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Maxwell poured his third scotch more slowly than he had poured the first two, as if the careful pace might lend the moment a sense of restraint. He wanted it to feel civilized and dignified, just a man in his home savoring a nightcap while perched on his couch.
But the fire in his chest said otherwise.
He was sulking, the kind of sulk a man fell into after watching the woman he wanted walk out in a dress that was barely legal and wholly lethal. She had gone on a date with a man named Tony, a man who drove a stretch limo and spoke with an accent, a man who claimed to like musical theater. It was a ghastly concept of a man, and Maxwell could not decide which part offended him most.
Maxwell downed the scotch. It burned going down, and he felt he deserved every scorch of it.
He had told himself he would not wait up. He had told Niles he had work to do, scores to review, and pages that demanded attention. Yet the piano stayed untouched, and the manuscript never moved. Niles had peeked his head in a few times before deciding it was hopeless.
“Sir, can I get you anything before I head to bed? Tea? Scone? A nasal brunette?”
Maxwell let his head slump over the back of the couch, the glass loose in his hand.
“As you were, sir. Goodnight,” Niles had said, slipping out and leaving behind the tragic sight of a man pretending indifference while caring far too much, a man willing to drown himself just to quiet the ache of every passing minute.
His mind kept drifting to the dress she had worn. The black one. Short, tight, painted on with the kind of intent that tore a man's composure apart. She had walked past him, and every instinct had urged him to stop her. His fingers had twitched at his side, desperate to reach for her wrist or her waist, anything that would keep her near for a moment longer and allow him to say something. Anything.
He should have told her she looked inappropriate. The dress had been too much for Tony. Too much for dinner. Too much for anyone who was not him.
Instead, he had muttered something about measuring limos like a jealous schoolboy and watched her laugh at him. Or pity him. He could not decide which was worse.
He probably should have prepared himself for what he would do when she returned home. Ideally, she would walk in, toss off her heels, and collapse beside him, her head resting on his shoulder and her arm lacing through his. She would tell him the date was dreadful. She could not wait to escape. His breath was awful. His conversation was dull. He had a micro penis. Any of those would have sufficed. Preferably the latter.
Maxwell brought his attention back to his scotch and gave it a slow swirl.
Outside, he heard the sharp click of heels on pavement. A car engine faded away. Then came the jingle of keys, the soft turn of the lock, and the slow creak of the door opening.
Maxwell sat up too quickly and cursed under his breath. He reached for a pose that looked casual, something that suggested he had been relaxed and unconcerned. A leg over the armrest felt careless. Crossed at the knee felt stiff. He scanned for a prop other than his drink, something to imply he had been simply enjoying his evening.
She stepped quietly into the house, heels in hand, setting her purse on the foyer table.
He shot to his feet. Control the narrative.
“Hi,” he said, far too quickly. The brightness was forced. He aimed for something neutral and collected, as if he had been expecting nothing at all.
Fran jumped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh.” She blinked, letting her eyes adjust. “Mr. Sheffield, you scared me.”
She tugged the rope on the lamp beside the couch, and warm light filled the room, sliding across her in profile. Tousled hair. Faded lipstick. Heels in hand.
Her gaze drifted over the scene. His tie lay on the coffee table. The scotch bottle sat half empty. His shoes were off. His shirt was rumpled. A man marinating in his misery.
Maxwell shifted. “How was your date with Tony?”
She ignored the question. “Waiting up for me, Mr. Sheffield, or were your hands down your pants?” she said, clocking the Cosmo magazine in his hand.
“I was reading. Getting some fresh air.”
“In the living room?”
“I fancied a change.”
“It’s late for you.”
“Well, you are home later than expected.”
Her brows lifted. “Didn’t realize I needed a permission slip. I don’t usually have a bedtime.”
“You never answered me,” he said, his voice stretched tight. “How was your date?”
Fran tilted her head. “What’s it to you?”
“I am curious, Miss Fine. Can’t I take an interest in your life?”
“Hm. It was good. He’s nice.”
“And the limo?”
She laughed as the memory of their earlier conversation returned.
