A Hot Mess Read online

He took my mouth again, swallowing any complaints I might have uttered. With the same commanding authority he used in everything he did, he lifted my skirt out of the way and pressed his covered cock to my covered pussy. The sensation of having him so close and still not close enough drew a groan from some deep part of me I hadn't known existed until Max had claimed it.

  He broke our kiss. "Let's blow off tonight's show. I've missed this body, and I can think of a much more pleasing way to spend a Friday evening than sitting in another fashion show."

  "We had sex last night." My voice was little more than a breathless sigh.

  "Sex, yes. But that's not what I'm craving from you, little sub."

  A shiver danced around my spine. Max wasn't craving sex. What he wanted was my complete and total surrender, the kind of sexual control that only came from consensual power exchange. In other words, my Dom wanted a long, uninterrupted night with his sub, and truth be told, his sub wanted that, too. But…

  "You're the one who singlehandedly put Boudoir Fashion Week together," I reminded him. "It'd fall apart without you."

  "No, because I put it together, it'll continue to flow without a hitch."

  He was right. The man was brilliant, and I had no doubt the events would likely continue on autopilot.

  "One more day," I murmured. "And I'm all yours."

  "You're already all mine."

  "You know what I mean."

  He gave me a sly smile as he rocked his hips forward and ground his erection against my sex.

  God.

  I gasped. My labia felt too sensitive, too engorged and way too needy, and fuck, every time he hit my clit, I had trouble remembering why I was objecting to him taking me right here and now. He shouldn't be able to affect me so quickly, so thoroughly, but here we were.

  "Soon," I said, using my last remaining shred of resistance, "we'll have all the time in the world."

  He pulled back far enough to captivate me with the feral grin I loved. "And what, my sweet, might you envision when we have all that time?"

  "Enough to fill my own erotic novel."

  "Care to elaborate?" He grabbed the silver letter opener from his desk, Whitecliff International's logo on the blade, and pantomimed using it to cut my clothes off. "And if it involves me going caveman on you, I wouldn't be opposed to that."

  "No clothes cutting, but if that turns you on…" I nipped at his jaw, letting the idea percolate between us a few moments before continuing. "What I want is a simple fantasy, but one that's been in my thoughts a lot lately. A re-creation of our first night together, once we were alone at your place anyway, in your bed, just the two of us."

  "I think that can be arranged." He placed the letter opener back on his desk.

  Our very first night together hadn't started with just the two of us. His longtime friend, Garrett Lanyon, had been there, too, the three of us in Max's office at Red Light after hours. That night was my first taste of Max and his world of sex without restraints—and then later at his place with restraints. It was a moment that changed my life forever, as stupidly melodramatic as it sounded, but it was the truth.

  "Speaking of fantasies, my sweet, have you given any further thought to going to the Swingers' Ball?"

  "Further thought, yes, but—"

  "But you're still not ready," he concluded.

  I closed my eyes but said nothing. Max had approached me a couple weeks back about attending a Swingers' Ball tomorrow evening at Restrained Fantasies, a local BDSM club where he was a member, and while I was interested in going with him, I wasn't sure I was ready to be that adventurous. He and I had played around with his long-time friend Garrett and Garrett's lovely wife, Karen, but that was as far as I'd dared go into the swingers' arena. I'd always enjoyed our quartet trysts, but to go to a club and let complete strangers touch me?

  A shudder worked its way through me. I trusted Max; exploring his BDSM world had been one of the most freeing things I'd ever experienced, but going that far wasn't a step I was ready to make.

  "It's okay, Bree," he said as if reading my mind and kissed my forehead. "I don't want you to go if you're not ready."

  I opened my eyes. "Maybe you could take me to the club someday. I'd like to see what it's like. Maybe I won't feel so overwhelmed by the place after I see it."

  "I'll make the arrangements."

  The left side of his mouth turned up, expression soft and affectionate. This wasn't a grin or a smirk. Intimacy played in the blue eyes I loved, an affection I'd noticed with increasing frequency. True, we hadn't yet exchanged the "L-word," but I liked to imagine we were close, that Max would finally confess his feelings toward me, not just his desire to possess my body.

