The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [64]
“Me neither.” He secured the towel around his waist. “Does that make us discerning or pitiful, do you think?”
“I always thought of myself as allergic.” Fallon smiled at him before turning away to dress.
They ate in near-silence and as Fallon washed the dishes Max stoked the fire. Above them, beyond all the glass, the night was clear and inky-black and pulsing with stars.
She felt strong arms wrap around her waist as she stared skyward.
“There’s a better view from the bed,” he whispered and kissed her neck.
“I’ll bet there is.”
He took her hand and led her up the steps, fourteen of them. She’d learned each by heart, a countdown to her favorite moment of these recent days.
Max tugged her down onto the covers and into his arms. His kisses were deep and slow and romantic but deliciously obscene. Sometimes his kissing felt as explicit to her as penetration. She yanked his T-shirt up as he unzipped her jeans, patience overpowered by excitement. She kicked her pants off her ankles and he pulled her down to him.
“I want to know your fantasies,” he said between kisses.
She tensed. “My fantasies?”
“I want to make them real with you. I want to please you.”
That unrelenting dream flashed across Fallon’s consciousness. “You already please me. Obviously. I’m quite happy.”
He moved to straddle her. The way he braced his arms made his shoulder blades jut up sharply, an animal about to pounce. “Tell me what’s in there,” he breathed, brushing his lips against her forehead.
“You go first.” She touched her fingertips to his ribs, nervous for what he might say.
“You will shush me because it will be too sincere for you to hear. You’ll think I’m being too familiar. And it will make you uncomfortable.”
“Tell me anyway,” she said, sick to death of her own predictable worries.
He closed his eyes, looking thoughtful. “I fantasize that you stay here, after the sculpture is done.”
She shifted. “You’re right. That does make me uncomfortable.”
His dark eyes opened. “There’s more, though. There are dirtier parts, if you want to hear those.”
“Yes, tell me those.”
“I fantasize that you stay,” he said, tucking his forearms tighter against her. “And every night after it’s dark, I climb those stairs with you and crawl into this bed and I make you moan for me. Right here. And when it’s summer, we walk to the beach at dusk with a blanket and I lay you down, and make you come against my tongue. Until the only things I can smell are you and the ocean.” He smiled down at her.
“That’s pretty good,” she admitted. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“How can you tell so much about me? Like how you know what’ll make me uncomfortable. All the little things you just know? Sometimes it feels like you’re reading my mind.”
“I have been told that before.” He thought a moment. “I think it’s because I spent so much of my life being told whatever it was people thought I wanted to hear. Back when everyone wanted to be my friend or my agent or my lover or my dealer. I had to get very good at finding out the truth without listening to the words people actually use. You do that too, you know. You do it to me, except your guesses are always wrong.”
“So can you already guess what my fantasies are?”
He shook his head. “I’m a detective, not a psychic. So you will just have to tell me.”
“Well…it’s not really a fantasy, even. I don’t really sit around and think about sex like that. Or I didn’t use to. But there’s this dream I keep having, almost every night.”
“For how long?”
“Since…since the first week I was here, I think. Since way before I wanted to dream about you. Then even worse, after that day you made me touch you.”
“How do I compare in actuality?” he asked, grinning.
“Well, it’s hard to say. You don’t always get to do much in my dreams.” She bit her lip, embarrassed that she was even considering telling him this.
“Oh, no?”
“No. You’re usually…tied down, in the dreams.”
She watched his reaction, a subtle raising of his eyebrows followed by another smirk.
“And what do you do, in these dreams?” He lowered himself and ran his tongue over