Page 25 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)
I scoff. “Better than my own wing in a mansion?”
Max breaks character with a low, rumbling chuckle, then propels me into the next room we come to, shoves the door closed, and presses my back against it. “Wait till you finish, and then let me know.”
My hands go to his shoulders and tangle in the length of his hair.
The All-Star break is still weeks away, so it will only get longer.
I lift my chin and his slightly parted lips move in, landing on the exact spot where my throat meets my collar—that place where my pulse is leaping—and prompting a dart of hot desire in my center.
“Wait, what? What am I doing?”
My brain is scrambling, what with his neck nibbling and his thumbs rubbing circles at the juncture of my thighs. The thin fabric of my cover up only helps to increase the friction—and my need.
“Babe, you’re going to hold on tight until your knees give out.”
Max’s lips leave my throat and travel down my chest to the valley between my breasts, where they pause to suck and nibble, and it’s a really good thing I’m holding on tight .
My hands, which clutch at his shoulders, lower to his waist because I want to feel him, too, and my hands dive under his faded Terrors tee, eager to explore the acres of rigid muscle in his back and torso. I let out a moan of anticipation. This tour—this day —is now so much better.
I’m still fully clothed—well, wearing my swimsuit and a barely-there dress over it—but it’s been so long since any man has been this close, taken this much interest, made me feel this good.
I throw my head back against the solid surface of the door with a thunk and focus on the tremendous pleasure this man is raining upon my body.
My heart races— thunders —as his attention moves from my chest up to my mouth, and I join him there, frantically fusing our lips together.
Sucking, and rubbing, and gnashing, and stealing each other’s breath.
Max is grinding his demanding cock against my core and my God, that’s an impressive piece of anatomy . My need is coiled, ready, desperate to rip off his clothes and then mine with no more sense than a horny teenager, and?—
Panting and desperate for breath, I shove Max from me.
“What are we doing?” I practically shout the words, then slap my hand over my mouth.
Max releases me and takes a step back, his eyes glazed, and I immediately notice two things.
One, the door he shoved me through—that I fell through willingly—leads to what is obviously his bedroom, and two, his cock is rock hard behind the thin fabric of his board shorts.
I turn my back to him, the hammering of my heart a tempest of stress and anxiety, combined with a whirlwind of hormonal impulses.
What have I done?
The synthetic fabric of his shorts makes a swishing sound as he approaches, then comes close enough to wrap me from behind in his long-armed embrace.
“I’m sorry. I got carried away. You just . . .”
I nod. I understand exactly. I got carried away, too. He just . . .
I drop my head back to land against the firmness of his collarbone.
“Our kids are here, Max. Jesus, I’m your daughter’s teacher. What kind of example are we setting?”
“You were her teacher. School’s over.”
I tip my head back to peer up into his normally brilliant blue eyes. They’re cloudy, the expression in them somewhere between curiosity and concern.
“You planning to transfer schools next year?” We both know that’s the only way she won’t be in my class again. I’m the only one who teaches math at the advanced level.
He sighs, a frustrated hum escaping with the slight gust of breath against my cheek.
I turn in his arms. The rise in his pants has deflated, leaving me both grateful and full of regret. My gaze lifts to meet his. His irises have cleared and his eyes are sparkling. Damn, he’s so pretty.
I match the relaxed casualness of his expression, then add a mock pout.
“It’s really a shame, you know. But at least we’re finally not at each other’s throats. It’s nice to have a parent from school to be friends with.”
He pushes me back and I get a better view of how his brow scrunches.
“So, why is that a shame?”
“You really don’t get it?”
“Palmer,” he grinds out in warning, and I can’t help but smile.
“Because you’re such a good kisser.”
He rasps out a laugh and pulls me close for a hard hug.
“This isn’t over, Palmer Girl. One day soon, I’ll let you kiss me again,” he says with mock seriousness, and now, it’s my turn to laugh.
“All right, bad boy. You keep telling yourself that.”
We’ve been settled back in our loungers for a few minutes, the bottles of cold water we grabbed on our way through the kitchen wet with condensation on the small table between us.
We also stopped to listen at the door to the basement, and those two were still going at it as though their teams were lifelong rivals vying for championship rings. Max just bobbed his eyebrows at me.
“You sure you don’t want to go back upstairs?”
That was exactly what I wanted to do. But that’s not how a responsible mother would act, so I gave his chest a playful shove and stepped around him to go outside. No doubt, I’ll regret my decision, and this horny mama will be going home and taking Mike off the charger.
Since Max’s next series of games will be played at their home field, he is able to spend the entire night at home, and after the passion and emotional upheaval of our kiss finally dwindles, we’re mindlessly chatting about our summer vacation plans.
I gingerly avoid telling him there’s no budget for Dylan and me to travel further than Dollywood—especially after he casually mentions he’s been planning a trip to Paris for himself and his daughter after she returns from a trip with her grandmother.
“Wow,” I say. I’m not jealous . . . like, at all. Who needs to navigate those ridiculous crowds just to view a few pieces of art? “You will have such an amazing time exploring the city together.”
“Is it on your bucket list? You should go sometime.”
“Someday,” I agree vaguely, and ask for details of the trip Adele and Natalie have planned.
The sun is lowering over the back fence line, and I’m contemplating scraping myself off the chair and taking my son home, when Max’s phone pings with a notification.
“What now?” he murmurs idly as he flips the phone up to show the screen.
“I don’t normally receive sound notifications for emails, but this is an account Flynn’s office set up for Google alerts.
” He must mistake my disquiet for confusion because he goes on to say, “Google alerts. You know, online content that mentions me by name.”
“Yes, I know what it is. No mansplaining required.”
I have them activated, too. They’ve been pretty quiet the past several years, but from time to time, some rookie reporter eager to make a splash dredges up an old story about Alex and lays out the carrion for vultures to pick through.
When the pizza video dropped, and Max didn’t mention it—and my alerts were quiet—so I figured it didn’t make any kind of impact.
He doesn’t respond, or react. In fact, I wonder if he even hears me, he’s so intent on scrolling through the email, and then clicking some link. His face becomes a stormy mask of fury, and he surges to his feet.
“What the ever loving fuck?”