  I traced my index finger along the rigid line of his jaw. "Tell me about Giselle Dubois and why the mention of her name affects you so much."

  He turned away, both physically and emotionally, and moved to the opposite side of the office. His sudden absence left me feeling cold.

  "Max?" I went after him and caught him around the waist, holding tight. "I didn't mean to hurt you. You know that. I—"

  "I know. Talking about that bitch is…" As he turned, he wrapped me in his strong arms and rested his cheek on the top of my head. The move was as much about comfort as about hiding his face.

  Despite everything we'd been through, especially regarding what he'd told me about his ex-wife, Max had trouble opening up. He had trouble trusting; he'd told me in almost those exact words not long after we'd gotten together. Distracting me with his body when I pushed him for more, however, he was damn good at.

  "I don't like talking about Giselle." His words were flat and final, but over the past few months, I'd discovered Max was a bit like a ketchup bottle. Sometimes I had to give him a good whack to get something to come out.

  "Which is Max-ese for, 'We used to go out.' Am I right?"

  "I don't like—"

  "Talking about Giselle. Yeah, I heard you." I paused a few heartbeats. "Which is Max-ese for, 'We used to go out.' Am I right?"

  He let out a sigh, his breath bristling the hairs on the top of my head. "Yes, she and I used to go out. A long time ago. But we don't have time to get into everything right now. We'd be here a week."

  Great. Now, he realized we didn't have the time.

  "Later then?" I asked.

  "Maybe." He pressed a lingering kiss to my lips before heading for the door. Maybe was as close to a yes as I figured I'd get. We'd been dating long enough for me to know that.

  I tried not to feel too dejected as I followed Max. But he froze the second he crossed the threshold into the foyer and I ran right smack into him before freezing myself.

  Wearing a dress as sheer and skimpy as some of the lingerie she'd designed, Giselle Dubois stood next to Todd and beamed at Max, an upturn of the lips so stunning it should come with a warning sign.

  "Max, darling!" Giselle exclaimed, throwing her arms open and pushing her way past Todd. "I was hoping to catch you before tonight's final showing."

  Before Max could react, Giselle wrapped slender arms around Max and pressed her lips to his.

  Jealousy spiked as harsh and volatile as floodwaters spilling over their banks, and a thousand tiny snakes slithered in my stomach. Those were my lips; they'd been against mine mere moments ago. I sucked in a deep breath, doing everything I could to keep from grabbing Giselle by her pretty blonde hair and yanking her away. Luckily, however, I didn't have to.

  Max did it for me.

  With lightning speed, he pushed Giselle to arm's length, extricating himself from her embrace. The dark expression painting his face in harsh lines wasn't one I'd ever been on the receiving end of, thankfully. It was an expression I imagined he'd practiced countless times in the mirror, carefully crafted to make other people fear for their lives.

  When he spoke, his voice was soft, but the timbre held a heavy undercurrent of menace. "I'd advise you to remember our contract, Ms. Dubois, and to abide by it. To the goddamn letter. If you don't, I guarante
e you hotel security will escort you off the premises permanently. Do I make myself clear?"

  Contract?

  I filed the information away. I'd ask Max later. I was too busy wrenching my jaw off the ground. I so rarely saw Max in full-on fury mode, so when I did, it was always a shock. I said a silent prayer I'd never been on the receiving end of that look and, hopefully, never would be.

  Despite Max's hostility, Giselle's smile stayed glued in place. In fact, the bitch looked a little smug, as if she was not just unfazed by Max's outburst but expected it. No, as if she'd intended to cause it.

  What are you up to, Giselle?

  A warning flickered in the back of my mind, but I tamped it down. This was merely my jealousy getting the better of me. Nothing more.

  Max turned to Todd. "Please let security know Ms. Dubois is not allowed near my office. If she does make her way here again, please inform Mr. Washington, and he will promptly toss her out on her ass."

  "Yes, sir." A slight smile played on Todd's lips, and he grabbed the phone from his desk and spoke to someone I assumed was in security.

