Max shoots me a murderous look and I gulp. Oh shit. I have really overstepped the mark with that comment. Lucky for me, we’ve reached my house, and he pulls his GTO into the drive. The engine is still running as I take off my belt and I reach for the door handle, ready to make my escape.
“Not so fast,” he grinds out and something in his tone makes me drop my hand to rest in my lap, staring down at it.
“Thanks for rescuing me, but I'm good from here.”
“Like hell you are. I'm not leaving you.” My jaw drops and I turn to face him.
“What about your date?”
“I blew her off to come get you.” Confusion registers on my face but my response is cut off when he closes the gap and kisses me. Instead of protesting, my drunken self leans further into the kiss.
With a growl, he hauls me out of my seat and into his lap so I am straddling him. The hard-on in his jeans presses against the hard ridge of my shorts and I gasp as a jolt of pleasure nips through me. Max’s hands roam down my back to grip my ass and he rocks me against him. This time my gasp is a moan. His hand moves to the front and up to cup my breast in his large palm, his thumb brushes back and forth over the nipple as I press down on him.
“Do you still want me to go?”
And against my better judgment, I shake my head. “No. Stay.”
Max smiles against my lips as he continues to kiss me.
“When did you last have sex?” he murmurs, kissing along my jawline.
“What?”
“I want to know when you last had sex and who with?”
“None of your damn business.”
“Did they make you come?” He rocks me again, and I teeter on the edge; if only he would just stop with the questions.
“Did they make you come like I made you come?”
“Max, shut the fuck-” I stop and freeze.
He pulls back. “What is it?”
“I’m gonna be sick.” I clamp my hand over my mouth, and his eyes widen in horror. He throws open the door and pushes me out. I stagger to one of the flowerbeds and bend over, bringing up everything I've had since lunchtime, most of it liquid.
Once I’ve emptied the contents of my stomach, I take a few shaky breaths and rest my hands on my thighs while I wait for my stomach to stop churning. Max stands behind me, holding my hair out of the way with one hand while the other rubs slow, soothing circles on my back.
“Feel better?” he asks, and I give a small nod. The churning in my stomach has stopped, and my head is a little clearer.
“Let’s get you inside.” Max’s hand rests on the small of my back as he guides me up the drive to the front door and takes my keys from me to let us into the house. Once I cross the threshold, I turn and rest my palms on his chest, noticing the way his heart races underneath my hand.
“You don’t need to stay.”
“I’m not leaving you. Not in this state.” He steps forward, pushing against my palms. My mouth drops open to protest, but it slams shut again at the steely glint in his eye.
“Fine,” I whisper, resigned to him staying but secretly glad that he is. I start to walk up the stairs, leaving Max to lock up and follow me when he’s ready.
When I reach my bedroom, I flop onto the bed and lay there, willing the room to stop spinning. My eyes droop as tiredness creeps up on me, but I force them open. Yuck, I need to brush my teeth. It is a struggle to sit up, but I lurch from the bed to the bathroom. I make it just in time to double over the toilet and bring up more liquid.
More deep breaths later and I manage to stand up to tie my hair back, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I feel a little better and at least I don’t have that disgusting taste in my mouth anymore. Beth’s top is splattered with puke, and I yank it over my head to throw in the hamper. God, why did I agree to Max staying? I am a mess. A sick covered mess.
Just in my bra and shorts, I walk into the room at the same time as Max enters from the hall, carrying a glass of water and two tablets, which I’m hoping are Advil to help with my banging headache.
“Here.” He holds out his hand and tries his hardest not to stare at me standing half naked in front of him. That is the least of my worries; I am going to have the hangover from hell tomorrow morning. After a long drink, I hand the glass back to him and flop down on the end of the bed, lying on my back with my arms over my head.
“Can you take my sneakers off?” I mumble with my eyes closed and demonstrate by lifting one foot off the ground. Max crouches down and begins to untie first one Converse and then the other and pulls them off.
“Shorts,” I slur, and I’m positive I hear a groan before the bed dips under his weight as he kneels over me. Warm fingers brush against my stomach as he unfastens the button and slides the zipper down. Hooking his fingers around the waist of my denim shorts, he shimmies them down my legs and off my feet.