Page 40 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
Chapter Nine
“Imay become a fan of vanilla yet,” Maxim murmurs against my throat, his fingers entangled in my hair. “Admittedly plain, but…” His lips ignite a fiery path up to my ear, down my jaw, and finally, claim my mouth. “Satisfying,” he says, pulling back as my lips burn in the aftermath of his kiss.
“Where are we?” I eye a mass of pink sequins dangling from a hook above my head. An unusual design choice in his world.
“On a private island in the Caribbean.”
“Oh.” I ferret away that bit of information for later. “But, I mean, now?” I gesture to the view before us—a deconstructed clown costume piled against the opposite wall.
“A staff lounge,” Maxim explains absently. “Something about occupational code. Lucius insisted I needed one for the workers, even for a day.”
Which reminds me of the insanity that is this morning. “I can’t believe you did this—”
“Can’t believe?” He lifts me and spins me around, placing me on a flat surface that creaks against our combined weight. A table? I’m too distracted to be sure. His eyes track a white bead of liquid dripping down my chest, and he lunges for it, laving a path with his tongue.
“Still so doubtful of my limits. Though, I dobelieveI am a new fan of ice cream. A rare admission,” he confesses against my navel. Before I can recover, he crouches down between my legs, wrenching them apart. My cheeks catch fire at the way he eyes me. Like someone starving. Depraved.
I arch my back, craving the act he promises with a pointed flick of his tongue against his lower lip.
But then I hear it. Voices, calling out desperately. For me.
“Frankie? Where did you go?”
“Shit.” I lurch upright, and Maxim returns to his full height, blocking me in.
“Relax.” He grabs my arm before I can race for the door. “Listen. They aren’t in danger.”
He’s right. The kids call playfully, but they seem close. Too close. Right when I’m sure they’ll barge into the shed, their voices fade, sounding further away.
“An hour’s absence,” Maxim says. It’s only when I notice the thoughtful tilt to his head that I recognize the statement as a proposal. “They will not miss you for that long. They have diversions…”
And even Ainsley can survive for an hour without me in a private, personal carnival.
Could the possessive master be asking for permission?
My heart skips at the possibility. Finally, I trace my lower lip with the tip of my tongue as my gaze meets his. “An hour,” I concede.
His eyes flash as he stoops and fishes something from the floor. His shirt. Unfurling it, he coaxes my trembling, languid limbs into the sleeves. Then he redons his pants, and we creep to the door of the shed.
Maxim peeks out first. After a few seconds, he inclines his head for me to follow, and we cut across the terrace for the house at breakneck speed. I don’t think it dawns on me until we finally pry open the French doors and slip into the air-conditioned sanctuary what we’re doing—sneaking around like horny teenagers desperate for a minute alone. That is, if I had ever been a normal horny teenager who did normal teenage shit.
I doubt he was either.
Still, I can see the appeal of it as Maxim takes my hand and pulls me across the living room and up the stairs. In the absence of his shirt, his muscles ripple with his every movement, devoid of tension for once as he heads in a direction different from that of Ainsley’s room—and the other kids’ for that matter.
Conveniently out of earshot of the rest of the house, this hallway leads into a semi-private wing. A single door opens onto a space that I presume, given its size, to be the master suite.
It’s large enough to fit at least ten more beds, apart from the massive one dominating the center of it. Floor-to-ceiling windows display an intimate view of the surrounding landscape, and a clean, simplistic color scheme fits in perfectly with Maxim’s taste.
Black, black, and more black.
Sliding glass doors open onto a secluded balcony containing only a lounge area shaped like a bed, covered in a delicate canopy.
That refuge isn’t his intended hiding place, however. On the edge of the suite—coincidentally facing a view of the beach the other rooms only hint at—is a bathroom fit for a mafia prince. Ebony marble reinforces his unique tastes, combined with golden fixtures and a huge sunken bath designed to have an uninterrupted view of the ocean.
I’m so entranced by the sight, I barely notice as thick fingers gently remove his shirt from me, tossing it aside. Naked, I’m at the mercy of his scrutiny. Maxim’s breath scorches my overheated flesh, growing harsher the more of me he inhales. Starting at my neck, he skims the width of my shoulders and then back again. Despite our self-imposed deadline, he takes his time, and my thoughts dissipate with every passing second.
Eventually, he manages to get the water running and eases me into the basin of the tub. He sits at the edge, and I settle between his legs, aware of the parts of his body he doesn’t bother to disguise for once. His binder which chafes against my back. His bare legs positioned on either side of me, riddled with scars. His cock, hardening already, straining against my hip. I’m a glutton for this moment, hoarding as much of him as I can steal beneath the tips of my fingers. They skim him greedily, unrestrained for once.