  "Seriously, Max, darling. Is all this hostility really necessary?" Giselle leaned against the side of Todd's desk as if she was the one who owned this hotel, not the other way around. "Surely, we can let bygones be bygones, can't we? No sense in anyone getting their feathers ruffled."

  Max crossed his arms, looking every part the intimidating business mogul, and his body language was clear. They most certainly could not let bygones be bygones.

  "Giselle, darling, do you know what I'd like from you?" Max strung out the word 'darling' and layered in a hefty dollop of sarcasm.

  "Absolutely," Giselle said with a wicked grin.

  "For you to promptly fuck off." Max nodded in my direction. "Bree and I are late for the show."

  Giselle turned her smile on me, her expression as stunning as it was calculating, as if she were privy to information no one else knew and knew how to wield it for maximum destruction.

  That flickering warning in the back of my mind re-emerged with a vengeance, but I fought it down.

  With my shoulders back and my head high, I thrust my hand toward her. "Breanne Jennings, manager of Red Light Lingerie. I oversee all new line acquisitions for the company, and I must say, I have truly enjoyed your designs. I very much look forward to a possible partnership with you and Dubois Fashions."

  Okay, I was stretching the truth. I wasn't in charge of new line acquisitions, and after this display with Max, I wasn't interested in working with her any longer, either—not that I'd admit that to her.

  Giselle shook my hand as if she'd been forced to touch something slimy, but her lips never lost that upward curl. "A pleasure, Ms. Jennings."

  Sure. A pleasure. I totally bought that.

  Giselle turned back to Max. "Since we're both headed the same way, how about we walk and talk. That would be agreeable, yes?"

  "Talk if you must, but I have no intention of listening." Max turned to me. "Come along, Ms. Jennings. They will not hold the curtain long, even for me."

  "Of course, sir." I fought the urge to snicker; Max's dismissal of Giselle couldn't have been more finite. The only thing that would have made Max's dismissal better was if he'd have looped my arm around the arm Giselle had tried to take earlier. That, however, would have been breaking our agreement for secrecy.

  Max's strides ate the ground, and I had to double time to keep up. I thanked my trainer for the grueling workouts she put me through, or else I was pretty sure my breathing would have sounded like Giselle's, a pack-a-day smoker on the final leg of a marathon. I couldn't help but smile at her discomfort. Petty, sure, but gratifying…hell yeah.

  Giselle's words were choppy as she fought to keep pace with Max and me. "I was hoping to offer you an exclusive extended preview of my new line of premier bedroom wear. I'm having a private showing a few days after Boudoir Fashion Week wraps up. It's at a place I'm sure you know well."

  Max didn't respond, but I had to admit Giselle had certainly piqued my curiosity.

  We'd almost reached Business Room A when Giselle answered the question Max obviously had no interest in asking. "My show's going to be at Restrained Fantasies."

  I almost tripped over my stilettos. Giselle knew about Restrained Fantasies? Even more disturbing, she knew Max's sexual preferences because, most likely, he'd been her Dom, too.

  I tried not to think about Max and Giselle together the way Max and I were together. Max had dated scores of beautiful women before settling on plain little me. I knew this, but knowing it while looking headlong at one of the gorgeous women from his past was a different smack to the gut altogether.

  Max cast a sideways glance at me. I didn't need to be a mind reader to decipher the questions in his eyes.

  Where was Giselle going with this?

  Should we be worried?

  Was I about to freak out at the thought of him putting Giselle into bondage?

  No clue, probably, and absofuckinglutely.

  Chapter 2

  Throughout the show, I kept my fists balled in my lap, so I didn't take Max's hand where it rested on his knee. The desire to be connected to him pulled at me and not just because Giselle was watching us from backstage. I'd caught her grinning at us from time to time, although, I wasn't sure "grinning" was the right word. I felt as if she were a hunter and we were her prey, already caught in her trap, only we hadn't realized it yet.

