I stare at the closed door as if my answers lie there.
I finally breathe out hard.
After several minutes, I lie down and curl in on myself, clutching my knees to my chest. Blinking tears from between my lashes, I wait for him to come back. Not over analysing this is the key to remaining calm, to not completely breakdown into a sob - the threat of which stokes my ragged breaths. I just need to take his sudden absence for what it is - processing time.
Remain calm, Cassidy.
I will my heart to stop burning.
The door swings open and Max strides in with a phone clutched to his ear. As I sit up, the sheets drop to expose my naked torso. The cold air tweaks my nipples. Max's demeanour, hot and powerful like a live wire, causes my heart to beat in an erratic cadence.
But he is far too preoccupied with the gruff voice on the other side of the phone to notice me. He stops by the bed and, with one hand, begins to remove his clothes again.
"That wasn't a question. I will need more men." His tone is all business. The person on the other side of the phone speaks, but their words are muffled by Max's cheek. "Right." He hangs up and finishes removing his clothes.
As the last item of his drops to the floor, all I can do is tilt my head in confusion. The sequence of events that have just unfolded aren't exactly what I had imagined. They are rather weird to say the least.
"Max?" I say because what else do I say?
A physique made for destruction crawls onto the bed and up my body until I drop back to allow him to hover over me. Intense, searching grey-blue eyes bore into mine as he settles himself up on his elbows. With his hands in my hair, warm fingers stroke my face and trace my freckles.
"Yes?" he whispers, watching his fingers map my every feature.
I giggle at the absurdity of this moment. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
I swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Max."
His brows form a tight line above his penetrative stare. "For what?"
"Cause. . . um. . ." I falter. "I don't know."
He studies me as if he's unsure of what to say. Max Butcher is a man of few words. He doesn't shower ideas or confessions or inspirations around for all to enjoy. But he usually has a stance. Right now, though, he's contemplative.
He gazes at me. "I should leave. I should leave you and this baby, and you'll be safe."
My whole world shifts, and I whimper. "You won't do that though," I say, my voice panicked, my throat burning.
"No. I won't," he states definitively. "Because I'm a selfish prick and I want you."
I try not to weep with the feel of relief. "I want you too."
"You shouldn't."
"I'm not afraid of your world anymore, Max. The only thing that scares me now is not being there for you. With you."
He exhales, following his finger as it moves across my cheek, gazing at my hair winged out around his pillow. "This will be your decision then."
Air seems to thicken, so I open my mouth.
He continues, "I'm not going to let anyone make decisions for you anymore."
I shake my head. "I don't understand."
"Say, Max, let's make a baby."
And the air is now like tar - so dense I can't draw it in. "What?"