“Big. Long. I think I saw three time zones and a sunroof bar mitzvah on the way to dinner.”
Maxwell took a drink. Something unpleasant stirred in his gut and grew heavier.
“You must have been very impressed.”
She finally noticed the way he was looking at her, as though she had come home smelling like another man. There was no lightness in his questions, and he never matched the tone of hers.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “What crawled up your tuchus and died?”
His body was tight and his jaw set.
“Did he bring you home?”
“What?”
“Tony. Did he walk you to the door?”
“Why? Couldn’t see from your face pressed against the window?”
Maxwell lowered his voice. “Did he kiss you?”
She stared at him. Stunned for a moment. “Oh my god.” A short, sharp laugh escaped her. “Are you jealous, Mr. Sheffield?”
“No.”
“Perfect.” She turned to leave. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
Before she could take a step, his hand caught her wrist. Not harsh, but fast. Intentional. Still pretending to look composed, though the grip betrayed him.
Fran looked down at his hand on her wrist, surprised by the shift in him.
“Did he touch you?” he asked. His voice was quiet and rough.
He stepped closer than he needed to. She could smell the scotch on him, and he could smell the faint trace of Tony’s cologne tangled into her perfume.
His gaze stayed fixed on hers.
“Your lips were perfectly red when you left here, Miss Fine.”
Fran licked her lips without thinking. She had not even noticed the color was gone.
“It wore off somewhere between the shrimp cocktail and the tiramisu,” she said lightly.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You sure you don’t want to have that limo measuring contest, Mr. Sheffield?” She tried to keep the tension playful, tried to turn it into a game.
“I am not asking about his car.”
Her face stayed still, but something in her stance shifted. The room shifted with it.
“I know exactly how that lipstick disappears,” he said. “I have seen it on my skin.”
“I don’t remember your kiss being all that memorable,” she said, lifting her brow.
He set his glass down with care.
Fran saw the change. The sharpened stare. The tension gathered in his posture. A man standing on the edge of restraint.
She crossed her arms beneath her chest. A line drawn. If he wanted a fight, he would have to earn it.
“But if you must know,” she said, her chin raised.
She let the silence pull tight before leaning in.
“That limo has a bench big enough to lie flat and still lose your purse. No seatbelts. Just a lot of room to make some bad decisions.”
He did not move. Her bluntness struck him harder than she expected.
“Do you still want the details?” she asked, her sweetness sharpened into something pointed.
“You are toying with me,” he said. His voice was rough. “You forget I know you, Miss Fine.”
She laughed, confident.
“All right, Mr. Sheffield. Let’s begin.” Her fingers skimmed across his chest before she gave him a small push. He fell back onto the couch without protest. She stepped in front of him, eyes locked on his.
“Where do I start? Let’s go from when you asked if his was bigger than yours.”
“I did not ask it like that.”
“This is my story, Mr. Sheffield.”
She stepped between his knees, her bare legs brushing his thighs as if by accident, though he was sure nothing about her movements was accidental.
“So shut up and listen.”
Maxwell’s mouth parted, but no sound came. Only the raw look in his eyes gave him away.
“I promise,” she added, her lips quirking, “it’d be worth your while.”
He gave a small, barely-there nod. She knew she had him.
“We didn’t even make it off our street,” she began, assessing how her first words might land. “We walked hand in hand out of the house. He guided me into the limo. As soon as the divider went up, Tony had both hands on me. His mouth was hot on my neck. He gripped my thighs, pulled them apart.”
She gave him no mercy. “Slid his hands up. I gave him easy access. He found nothing but skin.”
He went completely still. Pale.
“It had been so long since I’d been touched, Mr. Sheffield,” she said. “He pulled me into his lap, hiked up my dress, let out this groan against my mouth as I moved myself against him.”
She watched Maxwell’s jaw tighten, his hand twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put it. Anger boiling. Or, perhaps something else.
“He asked me to free him. He couldn’t take the friction without being fully against me.”
She took a step closer to him, uncrossing her arms.
“So I slipped off his lap, onto my knees between his legs. I unzipped him, and let's just say he’s—impressive.”
She leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Biggest I’d ever seen. The biggest I’d ever had in my hand. At least…that’s what I thought at the time. But, y’know, I’m interested in checking out other players too.”
Her gaze dropped briefly, pointedly.
“I remembered the time I saw you,” she said, voice deceptively casual. “But it’s hard to tell how you’d truly measure up when you were so…soft.”
Maxwell flinched. Visibly. He was already straining against his trousers, embarrassingly obvious. A discreet shift in his seat did nothing to hide the situation.
Fran’s eyes dropped, clocked it, then lifted back to his face with a slow, satisfied smile.
“Anyway.”
She stepped in and sank into his lap without hesitation, her knees framing his thighs. The dress hiked indecently high, the fabric clinging to the tops of her thighs. And he knew—because she had told him—there was nothing underneath. That thought alone made his pulse stutter. One shift and he would see everything. Her weight was featherlight, but the pressure was unmistakable.
His hands stayed clamped to the couch, white-knuckled, gripping the upholstery. Heat climbed his neck and flushed his face. He shifted beneath her, but it only made the ache worse. She felt it. She knew.
She let her hands rest lightly on his shoulders. Her voice dropped an octave.
“I straddled him again,” she said. “Started grinding, teasing myself against him. Slow, steady. Drove him crazy. He begged me. Gripped at my thighs, his fingers digging red into me.”
And she moved. Just slightly. Enough to make sure he could feel the friction, the heat of her body lined up against his. Right where he needed her most.
“I aligned myself with him, lifted my hips. Teased the head of him against me, where he wanted to be the most. He said, That’s it. Be my good girl,” Her smile widened as the words landed.
“He told me he wanted to feel me. Just like that.”
Maxwell exhaled, harsh and broken.
“So I did. I slid down onto him. Slow. Inch by inch.” She dragged the words out, the last word landing with a flick of her tongue.
“It hurt at first, Mr. Sheffield,” she whispered with a pout. “He was so thick, I thought he wouldn’t fit.”
Her hips rolled against him, matching her story.
“But I held still. Let me adjust. He said, You’re doing so well, keep trying. I kept going until he filled me.”
For a second, she thought she might have pushed too far. But she saw it…that look in his eyes. Hunger. Worship. She had him. And he wasn’t asking for mercy.
She leaned in again, her breath warm against his ear.
“And when I started to move?” She smiled, drawing her words out more slowly. “He lost his mind. Couldn’t believe how tight I was. How wet I was around him.”
Maxwell groaned, quiet but guttural.
“I rode him slow,” she said, voice like a dare. “I clenched myself around him. Squeezing. Knowing just how he wanted me.”
He looked ruined. Face flushed, breath ragged, eyes dark with want and barely-contained restraint.
She let her words sit for a beat.
“Can you picture it, Mr. Sheffield?”
He shut his eyes. He couldn’t look at her. Not with the way she was watching him, as if she could see straight through the last of his pride.
“But,” she said, her voice softening, “his kisses didn’t feel like yours, or how I imagined yours might feel in that position.”
Her hand came up gently, fingers grazing his cheek. Just enough to remind him what her touch had felt like when it had belonged only to him.
His eyes opened.
She smiled tenderly.
He swallowed hard, as if her kindness hurt more than the teasing.
“He didn’t growl my name into my neck. Didn’t look at me like he’d waited years for it.”
Her hand slid down between them, running along his thigh. Her fingertip grazed where he ached in the space between them.
“And he didn’t make me feel like this,” she whispered, grinding slowly against him.
Maxwell choked out a sound, somewhere between a moan and a curse.
“I told him to finish inside me,” she murmured. “Told him I wanted to feel it. And I did. Every last second.”
She cupped his face, guiding him to look at her. His pupils were blown wide. His mouth was slack.
Fran kissed him. Slow and deep. Her tongue slipped past his lips, teasing, coaxing, claiming him. He let out a muffled sound against her mouth, something helpless and hungry. His hands gripped the couch tightly, digging into the fabric, every muscle tense with restraint. She didn’t give him space to breathe, just wrapped her arms around his shoulders and dragged him under.
