I BLINK at the blonde girl staring back at me in the vanity mirror – her reflection strange and foreign in a way I can’t explain. With her big hazel eyes and matching coloured freckles lightly dusting her nose and cheeks, she doesn’t resemble the kind of girl who would shoot someone in the face. Less the type to feel no remorse in the wake of that person’s death. I’m not sure what that kind of girl looks like, but it isn’t this.
Max’s bathroom is my favourite place in his house. Although I haven’t even seen half of his home, this room is full of fun memories and love. Today, though, it looks different. I can’t explain how. That’s all I know – different.
Running my fingers through my hair and scooping it to one side, I note how long it is. How wavy. I don’t think I like it anymore. Flicking it back over my shoulders, I decide I’m going to cut it off. Maybe dye it.
If Max won’t mind. . .
I glance down at the Carrara stone vanity top, touching the dusty brown veins that run through it like marble. Next, I stare at our toiletries all laid out together – his aftershave and deodorant alongside my many cans and creams. My toothbrush is next to his in a little navy-grey ceramic cylinder, and for some weird reason, I find that oddly painful. Which, of course, is a completely ridiculous emotion to feel in regards to the placement of a toothbrush. Ignoring my silly feelings, I pick it up and begin to brush my teeth.
As my mouth gets a good cleaning, I can’t help but let my mind wander to the events of last night. What it should have been and wasn’t. How I ruined it. My emotions shifted uncomfortably fast from wary to needy. I remember his voice being raspy with sentiment as he whispered words to me. And yet, he might as well have yelled them because they held that much power. ‘I own him’. We own each other. And I enjoyed that thought enough to allow the lust to take over. But then, as I came off the precipice of the man-god that is Max Butcher, a boulder of complete self-loathing dropped into every fibre of my being.
Clearly, my mind is in a state of anarchy.
Freezing my thoughts, Max strolls leisurely into the bathroom, wearing only white cotton boxers. His penis is hard to ignore in pants; in underwear it’s damn right impossible. Shaking my head to try to focus, I ignore the growing need inside me. My body wants his, but my mind isn’t so sure, and the two are giving me whiplash.
Last night was the first time we’ve been intimate since Erik attacked me, and it didn’t exactly go well. What must he think of me? Riding his fingers that desperately and then bursting into tears? Oh my God, poor Max.
Like a little voyeur, I watch his reflection as he pulls his boxers down and moves into the shower. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. As he begins to wash himself, I find myself fixated on the ink that encompasses his strong arms, back, and shoulders. Each tattoo shares a little piece of his soul with the world and yet, no one has any idea how to interpret them. Myself included. Besides the cross on his chest, there is no real straight-forward image. It’s like beautiful black, white, and red abstract art.
On a normal day, he’s not the talkative type. He’s the master of the single word response. And yet, the silence right now is ear-piercing. I stop brushing my teeth and spit into the sink. Deciding I can’t go to ballet class, leaving him all day without something good to remember me by, I pull off my shirt and pull down my knickers.
When I step into the shower, he turns to face me with a brooding expression. Anyone else might call it a scowl, but I know it’s merely a warning. Warning me not to push him too far. I peer up, craning my neck to see his narrowed turbulent grey-blue eyes, which cloak so much emotion. I know it’s there. Hidden deep where no one can touch it.
Hot water splashes off his shoulders and down onto my breasts. Unable to hold that powerful gaze, I drop to my knees on the tiles and he exhales roughly.
His sigh is almost pained as I trail my hands up the tight muscles of his thighs to the thickly defined V-shaped cords between his hips. They pulse in response to my caress. So perfect. Beautiful.
I reach for his large, growing penis, but he catches my wrist.
‘No,’ he growls.
My eyes seek out his, finding them angry and darker than before. ‘Please.’
‘Don’t you fucking dare do that just for me!’
My breathing picks up at the sight of him – tormented between lust and guilt.
