Chapter 42 #3
No, he doesn't want just any warm body beneath him.
He wants me—Celeste—with my particular scars and freckles and fears.
And I've never craved anyone with this desperate, clawing hunger.
His mouth claims mine with such ferocity that my lips will surely bruise by morning, his tongue exploring every corner as if memorizing the geography of my mouth.
Each thrust sends shockwaves through my spine, each gentle bite on my swollen bottom lip makes me gasp.
I feel his heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free, his breath hot and ragged against my neck.
When I finally shatter, it's like a California earthquake—a 7.
8 on the Richter scale—fracturing me into a thousand glittering pieces.
Heat floods every cell, electricity crackling across my skin like lightning striking the Malibu coastline during a winter storm.
His name—Max—tears from my throat, raw and primal, again and again until my voice breaks.
His shoulders slump as he gasps for air, his chest heaving against mine as he pulls out.
But his grip tightens—possessive, desperate—as my legs are still locked around him.
When he crashes his mouth back onto mine, there's nothing gentle about it.
It's all hunger and need, teeth grazing my lower lip before he lifts me back onto the cold marble, the shock of it making me arch against him.
Neither of us can bear to break apart. My fingers twist into his dark hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan against my mouth.
The marble bites into my skin, but I don't care—all I feel is the delicious ache where his kisses have claimed me.
"Tell me again, Celeste," he demands, voice rough and broken.
"About how I don't really want you. Christ, I've never wanted anything the way I want you. "
His hands—those long, elegant fingers with perfectly manicured nails—devour every curve of my body, igniting my skin with electricity that makes me gasp.
He's hard again, throbbing against my thigh, his desire unmistakable.
With a growl that sends shivers down my spine, he lifts me in one swift motion, my body crushed against the hard planes of his chest as he carries me to a chaise lounge hidden beneath gauzy white tents by his infinity pool.
The tent becomes our private universe—navy velvet lounges swallowing our bodies, amber-scented candles throwing wild shadows across our skin, a vibrant Moroccan rug beneath us catching the evidence of our passion.
He seizes a remote, and suddenly the air vibrates with pulsing bass and haunting melodies that match the rhythm of our bodies as we claim each other, desperate and hungry, as if this night might be our last.
Hours later, after a marathon of lovemaking that left us both breathless, we're finally sated, laying side by side on the plush crimson velvet lounge in this candlelit tent.
Outside, December winds whisper against the canvas walls, but I don't feel the coolness, only the lingering heat between us.
We're lying there, my head nestled in the crook of his arm, his fingers tracing lazy patterns through my tangled hair.
He leans down, pressing his lips first to my temple where my pulse still hammers, then captures my mouth in a kiss so tender it makes my heart ache.
My palm rests on his chest, feeling each heartbeat beneath warm skin and firm muscle.
My body still quivers with aftershocks, every nerve ending alive and singing, saturated with a pleasure so complete I feel drunk with it.
I know that I have to get some sleep. It's now 3 in the morning, the red digits of Max's watch glowing against his tanned wrist. Six hours of lovemaking has left my thighs trembling, my lips swollen, my entire body feeling like overcooked spaghetti sliding off a fork.
The tent smells of sandalwood and sweat, our mingled scents trapped in the canvas cocoon.
I dread crawling back to my empty bed with its cold sheets, but my alarm will shriek in three hours and I'll be stumbling through the office like a zombie.
Max traces circles on my hip, his touch saying he doesn't want to leave either, though tomorrow he faces back-to-back meetings until eight tomorrow night.
But when he kisses my shoulder, his stubble rough against my skin, I think: #worthit!
He takes a ragged breath. "I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice raw.
"Come to bed with me tonight. I swear I'll behave, but Christ—" His hand grips mine so hard it almost hurts.
"I need you there. I need to feel you breathing next to me.
" He shakes his head violently. "No. That's not enough.
Move in with me. The main house. Now. Tonight.
This separate wing bullshit is killing me when all I've wanted—all I've fucking ached for—is to have you with me.
Really with me." His green eyes burn into mine, desperate and exposed, like he's offering his still-beating heart on a silver platter, terrified I might refuse it. I can't breathe.
I nod and follow him inside, my body heavy with exhaustion yet light with a happiness I'm almost afraid to trust. After grabbing a few essentials from my side of the house, I slip between his sheets.
The question of whether I'll stay here permanently hangs between us—was his invitation born from the heat of the moment, or something more?
I'll wait for daylight to see if the offer stands.
For now, I savor the warmth of his skin against mine, our limbs tangled together in the darkness. As sleep pulls at me, I wonder if what we've found is as delicate as morning mist, destined to evaporate in reality's harsh light, or if it might withstand the day.
Something in me hopes desperately for permanence, even as my old fears whisper that nothing this sweet ever lasts.