The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [26]
From this close, all Max had to do was close the few inches that separated their faces. Fallon gasped as his lips took hers. Heat flooded her chest, but her body’s curiosity was no match for her shock and she pulled away.
“Don’t ever do that again,” she warned, voice low. She hoped her tone would read as anger, not arousal. She swallowed.
Max stared at her for a few breaths, then released the bars of the stairway. It took a concerted effort for Fallon to wrestle her attention from the flexing contours of his bare torso, and elsewhere. She glued her eyes to his.
“You’re walking a very fine line.” She ran her hand over her lips. “And cooperation-wise, don’t think for a moment you just did yourself any favors.”
“How many lovers have you had?” Max asked, apropos of nothing. So typically Max.
Fallon kept herself cool, casual, unscandalized. “None of your business.”
He smiled. “You’re not a virgin?”
“Of course not.”
“But you seem unimpressed by the whole idea, yes?”
She shrugged even as her cheeks heated. Having these questions posed was unnerving enough but having them posed by this man, practically naked, still noticeably aroused, his body—his mere proximity—so adept at flustering her…
She composed herself. “It’s a bit overrated. I’ve got better things to pour my energy into.”
“Why is it you so dislike being touched?” Max asked, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
“You lack a certain amount of tact, did you know that?”
“I hope no one has mistreated you,” he said.
“No. It’s just…it’s like being pawed at. It’s a mess. Sex is just a big, overrated mess.”
“How Victorian you are. Do you know what I think, Fallon?” Goddamn, why did it always feel so raw, hearing her name in this man’s scratchy baritone?
“I’m happy to say I’ve got absolutely no idea what you’re thinking.”
“I think you have had poor men,” he said.
“And I think you’re getting too personal.”
He dropped his dark gaze. “Very well…”
Fallon hissed out a breath, exasperated. “No. Go on. You’re obviously dying to share your opinions on the topic of my sex life.”
“I’m sure I know nothing of it.”
“Of course you don’t,” she snapped, staring him down. Why didn’t he put his frigging clothes back on already?
He raised his eyes again to meet her angry ones, face placid. “But I wonder if maybe you oughtn’t be on top?”
“Oh?” Her hands clenched into fists at her hips.
“You seem worried. Uncomfortable about these men’s hands on you. I think maybe you need your man, your lover, flat on his back. Hands tied. At your mercy.”
Get out of my head. “Do I?”
“It’s only a guess.” He crossed his strong arms over his chest, businesslike. “How do you please yourself?”
“Excuse me?”
“When you touch yourself—”
“That’s too far.”
He paused, running the very tip of his tongue over the corner of his lips. Then, “Your fingers?”
“Don’t.”
“A toy?” he pressed on, brazen. “The bedding?”
“If you don’t shut your mouth I’ll shut it for you,” she said coldly—as cold as her cheeks were blazing hot.
He smiled tightly. “Of course.”
“Good.”
“Just promise me that you do.”
She made her eyes into slits, a warning.
Max pursed his lips a moment. “Have you had a man’s tongue?”
Fallon fought a short battle between pride and shock. “Of course I have.”
“And it couldn’t make up for all those clumsy, pawing hands?”
She shrugged, trying to appear blasé. “I wasn’t all that impressed.”
“That is a real shame.”
“Don’t look so smug. I bet you think you can fix me, don’t you? What, one night in your bed and I’ll transform into some enlightened nymphomaniac?”
“I am not so presumptuous.”
“Your smile says different. And you’re the most presumptuous man I think I’ve ever met.”
“Who is this statue for?” Max asked, surprising her. He hadn’t asked that in over a week. “Who is Donald Forrester to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I doubt that. He’s someone who wants you very much. An old lover? A prospective one? I wonder why it is he cannot simply settle