Swallowing down my heart as it tries to beat up my throat, I say, ‘I want to, Max.’
As the muscles in his cheeks pulse, he releases his grip on me. He nods once stiffly, giving me permission to touch him again. And then I see something I never thought I’d see in his expression – bullshit. He’s a lot of things, my Max. A towering, broody man with a physique built for destruction and dominance. He’s a powerful heir to a corrupt empire. A boxer. Rugby player. Brother. Menace. To name a few. . . But he’s not fake. Max doesn’t do bullshit and yet, there it is, allowing me to armour my broken pieces. Hide them. He’s allowing me to pretend that last night didn’t happen, to be powerful and free and in the moment.
I hide that realisation by dropping my gaze to his erection, which is now nearly as long as my forearm and almost as thick too. I still have no idea how he puts that inside me. His foreskin has bunched below its smooth head, and as I lick up the full length of it, Max shuffles his feet apart. Placing both palms on the tiles in front of him, he leans some of his weight forward. My tongue meets the smoothest pinkest skin I’ve ever seen and when a bead of precum slides out, I lap at it eagerly.
Working the underside with my tongue, stimulating his tight ridge, I enjoy the taste of his skin.
I feel good doing this – in control.
Wrapping my hand around the base of his erection, I try to take him into my mouth as far as I can. I close my eyes as the feel of his girth strains my jaw. He feeds one of his hands through my hair. Gently at first. Then fisting lightly to urge me deeper, to open my jaw wider. As I relax my throat and let him slide down further, he groans low and long.
Max’s thrusts meet my inward strokes, but he’s still being careful not to go too deep. For a second, I wonder if he was gentle like this with other girls and somehow I know he wasn’t. From what I’ve seen, his soft side is a temperament only reserved for me. He pants roughly, guiding me with his fist, down and out.
He takes control.
He begins to pump into my mouth faster, still seemingly concerned with not going too far, but he’s slowly starting to get a little carried away.
I press my palms to his taut thighs, bracing myself. Focusing on breathing through my nose, I swallow around his erection, and he uses that moment to slide in further still.
‘Fuck,’ he hisses. His pleasured groans spur me on, so I try to use my tongue to massage the underside of his penis in time with his rhythm. Then something shifts. His movements become more chaotic and relentless as pleasure takes hold. He’s nearly there. I feel for his balls as they draw up. The muscles of his thighs twitch. His abdomen crunches. And now he’s cradling my cheeks and really thrusting into my mouth. I blink up at him and he trains his dark eyes on me before closing them and dropping his head back. He shudders. Groaning and holding my mouth around his erection, he releases inside me in three powerful pulses. I keenly swallow what he gives me, feeling desire thrumming between my legs even though my mind won’t allow for any kind of pleasure. I feel ripped apart. Between my body and my psyche.
He doesn’t release me for several seconds. The throbbing of his erection slows in unison with his heavy breathing. When he finally pulls my head back, his penis slides out and hangs half-erect by his thigh. Slowly, I stand up. He reaches for my neck, envelopes it with his hand, and pulls me to his lips for a soft quick kiss.
A little light-headed, I try for a smile. ‘That was really deep.’
His brows draw in. ‘Did I hurt you?’
He always asks me that. Shaking my head slowly, I say, ‘You never do.’
Warmth moves through me when he pulls me into his chest and holds me there as if he loves me. As if he’s fighting some kind of battle. As if he’s afraid of something. But Max Butcher isn’t afraid of anything.
And I don’t think he loves me – I know he does.
As he strokes my hair, I rub my cheek against the shadowed wall of his hard chest. Ugh, I wish last night would disappear. Wish I wanted him to touch me the way he used to. Take me without asking. Worship my body.
I think I’m a little broken. A little lost.
More than anything, I want Max and Cassidy’s world back.
Wrapping my arms around him, I squeeze tight. As if my tiny, little grip can possibly hold us together.
