The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [40]
“Thank you,” he whispered and he felt her shudder in a tiny, pleasurable way. Her damp hair smelled of some long-forgotten seaside. “Just pretend I am Gene Kelly.”
Another sigh. “Good night, Max.”
“Fais de beaux rêves.”
Fallon woke at an indeterminate dark hour, long after the heat and the light of the fireplace had died. Max’s strong arm was clamped tight around her middle, though he’d made no further attempts to come on to her.
“Max?” She turned her head toward him. “Max?”
He made a sleepy mmmm sound.
“It’s cold.”
“Sorry. I’ll start the fire again.” He untwined his arm and made to rise.
“No no—I’m fine. I mean aren’t you cold? Do you need some covers?” she asked carefully.
His reply was equally cautious. “That’s up to you.”
“It’s okay.”
She held her breath as he accepted the offer, rolling over and slipping beneath the comforter. Fallon tugged the long shirt down her hips. Against her bare legs she felt his denim-clad ones, felt the cool metal of his belt buckle through the cotton at the small of her back. He wrapped his arm around hers, skin to skin.
He spoke against her neck. “Is this still okay?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” Lord knew why. She always prickled at his touch, though this time it felt like electricity, not alarm. His warm hand cupped her clasped ones in front of her heart and she felt one of his silver rings click against hers.
“You feel good.” His voice was low—sleepy or seductive, she wasn’t sure which. A very strong part of her wished it was the latter. The same part wished he wasn’t wearing jeans so she could feel whether or not he was turned on. She wished he was. She wished he was wearing nothing so she could feel his strong leg slide between hers, feel his erection brush the insides of her thighs. She wanted to hear what noises he’d make when he found her already wet for him. She blushed, wondering whose thoughts these were.
“Fallon?”
Her eyes opened slowly, taking in red—Max’s comforter. Oh God.
She sat up, bumping into him where he sat behind her back. “Sorry. Hey.”
“I see you slept all right, then.”
She turned to find him already dressed for his morning run. “What time is it?”
“Only eight thirty. Keep sleeping if you want. But I didn’t know if you needed to go back to your cottage before the sitting begins…?”
“No, as long as my clothes are dry.” She did her best to sound as casual as he did. She’d only had a handful of lovers, all of them boyfriends, and she’d never suffered a properly ambiguous morning-after before this one.
“What do you normally have for breakfast?” Max asked. “Should I pick something up on my run?”
“Um, cereal, usually. Or oatmeal?”
He nodded. “I have that. Good. Anything else? More cream?”
“That’d be nice, thanks. My bag’s by the door if you want cash.”
He glanced at her, eyes crinkling faintly with some breed of fondness. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He put a hand on the back of her head and brushed his lips against her temple, looking uncharacteristically shy as he pulled away. “See you soon.”
“See you.” She sat still, looking down into the studio until the back door closed behind him. She released an almighty exhalation then toyed with the idea of calling Rachel. It would be seven thirty in New York, and she’d probably be preparing for another tough week at work. No. As much as Fallon would have liked a kind, female voice to assure her she shouldn’t be panicking, she could handle this by herself.
Max had left her clothes at the end of the bed. As she dressed she wondered how it was so many of her friends could do casual dating. How often did they wake up in situations like this—well, not like this—with people they didn’t know all that well, not knowing how they felt about those people or how those people felt about them? She couldn’t imagine doing it herself with any regularity. And she’d only slept with Max in the most technical of senses.
Downstairs, she found the cat sitting pointedly at the door and let it out. The studio was odd without