An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(96)

His time in rehab notwithstanding, Max was more than aware of the stupid shit he’d done in his life. He’d f*cked people over, treated them like crap, made impulsive decisions that always came back to bite him, and threw people under the bus with no regret, always making sure that he was the one who came out untarnished when shit hit the fan, no matter who got hurt. Yeah, he was a prize *, but that shit wasn’t news. What was news and what really had his brain on fast spin while he lay on his bed in the boardinghouse, his body aching in all the ways it should after a night of incredible sex and very little sleep, was that Max knew he’d finally outdone himself.

Last night.

Shit. Last night.

What had happened between him and Grace had been . . .

He exhaled.

It had been amazing.

Plain and simple. There was no point in denying it. Sex with her always was and last night was no exception.

Christ, he’d been livid on Friday after stumbling upon her and the * cop laughing and touching as they went into her house, and he’d had every intention of calling the whole thing off. Standing in the pounding rain, hidden by the trees and watching them like some cheap film cliché, he’d realized he wasn’t prepared to share Grace with anyone, least of all that dick-with-a-badge deputy. He’d run back to her house at 2 a.m. to tell her just that, letting the storm stir his fury further, grumbling to himself about what a stupid decision it was to get involved with anyone, and promising himself that he was going to stay away from women indefinitely to avoid the stress of it all.

Nevertheless, as determined as he had been, somewhere along the line Max’s plan had dissolved into oblivion. It may have had something to do with how hot it was seeing Grace fired up, standing tall, not being intimidated by him, and, strangely, Max couldn’t help but feel that in some small way, he was responsible for the confidence she had to go toe-to-toe with him. Her fire was sexy as hell and when her eyes flashed, challenging him and his accusation, he knew he was f*cked.

Of course she hadn’t gone to bed with the prick. Deep down Max had known that all along, stubbornly refusing to investigate why he’d assumed such a thing in the first place. Was it jealousy? Was he so involved with Grace now that jealousy factored in to it? He couldn’t tell, but he knew that seeing that piece of shit put his hands on her had made Max seriously consider homicide.

And then there was the kiss.

He rubbed his hands down his face, trying his damnedest not to think about the taste of her lips, her eager mouth, and her passionate tongue, which lapped at him as if he were some kind of precious elixir or something. He’d promised himself not to let anyone get that close, but hearing her words, her begging, her pleading, her dirty mutterings, after being teased by her impulsive kiss, it was all too much for him to take. The urge to have more had risen through him like a tidal wave. He’d been so f*cking foolish to let that happen. Kissing blurred things, created feelings, and that was a minefield Max had no intention of navigating again. And he hadn’t, not for a long time.

He’d not kissed a woman like that since . . . Lizzie, and even then, he struggled to pull to memory a time where the two of them had been that frantic to taste one another. He’d come to the conclusion that, somehow, that was different. He’d loved Lizzie, spent years with her where, over time, as was the case in most relationships, their passion and need for each other morphed from explosive flash-bang fireworks into something quieter, calmer, but no less hot.

“Fuck,” he muttered toward the ceiling. He had no idea what his next step was. He’d crept out of Grace’s bed, avoiding looking at her so warm and beautiful as she slept, and left the house like the coward he was. He didn’t even leave a note, but then, what the hell would he have written? His head was a hot mess, and until he decided what he was going to do, he needed to stay away from her.

It was almost too much for him, an addict, to cope with. His cravings, for the most part, stayed relatively quiet, but that could all change if he didn’t sort his shit out. His eight-month NA coin dipped and flicked between the knuckles of his right hand. Thank God for his anti-anxiety meds, he thought wryly. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe deeply, but a knock at the door had them snapping back open.

Panic seized him.

Grace.

What the hell would he say to her? He’d already beaten himself up for slamming the door in her face once, he couldn’t do that again, but he didn’t have any answers to the questions she’d have and deserved to ask. The knock came again, firmer and not sounding at all like the polite, timid knock that Grace always gave. Max cleared his throat and heaved himself off the bed, approaching the door and resting his forehead against it for a brief moment, trying to gather what courage he could to face whatever was standing on the other side.

Holding his breath, he unlocked it and swung it open. “Carter!”

He was so surprised to see his friend, and even more relieved to find him and not Grace standing there, that he was unable to keep himself from pulling his buddy in for a huge hug, slapping his back and smiling.

Stumbling into the embrace, Carter hugged him back. That was reassuring; at least he wasn’t there to deliver bad news.

“What the hell, man?” Max asked. “What are you doing here?” He stood back, clasping Carter’s shoulders. He looked okay, dressed casual in a gray Henley, dark blue jeans, and a beat-up brown lightweight motorcycle jacket. It looked to be more for fashion than function, but it was still badass.