Beautiful Stranger
Page 55
Max smiled, walked over to me, and sat on the couch near my waist. I shifted over to make room and he leaned a hand on the back of the couch as he bent over and pulled my fingers into his mouth. “Have a nice rub, Petal?”
“I guess if you’d stuck around to see you wouldn’t have to ask,” I said, fighting the heat as it crawled up my neck.
“No matter,” he murmured into my throat, sucking gently. “I’ll just watch the video later.” He stood, walked over to an open cabinet, and pushed a button on a camera I hadn’t even noticed, balanced on the top shelf.
“You . . . what?”
He turned, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth.
“You got video of that?” I asked. I had never felt so conflicted. Be discovered—terrifying. Be watched—thrilling.
“I did.”
“Max, my face . . .”
His brows pulled together. “I trained the camera lower and put you exactly where I needed you. I wouldn’t record your face.” He walked over to me and kneeled beside the couch. “Which is a shame, actually, because I love watching you when you fall.”
He ran a fingertip down my cheek, studying my face before blinking and seeming to pull back into the present. “Now, for dinner I was thinking Thai but you’re allergic to peanuts, and my favorite place has peanuts in everything. How about Ethiopian? Do you mind eating with your hands?” He grinned. “I swear no one there will know who the hell I am.”
I gaped at him, completely forgetting that I was going to argue over going out for dinner. “How did you know I’m allergic to peanuts?”
“You wear an allergy bracelet.”
“You read it?”
He looked genuinely confused. “You wear it so that people won’t read it?”
Shaking my head, I sat up, running my hands through my hair. The man I’d loved had barely noticed me. The man I just wanted to have sex with noticed everything about me.
To my surprise, I whispered, “Ethiopian sounds perfect.”
Max led us out the back of the building and to a black car waiting in an alley.
“Really?” I asked as he opened the door. “Paparazzi follow you home?”
He laughed and gently ushered me into the backseat. “No, Petal. I’m not nearly that famous—they only hit me up at events or on the street sometimes. The secrecy is for your paranoia, not mine.”
“Queen of Sheba. Hell’s Kitchen,” he told the driver, and then turned to me. “Thanks for keeping me company while I packed. You made an otherwise boring task quite enjoyable.”
“You didn’t get much done. Really wasn’t the most efficient evening for you, was it?” I leaned forward, giving him my best skeptical eyebrow raise.
He smiled, stared at my mouth. “You’ve caught me. I wanted you to come over tonight so I could remember how you looked naked on my couch. I’ve hired someone to pack up my office tomorrow morning before the painters arrive.” He closed the distance between us and kissed me once, sweetly. “Sometimes at work I wish I saw you more. I liked seeing you there.”
I shifted in my seat, feeling a little like the world had been tipped on its end. “I didn’t really think there were men like you,” I said, without thinking. “Honest. Easy to be around.” I looked over at him.
“I already told you. I like you.”
He reached for me, slid me closer, and had his lips to mine for the rest of the drive. It could have been a minute, an hour, or a week. I had no idea. But when we arrived in Hell’s Kitchen I didn’t want to get out, and I most certainly didn’t care that I was half hoping Max would ask me to stay the night with him.
The waitress put down a large platter in front of us, with wedges of assorted vegetarian dishes fanning across the plate.
“Take the injera bread and scoop the food,” Max said, tearing a piece and demonstrating.
I watched him lick his fingers, chew, and then smile at me.
“What?” he asked.
“Um . . . ,” I stammered, pointing. “Your mouth.”
“You like my mouth?” His tongue slipped out again, sweeping across the corner of his lips, and then he lifted his glass and took a deep drink of wine.
He made me feel more than drunk. He made me feel disoriented, reckless. I curled my hands into fists beneath the table, running through the fantasy of asking him to leave here, take me home, and touch me.
Other than the kissing in the car, he’d barely touched me all night. Was that intentional? Was he trying to drive me crazy? Because seriously, mission accomplished.
“I guess if you’d stuck around to see you wouldn’t have to ask,” I said, fighting the heat as it crawled up my neck.
“No matter,” he murmured into my throat, sucking gently. “I’ll just watch the video later.” He stood, walked over to an open cabinet, and pushed a button on a camera I hadn’t even noticed, balanced on the top shelf.
“You . . . what?”
He turned, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth.
“You got video of that?” I asked. I had never felt so conflicted. Be discovered—terrifying. Be watched—thrilling.
“I did.”
“Max, my face . . .”
His brows pulled together. “I trained the camera lower and put you exactly where I needed you. I wouldn’t record your face.” He walked over to me and kneeled beside the couch. “Which is a shame, actually, because I love watching you when you fall.”
He ran a fingertip down my cheek, studying my face before blinking and seeming to pull back into the present. “Now, for dinner I was thinking Thai but you’re allergic to peanuts, and my favorite place has peanuts in everything. How about Ethiopian? Do you mind eating with your hands?” He grinned. “I swear no one there will know who the hell I am.”
I gaped at him, completely forgetting that I was going to argue over going out for dinner. “How did you know I’m allergic to peanuts?”
“You wear an allergy bracelet.”
“You read it?”
He looked genuinely confused. “You wear it so that people won’t read it?”
Shaking my head, I sat up, running my hands through my hair. The man I’d loved had barely noticed me. The man I just wanted to have sex with noticed everything about me.
To my surprise, I whispered, “Ethiopian sounds perfect.”
Max led us out the back of the building and to a black car waiting in an alley.
“Really?” I asked as he opened the door. “Paparazzi follow you home?”
He laughed and gently ushered me into the backseat. “No, Petal. I’m not nearly that famous—they only hit me up at events or on the street sometimes. The secrecy is for your paranoia, not mine.”
“Queen of Sheba. Hell’s Kitchen,” he told the driver, and then turned to me. “Thanks for keeping me company while I packed. You made an otherwise boring task quite enjoyable.”
“You didn’t get much done. Really wasn’t the most efficient evening for you, was it?” I leaned forward, giving him my best skeptical eyebrow raise.
He smiled, stared at my mouth. “You’ve caught me. I wanted you to come over tonight so I could remember how you looked naked on my couch. I’ve hired someone to pack up my office tomorrow morning before the painters arrive.” He closed the distance between us and kissed me once, sweetly. “Sometimes at work I wish I saw you more. I liked seeing you there.”
I shifted in my seat, feeling a little like the world had been tipped on its end. “I didn’t really think there were men like you,” I said, without thinking. “Honest. Easy to be around.” I looked over at him.
“I already told you. I like you.”
He reached for me, slid me closer, and had his lips to mine for the rest of the drive. It could have been a minute, an hour, or a week. I had no idea. But when we arrived in Hell’s Kitchen I didn’t want to get out, and I most certainly didn’t care that I was half hoping Max would ask me to stay the night with him.
The waitress put down a large platter in front of us, with wedges of assorted vegetarian dishes fanning across the plate.
“Take the injera bread and scoop the food,” Max said, tearing a piece and demonstrating.
I watched him lick his fingers, chew, and then smile at me.
“What?” he asked.
“Um . . . ,” I stammered, pointing. “Your mouth.”
“You like my mouth?” His tongue slipped out again, sweeping across the corner of his lips, and then he lifted his glass and took a deep drink of wine.
He made me feel more than drunk. He made me feel disoriented, reckless. I curled my hands into fists beneath the table, running through the fantasy of asking him to leave here, take me home, and touch me.
Other than the kissing in the car, he’d barely touched me all night. Was that intentional? Was he trying to drive me crazy? Because seriously, mission accomplished.
