Faking It (Losing It, #2)(43)

I turned my eyes back to one of the murals on the wall. It was all black and white and showed people singing and others dancing. It was simple, no color, no frills. But it was beautiful.

Max leaned up to my ear. “My boss at the tattoo parlor did that back when this place opened. He’s also the one that did this.”

Tattoo parlor. That explained the abundance of art on her body.

She pulled the neck of her shirt down to reveal smooth skin, tattooed branches, and enough cleavage to make my mouth go dry.

“Lucky guy.”

Someone shouted Max’s name, and I turned to see her jogging over to one of the bartenders. When I caught up he was saying, “Sorry I missed the show tonight, but . . .” He held up the drink he was mixing and shrugged.

“It was a good one,” I said,

Max beamed, and the bartender looked between us like he didn’t quite understand how we fit together.

His eyebrows were still halfway up his forehead when he said, “I’ll try and make the next one. You kids have a good night.” He poured us two shots on the house, and then turned to the people next to us for their order. Max used her elbows to heft herself up on the bar and gave him a smacking kiss on his cheek. She didn’t look like a girl who’d just broken up with her boyfriend.

At the moment though, her long legs had my full attention. She looked over her shoulder and caught me staring. As she slid down off the bar, she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her smile only widened.

“You ready to be amazed, Angry Girl?”

If her smile as she led me upstairs was any indication, I might have to change her nickname. Going up the stairs behind her could give any straight man a heart attack. Her red high heels gave way to toned calves, glorious thighs, and short leopard print shorts that enhanced her curves. Somewhere out there was an ex-boyfriend with her likeness tattooed somewhere on his body. She was the kind of sexy that begged to be immortalized.

Upstairs was more crowded than the section we’d just left, but there were still couches and mismatched furniture that gave it the same relaxed vibe. There was the main dance floor, and then a second one that was raised up a few feet and featured b-boys freestyling while a crowd of onlookers cheered. fingernails scrape164owlmy

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. I was getting accustomed to interpreting her breathing. There was the “I’m about to breathe fire” inhale, the “anything involving her mother” inhale, and my personal favorite, the “just been kissed” inhale. As she entered the dance floor, though, her breath was reminiscent of the way she sang. She was relaxed here. Her arms snaked above her head, and her ripped white tee raised to show a strip of skin above her shorts. The last time I’d seen her lower back, it had been covered in bandages and bruises. Now, more than a week later, only the faintest hint of healing scratches remained behind. From here, her skin looked smooth, and I could see the dimples at the bottom of her spine.

A few people slid between us, and I missed the view. She turned, and her eyes found mine. She crooked a finger at me and smiled.

That was the moment I knew for sure that I hadn’t been in love with Bliss. I couldn’t have been. Because at that moment, nothing could have kept me from going to Max, not even if Bliss had been on the other side calling me, too. I moved through the crowd until she was in my reach. She was twisting and turning and singing along to a song I’d never heard. She ran her hands down her sides to her thighs, and one side of her tee slipped over her shoulder. I wanted to replace the hands on her thighs with my own.

“I’m waiting, Golden Boy!”

Watching her was appealing, but touching her was irresistible. She was even more electric than the music that pulsated around us. I stepped forward right when she rolled her body from her chest down through her hips. When she went to repeat the move, I matched her. Our chests brushed, and she bit her lip.

Every theatre major in college had to take dance classes, and every day in warm-up the professor made us practice isolating different parts of our bodies. The purpose had been to stretch, not dance, but the ability transferred well to this kind of techno music.

Max danced the same way she sang . . . with complete abandon. I just followed her, keeping our bodies close and matching her movements. She tossed her hair and started to circle around me.

The music changed to something a little slower. I slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her into me. Our hips locked together, and I placed a hand on her hip to guide her into a circular motion. My thigh fitted between hers and hers between mine until we were as close as we could possibly get. She rolled her body to one side, and I leaned the opposite direction.

The air around us was warm and sticky with sweat. She rocked her hips into mine, and I had to clench my teeth to keep in a groan. Moving with her was amazing, but every once in a while she would movs="x1Be M" aid="OPEND"





26

Max

I followed his lead and slipped my fingertips into the curls at the base of his scalp. His other hand slid from my hip to the small of my back and snuck underneath my tee. His hands pressed into my skin, and I was taken back to the night he’d treated my injuries, and how badly I had wanted to do this then.

His face tipped down toward mine, and he breathed, “Max.”

There was hesitancy laden in his voice, and I knew what he was thinking. He was about to get noble. He was going to pull some shit about this not being good for me or me needing time or whatever. He was overthinking something that was so simple.