Max lowered his head and pressed his lips to her pulse. His hips pulled back and thrust forward again. Olivia tipped her head back, offering her throat, and Max bit down playfully. She wrapped her legs around him and abandoned herself to the pleasure of being claimed by this man. Each slide of him inside her ratcheted her pleasure higher and higher. His tongue laved at the spot he’d bit her and trailed back up to her ear. “Livvy, tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ll always be mine.”
His hips pumped against hers, the head of his cock hitting a spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m yours.” Another orgasm ripped through her, and she lifted her hips as she pulsed around him.
Max gripped her hip with one hand and pulled out with a shout, her name on his lips. He threw back his head, and his seed pulsed out onto her stomach. His hips still thrusting as he orgasmed. She stared up at his naked body glistening with sweat and watched as he sucked in deep breaths of air. His lean chiseled torso was a sight to behold. She had trouble catching her own breath. Then Max leaned forward and caught himself on one forearm. His other hand gently swept errant hairs from her brow. His nose nuzzled hers. “Livvy, I—”
She cupped his face with her hands. “You what?”
“That was magnificent. You’re magnificent.” He kissed her hard but brief. Then he got to his knees and scooted over to his clothing on the chair. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled a handkerchief. He returned to her and gently cleaned her stomach. “How do you feel?”
Olivia raised her arms above her head and stretched. She felt fabulous. More than fabulous, she felt satiated and relaxed and so very happy. She grinned up at Max. “Amazing is how I feel.” She reached out and ran her fingers down the muscles of his stomach. He let out a sound that was half gasp, half giggle, which made her giggle. “Ticklish, darling?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Max scoffed.
She scooted up to a sitting position. Then reached out her fingers again, but this time Max caught her wrist. He yanked her against him, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist.
“Well, perhaps just a little bit.” He nuzzled her neck, kissing her behind the ear.
The wind rattled the windows and a cold draft blew across her bare back, causing her to shiver as it hit her damp skin. Max frowned. He grabbed a quilt and draped it around her. Next, he got up and put two more logs on the fire, poking it with the iron to stoke the fire. Olivia laid down, facing its warmth. When Max returned to their nest, she lifted the blanket in invitation. He slid in next to her and pulled her close so her head rested in the crook of his shoulder.
She stared for a while at the dancing flames of the fire. The rise and fall of Max’s chest under her hand slowed. When she tilted her head up to glance at his face, his eyes were closed. “Max,” she whispered. His response was a soft “hmmm?” and a brief squeeze of his fingers on her arm. She brushed her fingertips across his chest, and he didn’t even stir this time.
Olivia traced the smooth muscles of his chest and danced her fingertips over the grooves and dips of his abdomen, exploring until her fingers found a raised section. She lifted her head and peered down at a puckered pink scar about three inches in length on his left side just between two ribs. It was definitely new; she could still see the holes where the stitches had sutured the wound back together. What on earth? How had he come to get such a wound? Was this due to the trouble his grandmother had alluded to?
Her discovery was a stark reminder that she hardly knew the man next to her. The boy she had been in love with all those years ago had been carefree, funny, and a bit wild. But this Max had his own experiences and trials which had shaped who he was today. She ran a finger along the scar.
What was she doing? She had instigated their lovemaking. She had told him to show her what she’d been missing.Dear Lord, when had she become so brazen? It wasn’t at all like her to take such a risk. She sat up and stared down at Max’s handsome face, so relaxed in sleep. This was sure to be folly, and she the fool who let her passions lead her there.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sun slanted intohis eyes as he cracked them open. Max blinked several times, trying to wake up. He ran a hand down over his face and pushed himself to a seated position. The late afternoon sun shone outside. The storm had passed through. He was alone on the floor in the bed of blankets they had made love on. Where was Livvy? He twisted to scan the room and spotted her in front of one of the windows, her back to him, still wrapped head to foot in a quilt. Max rose and padded over to wrap his arms around her from behind. She stiffened in his arms.
“I see the storm has passed through,” he said.
She nodded.
“How long did I sleep?”
“A couple of hours, maybe.” She stepped out of the circle of his arms, and turned to face him. “Max, you’re not wearing anything!”
“Neither are you.” He slipped a hand under her quilt and stroked his hand down one smooth hip. She took another step back as though his touch had burned her. He frowned. “What’s the matter, Livvy?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I think we should get back home before it gets dark. Everyone will be worried about us.” Her eyes flitted briefly to meet his gaze and then cast back down to the floor.
He took a step forward and cupped her cheek with one hand, forcing her chin up so she had to look at him. “Do you regret our lovemaking, Livvy?”
“No. Maybe…I don’t know.” The dark chocolate of her eyes swirled with regret, and it felt as though he had been stabbed again, this time through the heart.
There was a long moment of silence. Then her hand reached out, and she traced a finger over the scar on his left side. “How did you get this? It looks new,” Olivia asked softly.
He dropped his hand from her face. The time for secrets was over. “I was stabbed by a knife.”
She gasped; her eyes flew up to meet his. “Why?”
“The jobs I worked on with my father could become dangerous.” He sighed. He never wanted her to know about his work as a fence, but he realized she would never trust him if she didn’t know all of him. There wasn’t a way to keep all of the last eight years a secret; his scar proved that. “That’s what happens when you deal in stolen art. The characters you do business with don’t always play fair.” There, the awful truth, laid bare.
“I thought you went to Paris to work in a museum.”
“I did. But after two years of toiling in the archives cataloging and filing, my father convinced me to step out of the basement and work for him. Apparently, working for the foreign service office did not offer the salary that would support my parents’ extravagant lifestyle. He had been dealing in stolen art for two decades. After I found out about your marriage to Henry, I thought, why keep the respectable job? The museum job had been for our future, a future that at the time, I felt Henry had stolen from me.” He shrugged. “After my father’s death, I continued to run his business to support my family.”