  I stiffened my back and turned away from her unnerving gaze, but the instinct to keep my eyes on potential danger was too strong. Every time I'd force myself to look elsewhere, my gaze would wander back, a sick, panicky feeling expanding in my gut. I wish I knew how to stop this feeling. I hadn't felt this scrutinized since the days of my father's trial. Those events might have happened a lifetime ago, but even all these years later, remembering the angry mobs and their jeers made me feel as if I'd belonged in a dumpster. I hated that those days still held power over me.

  I wanted to talk to Max about those long-ago days, and over the past several weeks, I'd grappled with whether I should tell him, despite the fact I'd literally be breaking the law—and possibly his heart.

  What if my past made him see me differently? I didn't want that, especially given Max's trust issues. I didn't care if anyone else found out. I mean, yes, I'd most certainly care, but not in the same way. As the old saying went, the higher they are, the harder—and farther—they fall. And I feared Max would fall too hard, and hurting the man I loved was the last thing I wanted to do.

  Max leaned close and whispered to me, drawing my attention to the tall, graceful brunette strutting down the catwalk. "I'd like to see you in that," he said.

  The sheerest lace I'd ever seen wrapped the model in a black hue that set off her caramel skin tone. A slinky bra and G-string was the only real coverage the outfit provided. Even the robe flowing around her like a cape was made of the same lace. It was strength and feminine beauty combined with artistic perfection, and I loved it.

  "It's incredible," I answered. "But I regret to inform you, I wouldn't make it look nearly that good."

  "No, you'd make it look better. Your curves were made for lingerie."

  Heat spread over my cheeks. Would I ever grow immune to his compliments? "For you, Sir, I'd wear it, but I know what you prefer me in."

  Bondage and little else.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, visible even in the low lights of the viewing area. His reaction made me feel a bit, dare I say it, powerful. Good to know I affected my Dom the same way he affected me.

  "Keep that up, my sweet, and I may take you over my knee when we get home."

  "Is that a promise?" I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Sir."

  Max laughed, shaking his head and pointing at the stage. "Whose design is this?"

  I checked the evening's event packet on my lap. Ugh. Of course, it was hers. "You don't want to know," I told him.

  "Damn."

  "Couldn't have said i
t better myself."

  The rest of the show was more of the same, a plethora of sleek, sexy designs to fuel the imagination, and all the best were Giselle's. I hated that I loved her work so much.

  When the last model exited stage left and the designers received their standing ovations, everyone trickled into the adjoining room for champagne, fruit, and assorted crudités. I'd felt demure and dull just sitting within spitting distance of the catwalk, but mingling directly with the gorgeous supermodels made me feel like a moldy pair of gym socks in a room filled with glitter. To bastardize the Foo Fighters song "The Pretender,” one of these things is not like the other.

  I took a sip of my chilled white wine and attempted to fold into the shadows. Max stood in the center of the room as if the world did, indeed, revolve around him, and he chatted with whoever stepped into his orbit. Max did small talk like a pro. I, however, found the task exhausting. I would say it was like pulling teeth, but I'd rather have teeth pulled than traverse a crowded room and attempt to drum up conversations with strangers.

  Max was brilliant as he spoke, all smiles and a confidence that made those around him feel special to be in his company. I know I did, Dom/sub relationship aside. But the smile he wore for the masses wasn't the kind he got when he looked at me after securing me to whatever piece of equipment he'd deemed appropriate for the evening: St. Andrew's cross, a sturdy pair of tree trunks in his indoor garden oasis, his bed—whatever. To know that I, and I alone, made that smile play on his lips gave me a sense of pride. Max could easily have any woman in this room, but he'd chosen me.

  Me.

  Movement out of the corner of my eye made me turn. A man with an olive skin tone came to a stop next to me. He had sleek, angular features and eyes of the darkest melted chocolate. And his face—his gorgeous face—seemed designed to make men and women swoon. The thick locks of his hair, the same color as his eyes, were on the verge of needing to be cut. The strands fell loose around his face in what I'd call bedhead perfection.

  A single strand curled from his widow's peak and played over his right eye. He was, in a word, stunning. I might be crazy in love with Max, but that didn't mean I'd lost the ability to appreciate beauty when it walked over to me.