An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(73)

“Really. I can starfish and no one can stop me.”

She moved her arm outward, showing Max how she could starfish like it was her job. Sure enough, even with him next to her in the monster bed, she had room to spread out. Max copied her as she moved her arms and legs, as if they were making snow angels on the duvet, and her hand touched his. They both paused. Grace glanced over at him and gently rubbed Max’s pinkie with her own.

The contact made the ball of desire in his belly twist and the muscle in his jaw tic as he clenched his teeth together. He exhaled heavily and shuffled some more into the ultracomfy bedding, trying to ignore the way the atmosphere around them changed, sharpened, and how it caused his pulse to thunder through his body.

“So I have a question,” Grace whispered.

“Shoot.”

She moved closer, rolling slowly onto her side, her breath warm on his cheek. “What if I was?”

His eyes slid over to hers, though her focus was on his chest. She watched, seemingly fascinated as it lifted and dropped with the heavy breaths he was taking. “What if you was what?”

Their eyes met gradually and Max’s lungs squeezed. “What if I was . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “Propositioning you?”

He stared at her for a beat, dragging air into lungs that were now apparently finding it really f*cking hard to do their job. “You teasing me again?” The words sounded ever so slightly bitter off his tongue, which wasn’t Max’s intention, but, shit, he couldn’t cope with another game of look but don’t touch. He wanted to touch; he wanted to touch her everywhere.

Grace lifted onto her forearm so that she was above him. “No,” she whispered with a gentle shake of her head. “I’m not teasing.”





It was as though a vacuum pulled all the air from the room as she spoke. Wordless, Max pushed his head back into the pillows beneath it, making sure that he could see all of her face, trying to detect any hint of dishonesty. As was always the way with Grace, he found none. His gaze traveled over her, starting with her bright eyes, which were always truthful, to her mouth so plump and eager, down to her neck and her f*cking awesome chest. “You sure?”

“When you look at me like that?” she breathed. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want me.”

“I do.”

She moved gradually, sitting up. “I know.” Max made to sit up with her, but her small hand on his chest pushed him back down. “Stay.”

All Max could do was nod. He watched her hand move over his chest and down to his stomach, slow and careful until it reached the hem of his T-shirt. She pulled it up, exposing his skin, which she touched reverently. This was okay, Max thought, breathing deeply. He was prepared for this. She’d done this before.

What she hadn’t done before, however, was place those f*cking stupendous lips against his stomach and kiss him. Fuck, her mouth was so damned soft. He released a low grunt when she did it again and her mouth moved across his clenched muscles, around his belly button, and up toward his chest, pushing his T-shirt up the farther she went.

Max lifted a little from the bed, pulling the damned thing over his head, and dropped it to the floor. Carefully, with his fingers, he pushed her hair back, not holding her—knowing her aversion to being restrained in any way—but keeping it back from her face. He wanted to see her, see her explore his body. He wanted to capture every single moment because, f*ck, he’d never seen anything as erotic as Grace taking control. He fisted the bedsheets with his free hand, clenching and releasing, instead of succumbing to the overwhelming need he had to grab her, throw her down, and have his way with her.

As if reading his mind, she hummed with a smile into his skin and Jesus f*cking Christ when her tongue came out to taste his nipple, Max almost leaped from the bed.

“You taste good,” she said into his chest, her fingers moving through the hair that speckled it. She sighed. “I want to taste you all over.”

“Goddamn,” Max uttered, grimacing at his uncomfortable hard-on. His hips flexed with the need for any type of friction. “Do what you want,” he urged. “Please. Anything.”

She glanced down at his predicament. “Can I . . . would it be okay if I undressed you?”

Max scoffed and quickly pushed the button through the hole on his shorts, eager to get her started. “Grace. Don’t ask.” He opened his arms wide, offering himself to her white-hot stare. “Just touch.”

She kneeled up and clasped the fly zipper, pulling it down too f*cking slowly. Max lifted his hips and pushed his fingers into the waistband at his lower back, helping her pull the godforsaken things down his thighs. He kicked them off his feet, leaving him in nothing but his boxer briefs, tented with his want. Max bit his lip when her finger traced the outline of him through his underwear.

“You’re so hard,” she murmured.

“You have no f*cking idea,” he replied, holding back an incredulous laugh. “Take them off me.”

For a split second, Max saw her waver, he saw anxiety and doubt, and his stomach dropped. He opened his mouth to reassure her, to tell her that, despite him and his cock wanting nothing more than to have her bouncing all over it, it was okay, that they didn’t have to do anything, that they’d take it slow, but, God bless her, he didn’t get the chance.