Grace huffed and sat back, removing her fingers from his. “It’s not working.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “I can’t get the angle right.”
Max’s gaze wandered the length of her neck, across her pulse points, down to the V of her top and the swell of her chest, to the top of her thighs, where her skirt had ridden up. Her legs were fucking perfection. She had runner’s legs, slender and strong. He wondered fleetingly what they’d feel like wrapped around his hips, his ribs, and his neck. He bet she tasted incredible.
“You need both hands to hold the camera,” he suggested, his voice deep and husky, his stare unmoving from her lap.
“Yeah, but I can’t do that while we’re”—she gestured between them, frustrated—“sitting like this.”
Max took her hand and held it between his, determined. He waited for her to look at him, which she did, blatantly surprised by his directness. But Max was tired of dancing around the issue. If she wanted him to help her, it was time to prove it.
“Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.
Her gaze flickered across him, from his eyes to his mouth, to his hands and back again. Max liked the way her eyes felt on him, innocent and honest. She was silent for an age, causing sweat to gather at his hairline. “Do you?”
She nodded, her stare never wavering. “Yes,” she replied. “I trust you.”
Max exhaled. “Good.” He smiled. “I think I know how we can make this easier.” She waited. “Turn around,” he said. “So your back’s to my chest.”
She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned as he asked. She sat back gradually between Max’s legs, shuffling across the log until her hair was under his nose, smelling all sorts of awesome, like clean laundry and honey. He needed to know what skin lotion she used, too, because that shit was golden. Nothing could beat the smell of a woman and dammit he’d missed it.
“Place your feet on the tree,” he instructed. “Good. Now, I’m gonna place my hands on your legs, okay? That way you can hold the camera and take the picture.”
She cleared her throat, but didn’t answer. Max sat forward, placing his chin on her shoulder, keeping his hands to himself. “If you don’t want to, it’s all right,” he whispered. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I swear.” She nodded. “Talk to me,” he urged. “Tell me what you can handle.”
She was breathing quicker. “I’m . . . it’s fine.” She pursed her lips. Max recognized the calming technique Elliot had taught him when he first entered rehab. “Just . . . go slow. Please.”
“Whatever you need.”
Max swallowed, adjusting his position behind her, not wanting Grace to feel his lust poking her in the lower back. Jesus, he was wound tighter than a fucking spring. He was suddenly aware of everything about the woman sitting between his legs, her breathing, her scent, the slight tremor in her spine, and when his palms finally made contact with the skin of her legs, he all but gulped the groan that threatened at the back of his throat. She was warm and so fucking soft under his fingertips.
He kept his hands still, pressing into her thighs, his digits reaching the top of her knee. “Take the picture,” he murmured into her hair, desperately ignoring the epic view he had down her bra. “Take it.”
“I can’t move,” she gasped.
“Yes, you can.” Max shifted his hands, a whisper of skin against skin. “I’m not holding you down. You’re in control. You can move, you can push me awa—”
“No, don’t,” she interrupted with an abrupt shake of her head. “Don’t move away.”
Max smiled. “I won’t.”
He wasn’t going anywhere. Dammit, what he would have given to push her legs open and feel what delights she had between them. He wondered if she was wet, if she was bare, or as nature intended. He’d turn her around, sit her on his cock, and fuck her hard enough to make her forget everything and everyone she was afraid of, or better yet, he’d bend her over the very log they were sitting on and make her scream his name.
But he knew it wasn’t the time for anything but baby steps.
Gentle, slow baby steps.
Fucking would come later.
He closed his eyes and breathed, calming his body down. It was no easy feat. After a moment’s silence, Grace lifted the camera and started clicking, taking picture after picture of his hands on her.
“Can you . . . put your hands closer—here, to the inside of my thighs?” Her voice was shy, warm, and incredibly sensual.
Max did as she asked, biting his lip as a secondary urge to cop a feel crashed over him. “Your skin’s so soft,” he whispered instead, nuzzling her neck, emboldened and relieved as shit that she wasn’t freaking out.
Her head dropped back onto his shoulder after she’d taken more pictures.
“It smells good, too,” Max continued, taking a huge whiff. “Fuck, what is that?”
She laughed, the motion of it causing her body to rub Max’s in nightmarishly fantastic ways. “It’s cocoa butter,” she murmured.
“It’s fucking awesome.” She laughed again. Max bit back a groan. “You smell good enough to eat.”