything that followed.
I was frightened, exhausted, and still half-asleep. My mind must have taken the kiss on the Ferris wheel, mixed it with being held by him all night, and created an exceptionally vivid fantasy designed to humiliate me first thing in the morning.
I tap a fingertip against my lips, trying to remember more.
Oh. No.
My lips are tender.
I brush them more deliberately. They’re definitely swollen.
Another memory returns, this one far too detailed to dismiss.
The scrape of his teeth over my lower lip. The way he looked at me while pleasure built until I thought I might come apart beneath him. The rough command in his voice when he told me to come.
My hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my tracksuit pants. Sensitivity flares between my thighs, and when my fingers reach my panties, I find them unmistakably wet.
No.
No, no, no.
It actually happened.
All of it.
I kissed him. I wrapped myself around him, grabbed his ass, and begged him to touch me.
Oh God!
Sleepy Mia must consider inhibitions and dignity entirely optional.
I grab a pillow and groan into it.
Maybe it would have been better if the tower had collapsed during the storm. At least then I wouldn’t have to face Maximo again.
Still, even my humiliation can’t smother the warmth curling low in my stomach. Because no matter how brazen I was, it felt damn good.
Better than good.
Even now, my body remembers the pressure of him against me and the commanding rasp of his voice telling me to take what I needed.
The lingering sensitivity between my thighs doesn’t make me regret it. It makes me wonder what would have happened if he’d given me what I begged for.
Which is clearly a catastrophic failure of judgment.
I lower my hands and glance around the apartment again.
Where is he?
I’m beyond relieved he wasn’t here to watch me wake and piece everything together. He would have enjoyed every second of my humiliation, probably stretched out beside me wearing that insufferably satisfied expression while waiting for me to admit I remember.
Perhaps we can pretend it never happened?
Who am I kidding?
Maximo will never let me forget this, not when it supports his campaign to make me surrender to his marriage plans. As far as he’s concerned, one moment of poor self-control probably constitutes a legally binding engagement.
I strain my ears for footsteps or the low murmur of his voice, but I hear nothing beyond the faint crackle of the fire.
He hasn’t left, has he?
The possibility unsettles me more than it should. Only because I need to know where he is so I can avoid him on the way to the shower.
Dropping the blankets and the pillow, I climb to my feet and glance toward the hallway.
Ideally, I’ll spot Chicago’s most arrogant Mafia Don from a safe distance and disappear into the nearest bathroom before he notices I’m awake.
I creep into the hallway, keeping my back close to the wall. I place each foot carefully in front of the other, trying not to make any noise.
Honestly, I’m not sure why. The floors are covered by thick rugs, and I’m wearing socks, but isn’t that what spies do when infiltrating enemy territory?
Maximo’s penthouse definitely qualifies as that.
Away from the warm cream tones of the living room, his private domain is more masculine and restrained. Dark wood accents break up the pale walls, along with enormous black-and-white photographs of Chicago and the occasional piece of artwork that probably costs an insane amount of money.
Everything is immaculate, masculine, and controlled, without so much as a carelessly placed book to suggest an actual human being has ever lived here.
I pause at the first corner and lean forward just enough to peer around it.
Empty.
My gaze travels upward, searching the ceiling for the dark gleam of a camera lens. I see none. Perhaps Maximo draws the line at installing them inside his home?
Oh, please let him draw that line.
If footage exists of me creeping through his hallway, I’ll have no explanation that doesn’t make me sound either unstable or guilty. Possibly both.
Still, I continue forward, attempting to appear casual in case I’m being recorded. This results in an awkward combination of tiptoeing and pretending I’m taking a relaxed morning stroll through a home I’ve never seen before.
Somehow, I suspect it looks more suspicious than the creeping did.
A pair of double doors stands open at the end of the hallway. Beyond them lies a bedroom that seems unmistakably Maximo’s.
I hover in the doorway as the sound of running water draws my attention to another door on the far side of the room. It’s been left ajar, allowing steam to drift through the narrow opening.
He’s in the shower. Excellent.
That means my reconnaissance mission is complete. I should retreat and find another bathroom.
But knowing Maximo is occupied makes it impossible to resist taking a closer look at his private domain. I venture a few steps inside, making sure I can hear the shower.
