bruising kiss she already felt her lips swelling from. But naked together, it was electric and amazing and then his mouth was on her breast, and she was flat on her back. She arched up with the delicious shock of her nipple taken into his warm, wet mouth.
She begged in a language she didn't know she spoke but he seemed to understand, and he moved down her body, his breath warm, his tongue licking a path of torture that had to end in bliss or she knew she'd scream.
He reached up with one hand and held onto hers while he played her to the edge of release.
She had to get her hands on him. One hand gripping hers and the tip of his tongue weren’t nearly enough contact for her. She rose up and tried to get him on his back, but he popped up instead, gave her a one minute sign and took off.
She sat naked on the floor. What in the hell had just--
He skidded out of the bedroom with a condom in his hand and a smile on his face and nearly threw himself on the floor, ripping open the condom, putting it on, and pulling her close.
She kissed him long and hard and her thigh slid across his body until she sat astride him and it took nothing to reach behind her and guide him in. Slickly and so slowly she lifted herself, lowered onto him, did it again and again until she couldn’t pace herself anymore and in the wild kisses and feel of his chest brushing against her nipples and Max inside her, she came, and as always, he followed.
Chapter Nineteen
A drive-thru experience can’t compare to home-cooked.
They lay side by side on the dining room floor looking up at the table they'd slid under at some point in the frenzy. She seemed destined to find safety underneath things, like she was rocked by some internal earthquake and needed to seek shelter before it killed her.
And she'd had a hell of an internal earthquake. She thought she might actually break apart in the aftershocks of their… she was going to call it, encounter, and then never think or speak of it again. There, done.
She felt Max still breathing heavily next to her. He wasn't dead either, but from the ragged breaths, he'd come close as well. Well, not close so much as actually coming. She felt herself blush, cursed it, and wondered how to extract herself from a situation she had no business being in. He’d come from France with the head of her program, for crying in a bucket.
That had been one of her grandma's saying, and her mom still used it. Gwen didn't even know what it meant, but it ran through her head, for crying in a bucket, for crying in a bucket. It made just as much sense as her getting naked with a man who’d left her twenty years before. Plus she was a train wreck and homeless and broke and not even divorced yet and her mother and daughter would be returning right after a couple of chicken fried steaks for crying in a bucket.
She needed to get up and get dressed and get back to studying. Sure. It didn't really mean anything. It had been inevitable in a purely physical, carnal sort of way. She sat up and started to gather the clothes within reach. They'd had a couple of months of foreplay and now, voila', consummated and already in the rear view mirror.
She ought to just thank him, like he'd given her a really good back rub, only in the front, and then shake hands and part. She rose, kept her back to him, even though that wasn't an angle she wanted to reveal either. They'd part as friends, roommates for a couple of weeks, and then just nothing.
Grabbing her bra off the table, she headed for the bathroom. She'd Google him every decade or so until one of them died, and she'd think, because he would go first, of course, oh, Max Holter. Gosh I haven't thought of him in years.
She closed the bathroom door behind her and wished, against all logic, for a time when she wouldn't think of him for years.
Max studied the underside of his dining room table. He'd never had one before, not that he'd picked out the one he lay under. It had come with the house he'd bought, partly furnished with what the owner hadn't wanted. He didn't even know