Chapter Nineteen

Sarah might not have been drunk when Max reminded her that she had hormones, but she made up for it after he declared nothing was going to happen outside of a first kiss.

She and Alex had polished off three solid bottles of wine and laughed for most of the night.

Either Alex resolved herself to believing that Sarah wouldn’t tell the world the family secrets, or the wine loosened her up.

It was close to midnight when they all made it to bed.

Too soon, the bright sun shot rays through the curtains of the guest room Sarah had been given, making that last glass of wine completely regrettable.

The dry mouth and splitting headache drove her into an upright position and had her reaching for the glass of water she remembered putting by the bedside the night before.

She drank the water and ran a hand over her tired eyes.

Instantly, she was reminded about her personal conversation with a camera. She was honestly afraid to look in the mirror because of how badly her face throbbed.

Sarah found her glasses, put them on, and looked at her feet when she swung them out of bed.

She was wearing a T-shirt.

Max’s T-shirt.

That was a first, wearing the man’s shirt the morning after and not the man.

Sarah pushed off the bed and padded to the en suite bathroom and flipped on the light.

One look in the mirror, and she wanted to cry.

The bright red and purple she’d gone to bed with was bordering on black and covering most of the right side of her face. Adding to the mess was her massive red mop of hair that had taken on a life of its own overnight.

Sarah turned the water on in the sink and rummaged through the drawers.

She found a brush that would only frizz her hair out unless it was wet and a comb that wouldn’t work.

Instead of debating her next move, she turned the water off in the sink and on in the shower.

The warm spray did wonders for the fog inside her brain, but a couple of Tylenols was definitely in order.

By the time she emerged from the bedroom, she felt half-human.

She kept Max’s shirt on and made a knot out of the material so it tied snugly on her waist. Her hair was wet, and no amount of makeup was going to make her face look like anything other than a poster child for a battered women’s shelter.

The house was relatively quiet as she made her way downstairs. The night before had been packed with new experiences. Sarah hadn’t taken a lot of time to appreciate the house she was in.

Everywhere she looked, she saw things that cost more money than she’d make in a year. The art alone belonged in a museum, not hanging on a wall, lost in everything else in the room. The house was absolutely beautiful.

From what Sarah had been told the night before, the last trophy wife of Aaron Stone had hired the right people to make the Beverly Hills mansion Homes a tattoo peeked out on his right arm. Of course he had ink. Max Smith probably had lots of ink.

“I’m walking up slowly so you’re not startled and hit your head,” she said softly.

His shoulders shook as he quietly laughed. “That’s very considerate of you.” Then he glanced at her, lost his smile, and stood up too quickly anyway ... hitting his head.

She burst out laughing.

He swore under his breath and backed away from the car, his eyes on her injury. “That looks awful.”

Sarah patted the side of her face with her palm and turned to the side. “You don’t like my makeup?”

He wiped his hands on a towel and moved closer. “Does it feel better this morning?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “If by better you mean putting your head in a vise grip and giving it a quarter turn. But hey, the bright side is, my eye distracts you from my freckled nose.”

Max made a point of staring at her nose. “What freckles?”

She rolled her eyes, shifted her gaze to the car. “That looks too new to have you checking for problems.”

“I’m putting the engine cover back on. None of these cars have been driven since Stone died.”

“That’s just wrong.” Sarah took a good look around. The Germans, Brits, and Italians were well represented. “Looks like your dad had good taste in cars and wine.”

“I think they’re both just as expensive.”

“Maybe, but the wine still gave me a headache.” She walked past the Porsche and over to the Ferrari. Both cars screamed midlife crisis.

“That’s good to know.” Max followed her.

“You want me to be in pain?”

“I wouldn’t want you to have such a tolerance that your head didn’t pound after last night’s happy hour.”

She shrugged, glanced over her shoulder. “Since you weren’t going to put out, what else was there to do?”

Max tossed his head back with a full belly laugh.

She grinned, turned to the car. “Have you ever driven one of these?”

“No. You?”

“Sure,” she chuckled. “At least once a week, twice on Sunday.” Inside the insanely clean garage, she placed her coffee cup on a pristine white counter. “This has a V12 ... right?”

Max walked up beside her. “You know about cars?”

She shook her head. “I know a little bit about engines.”

“Your dad?”

“My brother. He went through a supercar phase, and we were all subject to watching endless programs about fast cars and the people that drove them. Have you heard of the Gumball?”

“Is that a car rally?” Max asked.

“Yup.” Sarah opened the door. The dome light didn’t go on. “It takes place in a different part of the world every year. The rally ended here in LA once. We stood on the side of the road, watching all the cars come in, and then wandered the parking lot, gawking.”

“Sounds like something I would have done when I was a kid.”

She shut the door and moved over to the Porsche. “One of these drove up to the valet. A short Middle Eastern man climbed out of the driver’s side, and a tall, leggy blonde in high heels with black-and-white checkered leggings slithered out of the passenger side. My poor brother’s jaw just about hit the pavement. My dad patted my brother on the back and said, ‘Don’t even look, son. You can’t afford her pedicures.’” She laughed at the memory. “I’ll never forget that.”

