The Gamble (Colorado Mountain #1)(75)

When he seemed happy to keep making out in the kitchen, I was more than happy to let him do it and I took advantage of the fact that my arms were around him. I pulled up his shirt and slid both hands in.

Then I explored. And I liked what I felt, too much. So much, I moaned a little in his mouth and pressed closer.

If I could think, it might have dawned on me that Max just meant to make out in the kitchen. When I pressed in closer, the kiss grew deeper, wilder and his hand fisted in my nightie at the waist, bringing it up, while his other hand slid over my bottom.

I hadn’t had that in awhile, too long, and more importantly, it had never felt like that. In fact, it felt so good I moaned again, lost the ability to stand, gave him my weight and dug my nails in his back.

He growled into my mouth. I pressed my h*ps into his. His hand at my bottom slid up and then back down, this time in my panties.

That felt infinitely better.

“Max,” I breathed against his lips, liking his hand there a lot.

“Fuck, Duchess,” he growled against mine then repeated, “Fuck.”

His hand was moving over my behind and my head dropped forward, my lips against his neck, I touched my tongue there.

His lips went to my ear and his voice was even rougher when he asked, “You wet?”

I wasn’t thinking, couldn’t think, so, confused, I asked, “Sorry?”

“You wet for me?” His gruff words sounded in my ear and they made me shiver from top to toe in his arms and, if I hadn’t been wet before (which I was), his words would have done it.

“Yes,” I whispered my honest answer against his neck.

“Fuck,” he muttered into my ear.

“Max,” I breathed again, I had no idea why but it sounded like a plea.

Unfortunately he was immune to my plea. I knew this because his hand came out of my undies, both his arms went tight around me, he buried his face in my neck and he held me close for a good long while.

Eventually he said quietly into my neck, “After we get this done in town, we’re comin’ home and, swear to God, anyone gets close to this house, I’m f**kin’ shootin’ ‘em.”

I pulled my head back, his came up but he didn’t drop his arms. Neither did I.

“Do you own a gun?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You have a problem with guns?”

I thought about this for a moment and realized I’d never really thought about guns so I replied, “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about guns.”

“I’ll take you out shootin’,” Max decided instantly.

I had a problem with that. “I don’t think –”

“Later.”

“Max –” I started to protest.

“Tomorrow.”

“Max –”

His arms gave me a squeeze and his face grew attractively lascivious. “Maybe the next day.”

“Max!” I snapped, losing patience.

He grinned and changed the subject. “You bought a little pitcher, baby.”

I decided to let him change the subject as this one was safer and less likely to make me angry. I’d been angry enough that day for at least a week. Maybe a year.

“It’s a gift,” I informed him, “for taking care of me when I was sick.”

“You bought me a little pitcher as a gift?”

“Yes,” I said. “And a sugar bowl.”

He shook his head like I was adorable then he stated, “My gift was better.”

“Sorry?”

“The ring.”

I immediately pulled my hand from behind his back, placed it on his chest and stared at the ring he gave me that I hadn’t taken off.

Then I looked at him and said, “Yes, agreed, this ring is a whole lot better than a little pitcher even with a matching sugar bowl.”

He threw his head back and laughed, one of his arms sliding high up my back as he crushed my arm between us and gave me a tight hug.

“Are you saying you don’t like my gift?” I asked after he stopped laughing.

“I’ll like the one you’re givin’ me this afternoon a f**kuva lot better,” he replied and I shivered again in his arms before his face got close and I saw he was fighting a grin. “Go take a shower, honey, I’ll make breakfast.”

“I can make breakfast.”

He shook his head. “You take an age to get ready. You’re gettin’ a head start.”

He wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t one of those women who was ready to face the day after a shower and an application of deodorant.

Though I didn’t take “an age”.

Even so, instead of arguing I looked over his shoulder and mumbled, “Whatever.”

His arms tightened before he let me go, grabbed his mug and turned toward the fridge.

“What do you want, oatmeal, toast, granola?” he asked.

“Toast.”

He opened the fridge but turned to me. “Jelly?”

“What do you think?”

He smiled, tipped his head toward the ceiling and said, “Shower, it’ll be done when you get down.”

“Thanks, Max.”

His head was in the fridge when, as if the two words he said didn’t hold colossal meaning, he muttered, “Anything, baby.”