Page 89 of Open for Negotiation

Chapter 19

Scarlett

The police were in my apartment much longer than I would have liked them to be. I gave them my statement and had to sign multiple documents stating that I was not going to press charges on Miranda for breaking and entering or assault with a deadly weapon.

She’s sick. She needs help, not jail time.

An EMT came by to check on my arm, determining that I needed quite a few stitches. The wound was much deeper than I thought, but no muscles or nerves were damaged.

Maxwell spoke with one of the officers for a bit before a social worker and doctor came to pick Miranda up. She’s been taken to a psychiatric hospital for evaluation. Max gave the doctor all of the information he had and a complete background on her mental health, as far as he could recall back.

He’s such a kind man. Miranda has made his life, for lack of a better phrase, fucking miserable for months, and here he is, still making sure that she’s going to be cared for while she gets better.

I am finally able to get dressed once my apartment is empty, save for Max, who is standing by the front door when I come out of my bedroom.

“Scarlett, I’m so fucking sorry,” he says with his eyes downcast. His hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it.

“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything.”

“But I did.” He shoots his gaze to me and I nearly gasp. Tears are glazing over his eyes, making them nearly shimmer. “You could have died because of something that involved me.”

“I didn’t and now she’s getting help. That’s what matters right now, right?”

“If she had done something worse, if she had missed your arm or hit your throat, Christ, Scarlett,” he huffs out and closes the distance between us, grabbing my face between his hands, backing me into the wall. “If something had happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Max, please.” I put my hands up, placing them on his chest, but even as I try to push him away, I’m curling my fingers into his black button-down, pulling him closer to me. I want to run from him as much as I want to climb inside of him.

I’m so confused. I’m so overwhelmed.

I want him to go. I want him to stay.

I want to feel him on me.

I need him.

“Max, I don’t,” I tug his shirt even harder, “... please,” I beg, but I’m not even sure what I’m begging for.

He releases his grip on my face and glides his hands down to my neck. His thumbs are outstretched up and pushing against my jaw, keeping my eyes trained on him.

“Use your words, Scarlett. Tell me what you need so I can give it to you. I need the words. Nothing left unspoken or up to my interpretation. Give me your voice.”

I close my eyes for just a moment. I want to focus on the feeling of his touch on my face, his breath on my skin, his heat against me.

“Scarlett,” he says again. “Talk to me.”

I blink my eyes open and the decision is made. I couldn’t deny myself, even if I tried.

“I want you to make love to me.”

He inhales sharply through his nose as if my words physically pained him. It’s only now that I’m able to take in his appearance.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. There are dark circles under his eyes and he doesn’t have that glow about him that I’m so used to seeing. He’s broken like me.

He closes his tired eyes and rests his forehead on mine, whispering to me, “Say it again.”

“Please, Max.” I trace his stubbled jaw with my finger. “Make love to me.”

In an instant, our lips are molded together, opening up, allowing us to breathe each other in, to take that first inhale of the sweet oxygen we can only gain from one another.

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