Page 51 of Open for Negotiation

He isn’t stopping, though. He wants to pull another out of me, but I’m drained. I don’t know if I have anything left.

“You taste fucking incredible,” he groans, still hooking his fingers deep inside of me.

“Max,” I mewl. “Come here. Please. Please fuck me.” I need him inside of me. I need to feel his strength around me.

I just need him.

He rips himself away from my pussy and returns to stand between my legs, which are now wrapped around his body. His lips taste like me as my essence blends between our tongues.

The clink of his belt opening rings in my ears. The sound of his zipper lowering sends chills over my skin.

The smell of burning bread, smoke, and the shrill smoke alarm sounding scares the shit out of both us.

“HOLY SHIT!” I shout, pushing him away and hopping off the counter. “The bread!” I scramble to open the oven, inviting more smoke to billow out. I search for a pot holder to safely grab the baking pan and toss him a towel. “Go wave that in front of the smoke alarm. It’s in the hall.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He grabs the towel in mid-air and disappears around the corner.

I’m just setting the absolutely blackened garlic bread on the counter when the screaming alarm finally quiets. The smell of burned garlic and charred bread overtakes the entire apartment.

“Well, that’s one way to cook that,” he says when he comes back around into the kitchen.

“If you prefer your bread well done, maybe,” I say, picking a piece up carefully then knocking it against the pan. “What a waste.” I laugh.

“I wouldn’t say it was an entire waste.” He smirks. “What I had to eat was pretty delicious.”

My cheeks flush red and my eyes go wide. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He tosses the towel over to the counter and approaches me once again. “So, I guess we are having dinner without bread, huh?”

Max

Dinner was delicious, even without the garlic bread. The company was even better. I could sit in this apartment and listen to her talk about nothing and everything with me forever. This is a much nicer way to spend the evening after the afternoon I had once she left my office.

Miranda called with another sob story, trying to garner my pity and attention. My fuse was short and my patience was thin. I snapped at her and sternly told her she couldn’t just call my phone anymore. All correspondence was to be made through our attorneys. She didn’t take it well.

“Would you like something else to drink?” Scarlett asks when she stands to gather my plate, which I, of course, stop her from doing.

“I’d love some water, if you wouldn’t mind, and while you grab that,” I lift my plate and take hers from her hands, “I’ll wash the dishes.”

“Max, you’re a guest in my home. I’m not going to let you do that.”

“You don’t really have a choice in the matter, beautiful. You’re going to let me do this for you. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re frustrating,” she huffs.

“I know.”

Two hours later, we’re sitting on her living room floor on either side of the coffee table with a very intense game of Clue happening between us.

I’m holding my cards in front of my face, narrowing my eyes at her before making a guess.

“Colonel Mustard, in the library…. with the candlestick.”

She glances at her cards, back to me, then back to her cards before pulling one from her hand and showing it to me. The candlestick. Fuck.

“Nope.” She pops the p for added effect.

“Goddamnit. I was too confident, wasn’t I?” I ask with a shake of my head. Clue is my game. I never lose at Clue… until Scarlett, apparently.

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