An Ounce of Hope(89)

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.

"Grace?"

Grace opened her eyes slowly, scared to death that the room would tilt horrifically should she do it too quickly. She immediately grimaced. The pounding in her head, along with the nausea that gripped her entire body, made her pull the duvet closer, cocooning herself in her sweats, hoodie, and socks. That was the second time she'd woken thinking that she'd heard Max's voice. Hallucinations no doubt brought on by the hundred-degree temperatures that had spiked in the early hours. She couldn't understand it; she was so cold her teeth chattered.

"Grace?"

The voice sounded louder now, closer. She hummed into her pillow, shivering and mumbling, wishing that Max really was there so she could snuggle into him, get warm next to him, maybe grope him a little.

"Grace, are you in here, we're supposed to be on our run- Jesus Christ! What the hell?"

Yeah, that sounded like him, all curse words and exclamations. Wait. A run? Some part of her understood what she was hearing, knew what the words meant, but her brain was so very tired. She couldn't find it in herself to respond. Instead, she smiled to herself, the image of Max running flashing behind her eyes. 

There was a sound of a window being opened and gust of fresh air hit her face, making Grace squirm and bury her head farther under the covers. "It's like a fucking sauna in here! And shit-is that puke I smell?"

Yeah, it probably was. Grace could vaguely remember vomiting a few times on herself, before she'd managed to muster the energy to change out her bedsheets, but not enough to crawl into the shower. Her legs had been far too weak. She couldn't recall, however, how long ago that had been. It could have been days. She almost cared that Max, hallucination or not, was near her when she was full of sick bits, but she couldn't gather enough energy to tell him to go away.