“Wise words.”

“Then he turned to me and said, ‘Always afford your own pedicures. That guy looks like a dick.’”

“Wiser words,” Max said with a grin.

“He wasn’t wrong.”

Sarah stopped looking at the cars and turned her attention toward Max.

Their eyes caught. “Are we going to talk about last night?” she asked.

“What part?” His smirk said he knew exactly what she referred to.

“You’re not even my type.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, you ride a motorcycle, have tattoos ... and the beard. It’s better now, but ...”

He was trying not to smile; she saw the strain in his eyes.

“You’re annoying, and I don’t think I’ve met a more demanding man.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “How am I demanding?”

Her voice rose an octave. “‘Sarah, meet me in one hour. Sarah, hope you’re awake, you have forty-five minutes, I’ll be in Burbank.’ And hotheaded. Completely not my type.”

“When did you come to this conclusion? Was it before or after you begged me to sleep with you?”

It was her turn to try not to grin. “I did no such thing.”

“Are you telling me you’re not attracted?”

She kept staring but didn’t dare say a word. If she said she was, he’d win. If she said she wasn’t ... She wasn’t that good of a liar.

Max took a step closer.

She backed up, the Ferrari stopping her retreat.

“Are you suggesting that I completely forget how you taste?”

How were those words such a turn-on?

“It was one kiss.” She attempted to downplay what she knew damn well was more than just a kiss .

Another step closer, and she felt his breath on her face.

His legs brushed hers.

“Let’s make it two.”

That sounded like a really good idea.

Max pressed his body against hers, and she reached for his neck.

Sarah swallowed his chuckle as their lips touched.

Max tasted even better without the wine. Warm lips, open-mouthed kisses that fired up everything all at once.

He pushed a knee between her legs, and she eagerly inched closer.

Strong hands circled her hips and molded hers to his.

Max pulled back from the kiss, took her glasses off, and came back for more.

The sound of plastic hitting the garage floor suggested her glasses were staring at the underside of a very expensive car. Not that she cared.

Max nudged both her legs open and settled a very hard part of him into a soft part of her ... and hello !

One more kiss turned into two, three ... He broke away and pulled her hair over just enough to expose her neck to his teeth ... not too hard, not too soft.

Red-hot heat surged up her body when Max tilted his hips and slowly rubbed their fully clothed bodies together in the most erotic foreplay Sarah had experienced in too long to remember.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to stand, and the need to feel more of Max touching her bordered on pain.

She whimpered ever so slightly, and without one word, Max lifted her up so she sat on the Ferrari.

Her hips bucked as he once again settled between her legs, his lips returned to hers, and the world started to spin.

Max cupped one breast and pinched a nipple through her shirt ... his shirt.

Max’s erection was pressed hot against her core, and the way he was moving, building a climax without shedding even one article of clothing.

She should probably stop him, take something off ... find a bed.

Instead Sarah reached around him, covered the globes of his butt, and pulled him even closer.

“We sh-should . . .”

He stopped her words with his lips, his hips still rising and falling.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t kiss . . .

Couldn’t think . . .

Until the dam broke and all Sarah could do was hold on as Max drove her to climax and caught her on the other side.

Max held her close, her head resting on his shoulder, his lips close to her ear.

The pace of her breath started to slow while Max seemed to hold his altogether.

Sarah dragged one hand over his hip and attempted to reach between them and stroke Max to return the favor.

He stopped her hand before it made it past his hip.

“If you touch me, I’ll explode.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

His teeth grazed her ear. “Not this time.”

“But—”

“This one is for you.”

She leaned back, looked into his eyes. Eyes that, this close up, she could see with relative clarity. “That hardly seems fair.”

He smiled; his hands stroked her back.

Once again, he placed a gentle kiss on her bruised face. “I want you to be sure I’m your type before I bury myself so deep inside of you that you forget your own name.”

She wanted to come back with something witty, something strong ... and all she could manage was a quiet “Okay.”

When he made no attempt to pull away, Sarah leaned into his embrace as their breath returned to normal.

A sound on the other end of the open garage startled them both.

Sarah jolted as Max twisted, and her bruised eye caught his shoulder.

She cried out, and Max instantly reached up and cradled her face. “Oh, darlin’.”

“Sorry, guys,” Alex’s voice called, telling them both what they’d heard.

Sarah laughed through the fresh pain in her face and rested her forehead on Max’s chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You helped me forget the pain for a while.” And he had. Other parts of her body humming was a great distraction.

Max pulled away, retrieved her glasses from the garage floor, and placed them back on her nose. “Go get your purse,” he told her.

“Why?”

“I’m taking you to get that checked out.”

“It’s a black eye. They hurt. I’m fine.”

He placed both hands on her arms and squeezed. “You stay here, and I’ll go get your purse.”

He moved away.

“Fine.” She stepped beside him and adjusted her pants. “I stick by my observations. You’re very demanding.”

He smiled. “I can live with that.”