“We’re not doing this while you're drunk.”
“What the hell?” I blurt out and catch the grin he flashes me. Dammit, now he knows I want him.
“The next time I get you into bed, I want you stone-cold sober.” He pauses and rolls me onto my side, facing away from him before curving his body around me. “That way you can’t deny how much you want me.”
“In your dreams,” I mutter, but it’s obvious that I do want him. So fucking much.
“Every fucking night, baby.” He plants a kiss on the back of my head and tugs me closer to his gorgeous body, which is all I’m going to see in my dreams. His erection is still standing to attention and pressed between my ass cheeks. I shift a little against it and the hand across my stomach tightens.
Max groans. “Don’t fucking move.”
I manage to stifle a giggle as tiredness washes over me, and I let myself fall asleep with his arms wrapped around me.
Chapter Eight
Max’s warm hard body is still lying next to me when I wake the next morning. Not that I expected him to sneak out in the middle of the night, but I’m glad he’s still here. Our legs are tangled together, his arm under my head and the other possessively around my waist. A thick morning erection presses into my thigh, which is slung across his body.
I straighten my leg, brushing it over his hard dick, and Max shifts in his sleep, giving a low groan. My brain seems to accept that I’m in bed with Max Morgan, and even my body thinks it is the most natural thing in the world because it curls further into him. My hand slides from where it rests on his chest, which rises and falls with each even breath, down over his stomach muscles.
It moves lower still, tracing over the trail of hair that disappears into his boxer briefs. I’m playing with fire; I should not be touching him like this but my hand can’t stop. How many nights have I dreamed of waking up next to him and being able to touch him in this way?
My hand continues down to trace the length of his erection and back up, ready to make another pass when Max takes my wrist in his hand and stops me from molesting him further. Surprised, I jerk up to look at him staring back at me, his eyes sleepy but with a sparkle of amusement in them.
“Good morning, beautiful.” His voice is thick with sleep. Still holding my wrist in one hand, he captures the other one and holds them above my head. Then he rolls his semi-naked body so it hovers tantalizingly above mine to allow him to stare down at me. I meet his gaze head on, and as much as I pretend that I don’t want him, I so do. I had thought that our night together four years ago was supposed to be a final fling, one night to get him out my system. Instead, it just drove him deeper. He managed to bury himself so far under my skin. Was I that naïve to think that I could avoid him forever? That whatever I felt for him before would just disappear? Obviously, I was because that is exactly what I hoped for. But it hasn’t worked. It has only resulted in me wanting him even more.
His lips brush against mine, causing a short, sharp jolt to refocus my attention on him and the here and now.
“When are you going to stop fighting this?”
I bite my lip and give a quick shake of my head.
“You want to as much as I do.” His lips trail over my forehead, and I almost lose it there and then.
“Maybe,” I say in a rush of breath. “But it’s never going to happen.”
“It will,” he says with a confidence that I admire, “and when it does, I’m going to take my time and taste every inch of your skin, before I slide inside you and make you come.”
I gasp as his free hand brushes over my breast. Through the lace of my bra, my nipples pucker, drawn tight because yet again, he’s turned me on. His head moves lower and his finger and thumb move the material out the way to allow him to pull my nipple into his mouth. Drawing it deep inside, I bite down hard on my lip to stop the whimper that is ready to escape.
“The noises you make when you come,” he moves to the other nipple and repeats the same glorious torture, “have haunted my dreams. I can’t wait to hear them again.”
“You’re a dick.” The quiver of my voice lessens the impact of my insult.
“Is that why you were touching it?” He has a point, and I retort with the only thing my lust-filled brain can come up with.
“Fuck off.”
With a chuckle, he lets go and rolls off me. Just like that, he’s shattered any fantasy that I may have had that Max is anything more than a player and a dickhead.
“Come on.” He pushes off the bed and reaches for his jeans before he pulls them on and searches for his t-shirt. It is impossible not to stare at the muscles on his back and arms that shift with every movement, or the tattoos that decorate one arm.