Page 52 of Mack

She glanced at the clock. “It’s early. Stay a while. I’ll make coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee.”

“What do you want?”

He looked at her. “You. But with T.J. here—”

She stood and took his hand. “Then you’ll have to be quiet, Maxwell Reinhardt.”

He went still. “How did you—”

“Your mother called you Maxwell twice tonight when she thought you weren’t listening.” She tilted her head. “I like it.”

“Mack,” he said firmly.

She smiled. “Maxwell.”

He stood, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her until she stopped smiling long enough to kiss him back. Then she took his hand and led him down the hall.

“We’ll see,” he murmured, “who has to be quiet.”

Once inside the bedroom, Mallory pressed herself against him, finding his mouth in the dark. His hands fisted in her hair as the kiss deepened, urgent and unhurried at the same time, as with everything that was with him. She dragged her lips across his jaw, found his earlobe, felt him exhale hard as she lifted his T-shirt over his head, then she pushed him toward the bed, making him sit down and lay back.

Her mouth moved down the side of his neck, across his chest. Her tongue traced his nipple, and he groaned, low and gratifying, his grip tightening in her hair. She kept going, lips trailing down his stomach, over the hard planes of his abdomen, lower, until she unsnapped and unzipped his jeans. She slipped her hand inside and wrapped it around him and felt him thicken against her palm.

When she took him into her mouth his groan was rougher this time. His hips rose to meet her and his fingers tightened, and she felt the power of it move through her like something electric.

She looked up at him. His eyes were dark and intent on hers, jaw tight, and she held his gaze as she dragged her tongue slowly around the head. She took him deeper. His hips moved with her, his breathing ragged, until her name broke from him on a breath.

She lifted her head. “What?”

“You have to stop.” His voice was wrecked. “I’m too close.”

“Good,” she said, and took him back.

She felt him tense, felt the moment he was right at the edge, and then his hands were on her arms pulling her up his body, tipping the scale between them in one smooth movement.

“Ride me,” he said.

She grinned, reached for the condom on the nightstand, tore it open, and rolled it on with steady hands. Then she positioned herself above him and sank down slowly, taking him in inch by inch until she was fully seated and the sensation of it stole her breath.

His hands found her hips. She began to move.

When his thumb touched her clitoris, she gasped and her rhythm faltered. He held her steady while he kept his hand there and she rode him harder, chasing it, fingers pressed flat against his chest, until he flipped her to her back and drove into her. She came apart with a cry she probably should have kept quieter.

His groan followed hers, deep and rough, his body shuddering as he buried himself and held there. For a long moment neither of them moved.

Mallory ran her fingers through his hair as he lay against her, both of them catching their breath.

She smiled when she felt his lips press to her forehead as he moved to lay beside her. He did that without thinking, she’d noticed. Small gestures that cost him nothing and meant everything.

She propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him. “Tell me about your relationship.”

He opened one eye. “Now?”

“You want to schedule it?”

“You can be a smartass.” He exhaled. “What do you want to know?”