The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [57]
“Gross,” Fallon repeated. “But fine, something happens and boom! The whole world makes sense.”
“You think Max Emery’s your elusive sex gerbil?” Rachel asked.
“Let’s abandon this analogy, please. But yeah. He just…he fucking turns me on. Like somebody put batteries in me. I work! I finally work!”
“I’m so happy for you, sweetie. Do you think it’ll happen again? Between you and Max?”
“Yeah. In a couple hours.”
“Nice. Wait—so, does he know? Does he know he’s the only person who’s ever flipped your pancake?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he gloating?”
“In his way,” Fallon said, smiling to herself. “I better go soon. He’s making dinner. I can smell it.”
“I shan’t keep you. I can hear your mouth watering from here. Call me tomorrow. I want to keep tabs on your batting average. I’ll be yo’ sexual statistician,” she said in a jivey voice.
“Lovely. Well, I’m on deck now, so I better get going. Tell Josh he better not smirk at me the next time I see him.”
“You got it. Now go forth and spread your orgasmicosity.”
“Thanks, Rache.”
Rachel laughed. “What did I have to do with it? Go thank Max.”
Max didn’t taste a single spoonful of the stew he’d made for dinner nor a drop of the unremarkable wine, nor did he absorb a word of the conversation. Seated across from him at the picnic table, Fallon looked dreamy in the fading light of the day’s elusive sun. The breeze was brisk and cool, but Max was burning up inside his own skin.
When they finally brought the dishes inside, his heart began to pound, impatient. All day his fingers had been clumsy, as though he were drunk. Thank goodness he was still a week away from any precision work on the statue—he could easily have chipped a whole limb off in this artless state. Fallon had seemed exceptionally level all day, calmer than usual, and Max couldn’t imagine how that was. He was so edgy and eager he’d toyed a dozen different times with tossing his tools aside and taking her right there on the filthy wood of the studio floor. If he didn’t get this out of his system soon, he’d never get Forrester’s sculpture finished on time.
Fallon had been quiet since returning from her brief trip to her cottage after the sitting. Not nervous. Reflective, perhaps. She turned the faucet on in the kitchen sink and squeezed dish soap onto a sponge. Max reached over and shut the water off.
“I’ll do that in the morning,” he said. “My body is going to catch fire and burn this whole house down if we don’t do something soon.”
She smiled at him and replaced the sponge.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
She reached for her bag and pulled out a box of condoms. “Nope. Are you?”
“I’m impatient.” His eyes darted from her face to the box to the loft and back again.
“I can tell. It’s fascinating to see you so wound up about something—”
He cut her off, pushing her back against the counter and kissing her, tangling his fingers deep in her hair. Her mouth tasted like middle-shelf pinot noir and salt and bouillon. Like heaven. He lapped his tongue softly against hers in the way that seemed guaranteed to make the breath catch in her throat. He pressed his body close to make her feel the power she wielded over him. A tiny, distinct noise of approval left her lips, and he felt himself tumbling over the edge of sanity.
Mouths. Endless stairs to be mounted. Hands grasping. The edge of the bed and the sounds of shoes hitting the floor, of one falling from the loft to the studio below and the cat hissing with alarm.
They tumbled across the rumpled bedclothes, and Max lost track of whose hands were whose in the melee of frantic groping. He pushed her shirt up over her head and she returned the favor. He felt her hands in his hair as he struggled with her jeans and finally wrestled them away. He slowed his brain, ordering himself to savor these seconds and nearly obeying the command. All these moments just as he’d imagined them, only a fraction as artful and ten times more perfect.
He settled his knees between her legs and braced himself on one elbow. He willed the other hand to be patient as he reached down and grazed his fingertips