When she finally pulled back, her breath touched his cheek.
“But I’m still thinking about you.”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Do you want to feel what he did?”
He gave the smallest nod.
She smirked. “Then take your belt off, Mr. Sheffield.”
His hands lifted to her hips. She felt him struggle to inject strength back into his touch.
She let him hold her for a beat. Then, slowly, she stood. Just enough for his hands to slip away.
Her fingers found his. Guided them to his belt.
“Go on,” she murmured.
He hesitated only a breath. Then moved.
The buckle slid open with a muted clink. Leather rasped through the loops.
She stepped back, just half a pace, letting him undress, but not alone.
He unfastened the button, slid the zipper down, then pushed his trousers partway down—just enough to show he was ready. His underwear stayed on, stretched tight across his hips, doing nothing to hide the shape of him.
He kept his eyes on her.
She stepped closer, thigh brushing his knee.
Fran tilted her head, eyes dropping to the strained seam of his underwear. She tugged at the material and pulled him out.
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
And with that, she straightened and waited.
Fran’s eyes narrowed slightly at his silence.
Finally, his voice came. Rough, quiet. “Sit on my lap.”
She didn’t hesitate. Just nodded once and stepped in, pulling the rest of his trousers and underwear off in one smooth motion. Her hands slid over his shoulders for balance as she straddled him again, settling lightly in place.
She didn’t grind. Didn’t move.
Just sat there. Poised. Bare beneath her dress. Watching him squirm.
“Like this, Mr. Sheffield?” she asked, her voice soft but sure.
He nodded.
“Yes.”
Her lips quirked. Encouraging. She brushed a hand down his chest, just enough to make him feel the absence again when she pulled back.
“What next?”
His fingers flexed on the couch cushions. He licked his lips, jaw tense.
Fran leaned in, her mouth near his. Not touching.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You don’t have to perform for me. Just tell me what you want.”
Maxwell swallowed. His throat was dry, but he managed to say it.
“Kiss my neck.”
She leaned in, slowly. Her lips hovered over the skin just beneath his jaw.
“Here?” she whispered.
He nodded, breath caught somewhere in his chest.
Fran brushed her lips along the line of his neck, featherlight. Not a real kiss. Not yet. Just enough for him to feel her warmth, her breath.
He exhaled sharply. A quiet, helpless sound that betrayed just how much he needed more.
That did it.
She did it again, this time letting her mouth linger. The press was soft, reverent. Then, firmer. Open-mouthed. Just enough to make his pulse stutter beneath her tongue.
When she pulled back, her voice was low.
“Repeat it.”
Maxwell’s eyes fluttered shut. The heat from her mouth still lingered on his skin.
“Kiss my neck,” he said again. Quieter this time. Needing it.
Fran smiled against his throat, then pressed another kiss, just below the last. This one was open and slow. Her lips parted slightly, tongue grazing the spot, savoring him.
His hands lifted from the couch. Finally. First to her lower back—just fingertips. Then his palms settled, steady and warm, over the curve of her ass.
She let her teeth graze his neck, a light nip that made him flinch and hold tighter. Then her mouth moved up, catching the soft edge of his earlobe between her lips.
“You’re doing so well,” she murmured, voice smooth. “Now tell me what comes next.”
He exhaled, shaky.
Then his voice, low but certain: “I want this dress gone.”
She leaned back to look at him, eyes bright, mouth tugged in a pleased curve.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Do you?”
He nodded, more sure now. His hands didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just held her.
She rolled her hips once, deliberately, dragging a sound out of him.
“Then ask nicely, Mr. Sheffield.”
Fran tilted her head, mock-innocent. “Ask me again.”
Maxwell’s hands gripped her tightly. The dress was already hitched high from her straddle, leaving so little to the imagination. He slid one hand up, fingertips brushing the edge of fabric at her back.
“Take it off,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Mm. Try again.”
He looked up at her, cheeks flushed, pupils dark.
“Fran,” he said, voice low and hungry. “I want you out of this dress.”
Now it was her turn to flinch. Just a little. It was the first time he’d said her name like that. No pretense. No qualifiers. No walls.
