Page 39 of Max

“A memory.”

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Chapter Twelve

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Skylar

I stumbled down the stairs, convinced there was an angry leprechaun sitting on my shoulders and stabbing my temples with needles for every step I took. I was in dare need of coffee... and Max. I decided to get the coffee first. I turned to the kitchen and saw the French doors were wide open, and a rhythmic banging was pulsing in, straight to my abused head. What was going on? Who the hell had a death wish? I dragged my feet to see who it was. What I saw made my breath go in a whoosh.

Between the piles of wood, Max was kneeling, looking up, and hammering on the beam. He was also shirtless. His skin glistened with sweat. Saliva poured in my mouth when I noticed he hadn't shaved. Sweet Mary, the man was sex personified. I stood there watching him, fitting the urge to jump over three steps to the ground and tackle him. I shook my head. I wanted to make sure I didn't dream of the sight before my eyes. As he reached down and turned on the saw, the muscles in his back contracted, I whimpered. He got on all fours and glided the saw over another beam tracking its glide. His hips lowered to the ground as he stretched to get the job done in one fluid movement. This must have been what he would look like when he slid inside me. I had to rub my thighs together, the need to go over to him, consuming me. The instant silence when he turned off the tool almost made me cry. I was enjoying the show, and then he looked over his shoulder and smiled

"Are you a monster, or do I have my Skylar?"

I moaned, hearing him saying my name. Will it sound like that when he says it while he's inside of me? I wanted to find out more than I wanted my next breath.

"Earth to Skylar," Max called.

The skin around his eyes crinkled with his smile. I decided this was my favorite one.

“Are you all right over there?”

My staring and obvious lust was amusing him. Bastard. When I remained silent and continued devouring his body with my eyes, he pulled off his work gloves and shoved them in his jeans back pocket while getting up to his feet. I traced the lines of his chest and six-pack while he walked towards me. Chancing a look at his face, I saw his eyes became hooded and heat gathered at my cheeks and between my legs in response. He got up the steps, stood in front of me and asked once more.

“All you all right?”

I again didn’t answer, and I studied the angel wings tattoo. It was black and white. The tip of each wing went to his shoulder blade. It was also incredibly detailed. Out of reflex, I traced the word written under the left-wing, Dad. He let me study it, and when I started tracing it with my fingertips, he began to murmur.

“It’s okay to ask?”

I looked up, my lust now taking a backseat.

“What happened.”

“A car accident,” his eyes were intent on mine as if he were waiting for something.

“I lost my parents in the same way,” it still hurt whenever I thought about it. “I was five.”

He stayed quiet.

“I wonder if my life would turn out differently if that didn’t happen.”

He pressed my palm to his skin and started gliding it over his chest, much like he did the other morning. I watched fascinated as goosebumps rose on his skin.

“Would I be brave? Would I see Nico for what he really is?” I kissed the center of his chest.

“Would I still meet you?”

He cupped the back of my head and hummed. I dragged my lips across his tattoo, and when I got to the lettering, I kissed it softly.

“I’m sorry,” I pulled away, dislodging his hand.

When he remained quiet, I grew uncertain. I did something wrong. I pushed too far. My nerves were getting the better of me, and I wanted to run. He must’ve seen it because he spoke.

"With the exception of walking out of my house the other morning, when was the last time you did something you wanted?" his tone was casual, but his body was on full alert. "Took something you wanted."

"I don't remember," I said softly.