The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [68]
Max pulled away, grabbing the hand towel he kept in a bowl of water on the edge of the table and mopping the dust from his hands. He tossed it aside and pulled Fallon against him again.
“Wow.” He’d been rough in bed with Fallon at her request, but his approach had always been cautious before. Not now. It felt so right—this energy matched his face and his eyes and their dark promises. She could already feel her body priming for him.
He spoke against her mouth. “Christ, I want you.” His stare was fiery and urgent, his lips parted, fingers rough on her back. Behind all the seduction and intensity, Max radiated unmistakable happiness. He drew her into his kisses and walked them backward until the edge of the worktable pressed against Fallon’s butt. With strong hands still wrapped in their cotton tape, he lifted her and set her on the table, pushing his hips between her legs.
Fallon caught their reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door several paces behind him. She yanked his undershirt up and over his head and watched his back muscles as he pressed against her, studied his tattoos and the faint red scratches left by her nails the night before.
She fumbled with his belt buckle until he took over, releasing it and unzipping his fly, forcing his jeans down enough to take himself out. He entered her deep, no hesitation. The thrusts came fast and hard and frantic.
“Max.” He felt amazing—even better than before, if such a thing were possible. She glanced down, taking in his skillful, explicit movements. Divine. His bare skin against hers—
“Oh shit, Max—stop.” She grabbed his shoulders.
His hips kept pumping. “What is it?”
“Stop stop stop. We need a condom.”
“In a minute,” he said in a distracted, desperate voice.
“No, not in minute—now.” She pushed him away, hard, and slid off the table. “You know I’m not using anything. And I’m not looking to have your artsy French love-child, so suit up.” She ran a hand over her forehead, trying to collect herself. Having sex with Max was like being intoxicated, and he was a dangerously hard drug to sober up from.
He looked to be struggling with his composure as well. “Would that really be the worst thing in the world?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“What?”
“A child.” His flushed face was impossible to read.
“Yeah, Max, it would. A baby right now would be just about the worst thing that could happen to me. Or you. Or…us.”
“Why?”
Fallon’s eyes widened, and she took a step back from him, feeling naked, naked, naked.
“Why? Because we’re…we aren’t…anything, really. And we live hundreds of miles away from each other.”
He replaced himself and buckled his belt. “We aren’t anything?”
She faltered. “Sorry. We’re lovers, obviously. And friends, sort of. I think. But we’re not…you know. A couple. We’d never be normal. Not normal enough to have a frigging baby, at any rate.” She took a deep breath and considered a horrifying possibility. “You weren’t trying to get me pregnant, were you?”
He shook his head, looking somber, and she knew he was telling her the truth. “Of course not.” His eyes lowered and his jaw tightened perceptibly.
“Well, thank God for that.” She wanted this conversation to go away—for it never to have happened to begin with. “Anyway… Maybe we should take that break.”
He nodded, still not looking at her. He turned away and replaced his shirt and began sweeping the marble chips from the floor.
“Have I hurt your feelings?” she asked carefully.
He still didn’t turn. “No. My feelings are just fine.”
“Good. I mean, I wasn’t saying having your baby would be the worst thing ever, just a baby.