He took the lead, sliding a hand up to the zipper at her back. He pulled it down slowly, deliberately.
His hands followed the path back up, gliding over her spine to her shoulders. Then he slipped the straps down her arms, savouring the reveal. Her bare chest rose and fell with each breath, soft curves catching the low light.
With his gaze still locked on hers, she shimmied the straps the rest of the way down, freeing her arms. Then she took his hand and guided it upward. Her eyes stayed on his as his touch moved from her stomach to her breast. She let go and waited.
He studied her. The feel of her skin under his palm, how her breast fit perfectly in his hand. Her nipple was already hard. His thumb flicked over it once. His gaze climbed back to hers.
She squirmed slightly in his lap, breath catching. Her eyes were darker now. “Now what?” she asked, voice thinner, a little breathless, no longer as confident.
He didn’t answer. He just showed her.
His mouth found her chest first. Open, hungry kisses pressed to her skin. His hands roamed with purpose across her back, over her ass.
She let out a sound. Sharp, startled, but not displeased. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
He pulled her closer, grip bruisingly firm at her hips, like he needed to mark her—carve the moment into memory.
She let him take what he needed.
Because finally, he was choosing to take it.
His mouth moved from her chest to her neck, leaving kisses that bordered on bites.
Fran gasped softly against his ear. “Tell me,” she whispered, breath uneven. “What do you want, Mr. Sheffield?”
Her lips brushed his temple. “Tell me what you’re thinking about. Anything. I’ll do it.”
His hands gripped harder, and she felt the tension shudder through him. She kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.
“I want all of it,” she whispered. “But I want you to ask for it.”
“Kiss down my chest,” he said, breathless. “I want to feel your mouth everywhere.”
Fran’s eyes flicked up to his, surprised but thoroughly pleased.
“Now we’re talkin’,” she said, already working open the rest of his shirt. Button by button, she exposed more of him, her palms grazing warm skin. He shivered under her touch, watching her every move like it might be a dream.
She leaned in, lips brushing just below his collarbone. Soft, patient kisses. A tongue flick here, a gentle nip there. Maxwell’s chest rose and fell under her mouth, his hands still planted firmly on the couch beside him. He tried not to grab her, to find his control. Trying…and failing.
Fran kissed lower. The center of his chest. His sternum. That little dip just above his stomach. Her tongue dragged slowly, deliberately, dipping into the crease just above his pelvis. She felt him twitch beneath her.
He let out a low groan. “Fran…”
But she didn’t rush. She moved lower, her mouth hovering just above where he was aching and exposed, heat pulsing between them. She pressed one final kiss just to the right of him, deliberately not touching him where he needed it most.
Maxwell bucked slightly, a frustrated sound torn from his throat. Her dress was bunched at her waist, her chest exposed, and just a breath of black fabric away from baring everything he desired.
“You said everywhere, didn’t you?” she teased, lips still ghosting over his lower stomach. “Gotta be thorough.”
His fingers curled hard against the couch cushions. His jaw was tight. “You’re killing me.”
“Is this what you wanted?” she asked, voice low, breath warm against his skin.
Maxwell’s breath stuttered. He looked down, eyes glazed, barely able to nod.
Fran smiled. Not sweet. Not cruel. Just knowing.
She kissed just below his navel, then a little lower. Let her lips linger. She didn’t rush. Her hands skimmed his thighs, gently pushing them apart as she shifted between them. Her nails grazed his skin—just enough to make him flinch.
Still, she didn’t touch him directly. Instead, she exhaled against him. Close enough to feel. Not close enough to satisfy. Her lips brushed along the base, then up, featherlight. Just a tease. A warning to hurry up.
“Say it. Say what you want right now.”
Maxwell’s hips twitched again. He groaned, barely holding back.
“Mr. Sheffield. I need you to look me in the eye and tell me what you need.”
His eyes peeked open, struggling against the instinct to restrain. The visual of her between his legs was enough to end him. She sat there innocently. Waiting. Patiently.
“I need your–” he started. His eyes clenched as her fingertip grazed him softly.
