“I’m saying them because they’re true.”
He stares, unflinching in his conviction. I stare back, more affected by him and his smooth words than I should be. Despite the commotion that starts in my body every time we’re together, I don’t crave this feeling, and I don’t crave him. He may be different from any man I’ve met, but that doesn’t make him a good man. There must be something wrong with someone who gets his jollies by turning women into piles of aroused goo.
“Why aren’t you out tonight with some client?”
“I’m not seeing clients right now.”
“Because?”
He sips his tea. “I’m seeing you.”
“You can’t do both?”
“I’d rather not.” He looks down at his hands. “Out of all the ladies I know, I find you the most ... interesting.”
“I’m not interesting at all. I’m a simple creature with simple needs.”
“I disagree. You’re one of the most complicated women I’ve ever met.” He leans forward and brushes my hair away from my face, and I blame the drugs for making me feel so entirely mesmerized by him.
“Miss Tate, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Hmmm?”
“Have you ever had sex with someone you loved?”
For a second, I think he’s making another criticism about my sex life, but when I check his expression, I see only open sincerity.
“No,” I say, unsure whether I should be admitting that. “Have you?”
“Off the record?”
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “The one thing I’ve learned while doing this work is that as much as I enjoy playing out romantic fantasies, it’s still just pretend, and more and more I’m craving something real.”
For a few seconds he studies my face, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Then he comes and sits next to me on the couch and coaxes me up until my back is facing him. “Lift your shirt. I want to assess the damage.” I help him ease up my shirt, so he can see my lower back. “Still painful?”
“A little.”
He places his hand over the area and presses gently. The heat of his skin is a nice change after the ice. He lowers the shirt then runs his fingers slowly up and down my spine over the top of the fabric. It makes me shiver with goosebumps and at the same time drains the tension from my muscles. When I drop my head forward to give him better access, he gently scrapes his nails from my tailbone up into the hair at the base of my neck. The sensation is so incredible, I moan.
“Feel good?”
“God ... yessss.” He keeps going, and I can’t remember a time when a man has touched me in such a selfless way. Why is he doing this? Hanging around. Making sure I’m okay. I mean, he gets bonus points for just escorting me home. Why the rest of this charade?
“Max, do you usually pamper clients in your spare time?”
He pauses his movements. “No. In fact, I make a point of not interacting with them outside of a business setting. Otherwise, the situation can get complicated.”
“I figured. So why are you here? Taking care of me?”
“Because you needed someone to make sure you were okay.”
“Not really. I would have coped by myself.”
“Is that your goal in life? To just cope? Alone?”
“No, I just ... if you’re trying to suck up so I’ll give you a good write up, or whatever, well ...” He starts with his fingernails again, and I let out a low moan. “Oh, maaaaan. Good job.”
He chuckles, and I close my eyes and sigh. I’m going to have to amend my opinion on magic to exclude Max’s hands. drop my head forward and hover in a bizarre zone of part relaxation, part arousal.
“Max, have your clients ever complained about your whole sex ban on dates? I mean, you’re an attractive guy. How can they be satisfied with only kissing you?”
He takes his hands away, and when I turn to look at him, I can see amusement on his face.
“Tell me,” he says. “What’s the point of sex?”
“Do you think that because I’m a woman I’ll say ‘intimacy’, or ‘the physical expression of love’?”
“No. Give me your honest answer. Why do you have sex?”
I tilt my chin up. “Orgasms.”
“But you can have them by yourself.”
Okay. Good point. “It feels better when someone else does it.”
“Why?”
“I ... don’t know.”
He maneuvers me so my back is against the arm of the couch before shoving some pillows behind me for support.
“Okay, then I’ll tell you. Sex is a ritual. It’s more than just physical reactions.” He pulls my legs up into his lap then takes my hand and lays it, palm up, in his. As he talks, he draws a spiral on the sensitive skin over and over again. “If you think of sex as a generator, fueled by the relentless build-up of tension, then the release happens when the tension snaps, providing waves of pleasure. Yes?”
Jesus, that single finger moving over my palm is drawing me tighter each second. With the amount of sex I’ve had over the years, how the hell is this the most erotic experience that’s ever happened to me?
“Miss Tate?”
“What? I mean, uh ... yes.”
“We don’t need to be naked to simulate a similar concept.”
He places my hand back in my lap and focuses on my mouth. “When you kiss someone for the first time, adrenaline courses through your veins.” He inches forward, just enough for me to become fixated on his mouth. “See how our muscles tighten? And the closer we get, the stronger the sensations become.” His eyelids become heavy as he gazes at me. “This intense sexual tension is pleasurable in itself, right? It makes your heart race. Your lungs seize.”
At this point I realize how shallow my breaths are. How ragged and fast. The tension he’s speaking of is turning in on itself and creating a ball that’s filling my chest.
When he cups my cheek, the brush of his skin against mine makes the ball expand.
“And as my lips move closer and closer,” he says, his voice soft, “… the tension is almost unbearable. Want turns into need, which turns into compulsion.”
He’s so close now, we’re breathing the same air, and I can almost feel the crackle of electricity surrounding us.
“And when our lips finally touch,” he whispers, closer still. “all the breath will rush from our lungs, because it’s like a tightrope has snapped beneath our feet, and all we can do is close our eyes and revel in how it feels to fall.”
He stays there, keeping me at the pinnacle of sensation, dizzy and breathless and trembling with more need than I knew my body could feel.
His deep, rough voice adds another layer to my reaction.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Miss Tate?”
God, yes.
And God, no.
There’s no easy answer to this question. Kissing him would be wonderful and terrible. It would be like claiming a lion as a pet and counting down the days until it mauled me.
“It’s not a hard question,” he says. “Either you want it to or you don’t.”
“Is this your way of seducing me into dropping my story?”