A massive four-poster bed dominates the room. Its dark wooden frame is heavy and imposing against the crisp charcoal-and-white bedding. A dark canopy stretches across the top, making the bed into an intimate space despite the enormous room surrounding it.
How many women has Maximo brought in here?
An unpleasant knot forms in my stomach as an image of him lowering another woman onto those charcoal sheets plays out in my mind.
No, Mia!
Who cares who he has slept with or what he has done to the women in this bed?
As I glare at it, I notice something metallic glinting between the folds of the dark canopy. I step closer to get a better look.
A short length of chain is secured to the frame and tucked between the folds of fabric near one of the upper corners, almost entirely concealed. I spot another on the opposite side.
I frown.
Why does Maximo have chains hidden above his bed?
Oh.
My gaze drops to the mattress. Does he restrain the women he brings in here?
He pinned my wrists over my head this morning. If we had been in this room, would he have tied me to the bed?
I wait for the thought to shock me.
It doesn’t.
Should I be alarmed by this?
I liked being held down. More than liked it, if the way my body had responded was anything to go by. His grip had been firm enough that I couldn’t pull free, yet at no point had I wanted him to release me.
My face grows hotter.
I listen for the shower again. It’s still going. Time to get out of here.
I’m about to retreat when another sound reaches me beneath the rush of water.
Was that a groan?
I freeze, listening.
For several seconds, there’s only the steady hiss of the shower.
I must have imagined it.
Truly, the sensible thing is to leave. I’ve confirmed Maximo’s location, inspected his bedroom, and discovered far more about his preferred use of a four-poster bed than I needed to know before breakfast.
I take another step toward the hallway, but another low grunt carries through the partially open bathroom door.
It doesn’t sound like pain. At least, I don’t think it does.
But it would be irresponsible to walk away without making sure he hasn’t slipped in the shower and sustained a life-threatening injury, wouldn’t it?
My concern for his welfare has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to see him naked and lay eyes on what my hands explored earlier. That would be an incidental benefit of saving his life.
Moving as quietly as possible, I inch toward the narrow opening and peek through. I can see a spacious bathroom lined with dark stone, but clouds of steam soften everything beyond the entrance.
I lean closer.
Maximo stands beneath an enormous rainfall shower with his back turned to me. Water streams over his shoulders and follows the deep ridges of muscle down his back before disappearing somewhere below my obstructed line of sight.
Damn fogged glass.
But even through it, I can make out the powerful width of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, and the way every muscle shifts beneath his wet skin when he moves.
My heart begins beating faster as I remember how all that strength felt beneath my palms and how carefully he held it in check while he was above me.
Another rough groan leaves him.
One of his shoulders flexes, and only then do I notice the movement of his arm. His hand is hidden in front of his body, but the slow, rhythmic motion leaves little doubt about where it is or what he’s doing.
My eyes widen.
Oh. My. God.
My fingers clench into fists while my gaze remains fixed on the steady movement of his arm, horrified by what I’ve walked in on and somehow unable to look away.
He isn’t injured. Not at all.
My core develops an answering pulse, and I press my thighs together to stop it. I only feel it more.
Argh, I’ve got to leave.
Now.
Before he notices me standing here gawking at him as though I’ve never seen a naked man before. Well, actually, I haven’t.
I spin to flee, but before I can take a single step, his voice reaches me through the rushing water.
“Mia.”
Every muscle in my body locks. Even my heart seems to stop for one impossible second before slamming back into motion.
Dammit, he saw me.
Mortified, I bite down on my lip as I turn around ever so slowly.
But his back is still turned to me, and he’s still doing… that.
Which means he said my name because he was thinking about me while doing… that.
The rush of relief leaves me almost lightheaded. He doesn’t know I’m here.
Time to go before my luck runs out.
I hurry across his bedroom, resisting the urge to break into a full sprint until I reach the hallway.
The moment I’m out of sight, restraint becomes irrelevant.
I race through the penthouse in my socks, nearly lose my footing on the polished floor, and fling myself into the bathroom where I changed last night.
I slam the door, turn the lock, and lean back against it. My heart pounds frantically against my ribs.
Whether Maximo caught me spying or called my name while pleasuring himself, one thing is clear.
I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about what happened.