“You need what? Eyes up here,” she mocked, demanding his attention again.
With all the strength he had left to muster, he opened again.
“I want your mouth on me. Please,” he said.
Fran flattened her tongue and licked one long, slow stripe along the underside, eyes locked on his. He let out a strangled sound, hips jerking. She hummed a ‘mmm’ sound, pleased with herself.
Then, finally, she opened her mouth and took him in. Just the head, slow and warm. Her tongue swirled. She sank lower, inch by inch, deliberately slow, until her lips brushed his base and she swallowed softly around him.
Maxwell’s head hit the back of the couch. One hand flew to her hair—fingers threading through the soft curls, then tightening at the roots, gripping against her scalp. Not guiding. Just needing something to hold. His other hand clenched the cushion beside him.
“Fran—” he gasped. “Wait—”
She eased off instantly, eyes flicking up, her lips shiny and swollen. “What’s wrong?”
Maxwell was panting, chest rising fast. His hand still gripped her hair, but now it loosened.
“I don’t want to finish like that,” he rasped. “Not yet.”
“Oh…” She wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, then licked it clean. “Saving yourself, Mr. Sheffield?”
He gave a helpless groan. “Something like that. Come here, please.”
She moved back up his body, crawling into his lap again with a deliberate roll of her hips. Her hands slid up his chest, grounding him.
“Well,” she murmured, lips brushing his jaw, “you just tell me how you want it. And I’ll make sure you get there.”
Then she whispered in his ear:
“I’m not in a rush.”
Maxwell didn’t even think.
One second, Fran was perched in his lap with her innocent little smile and swollen lips. Next, he was pushing her back onto the couch. Her breath caught as she landed on the cushions, eyes wide and dark.
The black dress rode up high on her hips, fabric bunched, barely clinging. He didn’t stop to admire—he devoured. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the last of the fabric higher until there was nothing left to reveal.
And there it was.
A glistening trail down the inside of her thigh, proof of everything she’d been saying, of everything she wanted.
Fran's eyes locked on his. Her legs parted instinctively, inviting, unapologetic. “See what you do to me, Mr. Sheffield?”
He growled low in his throat and leaned in, his mouth capturing one nipple without preamble.
He sucked her into his mouth, hot and rough, his teeth grazing just enough to make her jolt. His hands braced her thighs, firm and grounding as he worked. Tongue swirling, lips dragging, teeth catching the peak again before moving to the other breast.
He gave it equal worship, no part of her was left neglected. He kissed and bit and sucked until the skin flushed a deep purple. Fran’s head fell back, chest arched, hands threading through his hair, holding on.
He kissed the mark he’d left, then dragged his tongue up over her sternum, her collarbone, the long curve of her neck. He kissed her jaw, then finally found her mouth.
She met him with a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, wild and claiming. She moaned into his mouth, hips rising to find friction. Maxwell answered, pressing his body against her, rocking into her with deliberate, aching slowness. He let her feel the ridge of him against her inner thigh, sliding higher.
Still teasing. Still withholding.
Her hands found his back, nails dragging lightly, then harder. His mouth never left hers. She bit his lip. He grunted, responding by gripping her thigh and hiking it over his hip. He moved against her—not inside—just friction. Grinding.
She moaned as he rocked again, his hardness rubbing perfectly where she needed it. Her body bucked in response, chasing sensation.
Her lips found his ear. “You feel that?” she whispered. “How badly I want you?”
He groaned, pressing harder against her. She whimpered, arching her back, grinding shamelessly against the length of him.
“Max,” she breathed, her voice rough now, needy, “you want inside me?”
He nodded, desperate. She kissed him hard, biting his bottom lip again before pulling away just an inch.
“Then ask,” she whispered. “Tell me you want me. Say no one compares to what you're about to do to me.”
He stared at her, eyes wild, chest heaving.
“You can’t enter me,” she panted, lips brushing his jaw, “until you say it.”
Her breath trembled. She wasn’t even sure she was still in control. Not really. But she’d make him say it first.
“I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin.
“I need to feel you,” he said, voice dropping, rough with need.
