Max cocked his head to one side. “Why do I feel like you’re fucking with me?”
“I’m not, Max. I wouldn’t do that.” Tate crossed his arms over his chest. “As your sponsor and as your friend, I have to make sure you’re all right and that the choices you make are beneficial to your recovery.” He shrugged. “If you tell me you’re okay with this, that this is what you want, then fine. I’ll support you.”
Max dipped his chin in acquiescence, shaking off the suspicious feeling prickling his skin while allowing Tate’s words of support to settle into him. He was surprised to realize that they made him feel better, more relaxed, as though Tate’s blessing was somehow important to what was going on between him and Grace.
Grace.
Max sipped his coffee, thinking about how their dynamic had changed over the last couple of weeks. Damn, she was something else: passionate, demanding, and altogether hot as hell. The latter wasn’t news, but combined with her newfound inner sex goddess, Grace was truly incredible. She liked everything he’d done to her and, despite her shy smile and fidgeting hands, she wasn’t afraid to ask for what she wanted. Like the other day when she’d begged him to come all over her, just like he had in his room at the boardinghouse.
Max had worried that, despite the opposite intent, Grace would think his coming on her was degrading or demeaning or even, he shuddered at the thought, insulting. But when, lying on his bed, he’d seen the fire in her eyes and heard the husky plea leave her lips, he knew she liked it. She’d liked it even better the second time. They’d just gotten back from a run when Grace was sweating and breathless while stretching out on her carpet. Max had approached her, hard-on obvious in his running shorts, rubbing himself while he watched her.
Neither of them had spoken when she realized what he was doing. She hadn’t even looked surprised, more pleased than outraged. It hadn’t taken long for Grace’s hand to travel between her legs and Max had watched as she made herself come, begging for him to do the same all over her.
Max had been more than happy to oblige, growling as his orgasm snapped up his spine, thrusting his hips out and pulsing his pleasure across Grace’s body, the white of his come stretched across her dark caramel skin causing a deep, dark ball of possessiveness to curl in his chest.
Max hadn’t given himself time to truly ponder—for reasons that were blatantly obvious—but it had been oddly intimate standing over her, touching himself while Grace did the same, the room silent but for their grunts and curses.
“How’s the painting going?” Tate asked, his wry voice pulling Max back to his seat in the coffee shop.
Max cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “Good. I’m painting nearly every day. When I get the time.”
His paintings, just recently, had become a cacophony of vibrant colors and indiscernible patterns. He’d started to favor warmer colors, hotter colors, the usual blacks and grays of his initial artwork slowly fading into the background to make way for the golds, reds, and greens that tore across his canvases. The damn things seemed to create themselves with little help from the man holding the paintbrush. It seemed getting laid was all the creative motivation Max had needed. He smiled to himself. Hell. The curve of Grace’s neck as she called out to God when they fucked, the smooth skin of her inner thighs, and the taste of her between them were completely inspiring. He checked his watch, wondering again what time tomorrow she’d be coming back from her trip to DC and whether she’d be up for round three.
“That’s good, Max,” Tate commented, his eyes on Max’s watch when Max looked up. “You late for something?” He smirked when Max flipped him the bird.
“Okay,” Riley said and thumped back down into his seat. “What awesome sexy-time details did I miss?” He shoved a huge forkful of waffle into his mouth.
“None,” Max said, leaning forward. “Anyway, forget that, I need to talk to you about Carter’s bachelor party.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Any ideas?”
The smile that spread across Riley’s face was huge. “Dude,” he mumbled around his food. “Do you even need to ask? I have links on my phone.” He began riffling in his jeans pocket.
Max snickered into his coffee cup, not feeling guilty at all for using Riley’s short attention span to his advantage. He knew he’d successfully dodged a barrage of questions he had neither the forbearance nor inclination to answer, while avoiding Tate’s knowing stare needling him across the table.