An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(49)

Max’s breathing was heavier; his pulse thundered. The feel of Grace’s fingers on his jaw, the sensation of her skin against his was unbelievable. It’d been too damned long since he’d experienced a woman’s touch. He was hard and breathless and they were both still fully clothed.

Fuck.

“Okay,” he croaked.

“Okay?” she asked, dropping her hand. “You’ll do it?”

Right then, he’d have done anything she damn well wanted if she’d simply touch him again. “Sure.”

For the next hour, Grace took photographs of Max’s face, his eyes, his mouth, and his jaw, set against the backdrop of the old cottage, the trees, and the water. She showed him what she’d taken after each one, reassuring him that he was unidentifiable. Max had to admit, though with little surprise, that she was very talented. Her eye for shape and light was extraordinary.

“I need you over there,” she ordered, pointing to the overturned tree he sat on when they had a break on their morning run. He threw one leg over the side, straddling it. Grace sat down next to him.

“I want to take photographs of your hands.” Her voice quieted when she touched the back of his wrist. “But, I . . . I want to show color variation.” She put her hand on his. “Like this.”

Max licked his lips as he looked at their hands together, her skin an exquisite dark, warm caramel against his white and slightly tanned. She lifted her camera with her free hand and clicked twice. She adjusted herself, moving closer, the scent of her perfume, all sweet and floral, accosting Max. She tilted and clicked, moved her hand, moved his, but still she seemed unsatisfied. Max, however, was anything but.

Grace huffed and sat back, removing her fingers from his. “It’s not working.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “I can’t get the angle right.”

Max’s gaze wandered the length of her neck, across her pulse points, down to the V of her top and the swell of her chest, to the top of her thighs, where her skirt had ridden up. Her legs were f*cking perfection. She had runner’s legs, slender and strong. He wondered fleetingly what they’d feel like wrapped around his hips, his ribs, and his neck. He bet she tasted incredible.

“You need both hands to hold the camera,” he suggested, his voice deep and husky, his stare unmoving from her lap.

“Yeah, but I can’t do that while we’re”—she gestured between them, frustrated—“sitting like this.”

Max took her hand and held it between his, determined. He waited for her to look at him, which she did, blatantly surprised by his directness. But Max was tired of dancing around the issue. If she wanted him to help her, it was time to prove it.

“Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.

Her gaze flickered across him, from his eyes to his mouth, to his hands and back again. Max liked the way her eyes felt on him, innocent and honest. She was silent for an age, causing sweat to gather at his hairline. “Do you?”

She nodded, her stare never wavering. “Yes,” she replied. “I trust you.”

Max exhaled. “Good.” He smiled. “I think I know how we can make this easier.” She waited. “Turn around,” he said. “So your back’s to my chest.”

She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned as he asked. She sat back gradually between Max’s legs, shuffling across the log until her hair was under his nose, smelling all sorts of awesome, like clean laundry and honey. He needed to know what skin lotion she used, too, because that shit was golden. Nothing could beat the smell of a woman and dammit he’d missed it.

“Place your feet on the tree,” he instructed. “Good. Now, I’m gonna place my hands on your legs, okay? That way you can hold the camera and take the picture.”

She cleared her throat, but didn’t answer. Max sat forward, placing his chin on her shoulder, keeping his hands to himself. “If you don’t want to, it’s all right,” he whispered. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I swear.” She nodded. “Talk to me,” he urged. “Tell me what you can handle.”

She was breathing quicker. “I’m . . . it’s fine.” She pursed her lips. Max recognized the calming technique Elliot had taught him when he first entered rehab. “Just . . . go slow. Please.”

“Whatever you need.”

Max swallowed, adjusting his position behind her, not wanting Grace to feel his lust poking her in the lower back. Jesus, he was wound tighter than a f*cking spring. He was suddenly aware of everything about the woman sitting between his legs, her breathing, her scent, the slight tremor in her spine, and when his palms finally made contact with the skin of her legs, he all but gulped the groan that threatened at the back of his throat. She was warm and so f*cking soft under his fingertips.

He kept his hands still, pressing into her thighs, his digits reaching the top of her knee. “Take the picture,” he murmured into her hair, desperately ignoring the epic view he had down her bra. “Take it.”

“I can’t move,” she gasped.

“Yes, you can.” Max shifted his hands, a whisper of skin against skin. “I’m not holding you down. You’re in control. You can move, you can push me awa—”

“No, don’t,” she interrupted with an abrupt shake of her head. “Don’t move away.”