“Make you mine.”
“Ruin you for any man who ever tried.”
She didn’t answer with words. Just a gasp—desperate—and her hips lifted to meet him.
That was all the permission he needed.
Maxwell caught her behind her thighs and pushed forward, guiding her flat against the couch cushions. Her legs parted around him, her dress bunched and forgotten around her waist.
He gripped himself, lined up, and looked down at her face, flushed, open, wanting.
Then he pushed in.
The first slide was slow, dragging a groan from both of them. Tight. Hot. He sank in inch by inch, watching her eyes flutter, her mouth part, a whimper escaping.
Her body clenched around him. Squeezing. Desperate for more of him.
Maxwell paused, chest pressed to hers, trying to steady his breathing. Her nails scraped up his back, pulling him closer, grounding him.
He thrust again, harder. Then again.
Fran cried out, her head tipping back, eyes shut tight. He buried his face in her neck, open-mouthed kisses pressed against her skin as he set a pace that bordered on brutal.
“Fran–,” he growled into her ear.
She whimpered, rolling her hips to meet every thrust, her body arched into him.
“I don’t want anyone else to have you like this,” he rasped.
She grabbed his face and pulled him down into a kiss, moaning into his mouth as he drove into her over and over.
“I can’t—” she gasped, hips bucking. “Max—”
Her whole body tensed.
He felt it—the tightening, her clutching him deep inside as her climax hit. Her cry was raw, her body trembling under him as she came.
That was it.
The squeeze, the heat, the look on her face—he couldn’t hold it.
Maxwell groaned, burying himself fully, grinding against her as he came inside of her. His hips jerked once, twice, and then he stilled, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged, heart hammering.
She was still squeezing him, pulsing around him.
He kissed her, softly this time. Slower.
Fran’s hand threaded through his hair, pulling him closer.
They stayed tangled.
His body still buried in hers, their chests heaving in sync. Skin slick with sweat, and the silence was thick and heavy in the air.
Then, Fran let out a soft, breathy laugh.
It started in her chest and hummed against his skin where her lips were still pressed just below his ear. He felt it before he heard it. A small sound, but it cracked something open.
Her fingers grazed lightly along his back, soft, idle strokes. Not trying to lead anywhere. Just touching base to say I’m here.
“That was…” she began, voice husky.
Maxwell didn’t move. Just breathed.
Fran smiled, even if he couldn’t see it. “Well, I feel better.”
That made him huff a laugh against her collarbone. Quiet, disbelieving—she was still reveling in his discomfort.
Her hands kept moving. Fingertips light, feathering up to his shoulders, down along his spine—tracing the path she’d clawed minutes earlier.
He finally lifted his head, just enough to see her.
Her cheeks were flushed, hair wild, lips still bruised by him. But her eyes…those were soft. No teasing now. Just Fran.
“You’re smiling,” he murmured, like he didn’t trust it was real.
She quirked a brow. “Where’s yours?”
He kissed her collarbone and gave her a grin, then looked down at their bodies, still pressed together.
“Was I—was it…” he fumbled.
“C’mon, say it,” she said sweetly.
“Better?” he finished, half a wince, half a smile.
She kissed him, slow and sure, melting away whatever hesitation he had.
“Better than I could imagine,” she murmured.
He smiled, grounded. “I don’t want anyone else to touch you.”
“And no one has,” she said simply, “not since I met you.”
He sat up, like she’d jolted him with something electric.
She gave him a mock-concerned look. “Are you okay? Was it something I said?”
“Did you make it up?” he asked, voice tighter now.
“And did you think,” she said, with a scoff, “that two seconds after walking out of this house, I got into a limo and let some guy tell me to hold the bar over the sunroof while he showed me how they say mama mia in his neighbourhood?”
He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again. His eyes dropped back down to her—this woman who’d undone him completely.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought, Miss Fine.”
He paused, a faint smile playing at his lips.
“But perhaps,” he added, leaning in, “I could take another look?”
She grinned and pulled him down into her, fingers tangling in his hair, mouth pressing to his.
And they moved together like two people who had quietly chosen to belong only to each other.