To Have It All(50)

Curving my mouth into a coy, teasing grin, as if I were humored by his offer, I slowly lifted the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head and tossed the stained garment at him. As the fabric slid over his face, it revealed Max with a slack jaw and widened eyes.

He definitely hadn’t seen that coming.

His gaze flicked back and forth between my face and my lace bra. At least he was trying not to look at my chest, but it seemed he couldn’t help himself. Maybe it made me shallow, but that felt damn good. I enjoyed torturing him a little. My snarkiness poked at me, whispering for me to tell him, Does it feel good to look at what you can’t have? I shoved her down. It wasn’t her time or place.

Turning, I grabbed my crutches and positioned them under my arms. Pointing to the shirt still plastered to Max’s chest, I said, “Wash that on cold, and it needs to be hung out to dry. Thanks.”





Dropping my head back, I stared up at the ceiling letting out a long slow breath. She took her shirt off in front of me. I know I’d suggested it, but it was only a joke. I thought she’d spit fire at me and maybe we’d forget about what happened when we touched. What in the hell was that? Why was it every time I touched this woman I felt like my insides fucking sparked? She was attractive . . . Okay, more than that. In lamest terms she was sexy as fuck even when she looked at me, or Max, with distaste. I didn’t know much about her, but from what I did know, she was a pretty kick-ass lady. She was a great mother, and she worked hard to get ahead in life despite the obstacles before her. I admired that. So maybe I was attracted to her, but that still didn’t explain it—why did touching her do that to me?

Then the way she looked at me . . . the way our eyes locked . . . I don’t know. It was fucking intense. And her breasts. Fuck. Now I had the image of her in a lacy bra seared into my brain. Remembering her dark gaze fixed on mine, the way her lower lip caught between her teeth, her breasts, it all hit me. Jerking my head down, my eyes about bugged out of my head.

“Noooooo,” I grumbled as I stared at it.

The bulge.

I had a hard-on.

I had a hard-on in another man’s body.

“Noooooo,” I groaned again. This. Was. Not. Happening.

But it was.

To describe having an erection in my predicament as ‘uncomfortable’ would be a monumental understatement. This wasn’t just one of those kind-of-hard erections that might settle down after some time.

Nope.

Not for me.

Because life was giving me it’s big middle finger.

Max’s dick was fucking concrete and throbbing.

Looking down at my crotch I informed it, “You are not getting jerked by me tonight. No fucking way, man.”

“Who are you talking to?” Waverly asked, this time scaring the shit out of me. I spun around and leaned over the counter, my hips slightly twisted away from her, doing my best to hide my dilemma. She had a towel wrapped around her and was somehow managing to keep it up even while holding the crutches.

“Just . . . t-t-talking to myself,” I stuttered. “Thought you were heading to bed?” I asked, my tone laced with nervousness.

Narrowing her gaze at me, suspicion riddled in her eyes, she answered, “I am. Just wanted to let you know I’m taking a pain pill. Do you mind listening out for Pim?”

“Oh, of course,” I blurted, anxious for her to leave.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her mouth curving up on one side, as she stared at me like I was an idiot. She knew. At least I think she knew. Her removal of the shirt bit had rendered the exact outcome she’d hoped it would.

I knew she knew, but I refused to acknowledge it. “Yeah.” I nodded. “Just . . . tired. Don’t worry about Pim. I got her covered.”

“Well . . . goodnight,” she murmured with a muffled chuckle and left.

I let my head drop, and it thunked against the counter. What the hell was I going to do? I had a raging boner and no way to relieve it. There was no way I was jerking off. No fucking way. After a few minutes, I went into the living room and plopped on the couch, covering my lap with a pillow and doing my best to think of anything that might deter a hard-on. It was going to be a long night.



The next morning, I yawned as I stepped from the elevator into the reception area of Dr. Banahan’s office. This guy must charge an assload, I thought to myself as I took in the space. Fancy modern paintings hung on the walls, vases filled with fresh flowers decorated the tables, and the furniture was smooth leather. I stood in the middle of the room, my 7–11 coffee I’d stopped and gotten on the way in my hand, unsure of what to do. There was no receptionist to check in with. Should I just yell out?

When a short, robust man waddled his way into the area, glasses perched on his nose, I knew he had to be the doc.

“Max, good morning,” he offered in greeting.

“Morning, Doc,” I replied reaching out my hand to shake his.

His head reared back ever so slightly as if he were surprised. After an awkward beat, he took it, and we shook. “Shall we?” He motioned a hand to the doorway from which he’d just entered.

“Sure.” I walked ahead of him and wasn’t surprised to see his office was just as nice as the reception area. He even had one of those classic therapy couches that are made for the patient to lie on and curved for the body. I didn’t want to sit on that. That felt too . . . therapy-like. I was here to get the digs on Max, not for a head inspection. Instead, I took the nice leather chair beside it and sunk in. Dr. Banahan stared at me for a moment and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. Turning, he grabbed a file from his desk, and then sat across from me, opening his folder.