Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max) (12 page)

W
e kiss
. A frantic thing, my emotions boiling inside me in this barely containable combination of need and fear. Max’s words awoke something in me, something I don’t know how to keep quiet. He sees me. He wants me. I am enough for him. His hands travel my body, learning the topography of my skin, mapping it out, unable to settle in one place. Our breath is a symphony, twining together as our tongues dance between us. I press into him and he pulls me closer, the tiniest of spaces left between us too much to bare.

I slide my hands up back, dig my nails into the fabric of his shirt, my fists tight little balls, clenched with need and some strange form of fury I’ve never experienced before. I want him naked in front of me and I want to be naked in front of him. I want it with a passion that devours all other things. It is need in its purest form. This man, this strange man with his perfect words has awakened a part of me that I don’t know yet. A part that wants to melt around him, conform to his hard edges, accept him inside me, hold him tight and never let him go.

Desperate, my hands go to his belt, fumble with the thick leather in the lack of space between us. He growls, a low rumble that sends shivers up and down my spine and I whimper against his lips. I don’t know this sound. I don’t know this woman. So needy. So out of control. This is not tidy. This is not clean. This is everything I’m not. Devouring each other in the kitchen while the meatballs sizzle in the oven.

Max slides his hands up under my sweater, his skin electrifying mine. He pulls it over my head and drops it on the floor. As much as I wanted this, to be bared to him, fear works its way into my belly. He’ll see me for what I am now. Flawed. Imperfect. Not enough. I want to cover myself right up again so he’ll keep on wanting me.

Instead, he steps back, his bullet blue eyes hooded and dangerous. “Fucking black lace,” he says, his voice molten. “You are absolutely perfect.”

I rejoice as his hands go to my pants, unbuttoning them slowly, pulling down the zipper and sliding them down my hips. He kneels in front of me and I steady myself on his shoulders as I step out of the pants. They join the sweater in a pile on the floor, while his words flit through my head.

Perfect. He said I was perfect.

I tilt my head back as he traces his hands up my thighs, around my hips, and grabs my ass with both hands, squeezing tightly. My hair brushes my bare back and I gasp, goosebumps flaring across my pale skin.

“I want you, Chelsea London.” Max kisses my stomach, pulls on my panties, licks the soft space near my hipbone. “All of you.”

“I want you, too.” I can barely breathe.

He looks up at me, captures my eyes with his own, and slowly drags his thumb over my clit. I gasp. Quiver. The thin lace of my new panties is too much of a barrier between us. I want … no, I
need
… his skin on mine.

“Please, Max,” I moan.

“Please what?” Another flick of his finger, a flicker of his tongue. A whisper of his breath.

“I need you. Touch me.”

“Oh, you needy little girl. You want my hands on you?” My eyes fly open and I look down at him, lips parted, half afraid of the edge in his voice, half ignited by it.

I nod and he smiles up at me, dragging my panties down my hips.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and I do. Chest rising and falling with my frantic breath. My body throbs. I am nothing but sensation and desire, so eager for his touch. I have never wanted anyone as much as I want him right now. Never understood what it meant to covet someone, to yearn for something with every ounce of my soul.

I do now.

Max runs his hands up my inner thighs and I quake with anticipation. And then, without warning, he stands, hands at his sides, and I am bereft. He pulls off his sweater, drops it in a forgotten heap and I am left to stare at this man who might as well be carved from stone. His pants hang low, exposing the deep V of his hips. His abs are harsh lines intersecting his ribs. His chest begs me to run my hands up it, to squeeze the strong flesh.

Max comes in close to me, his body not quite touching mine. Heat between us. His lips graze my neck as his hands trace my stomach, my breasts, my shoulders. With one hand he unhooks my bra and it falls to the floor, another piece of unnecessary clothing. He trails a finger down from my throat to my breast, traces a circle around my nipple before he pinches and rolls one between his thumb and forefinger. I gasp and moan. No one has ever touched me like this before.

His hands are everywhere, tickling and teasing. His mouth, his breath, his teeth. I am undone and he hasn’t even taken his pants off yet.

“I love this body,” he says. “I could play with it all night. Learn everything there is to learn about what you want and what you like.” He runs a finger up my slit. “So wet. You like this, don’t you? Being exposed to me.”

I nod and he dips one finger inside me, just the lightest of touches that has my heart racing through my body. I make another sound I don’t recognize.

“So needy,” he says and steps back, his hand on the belt I never managed to undo. “I like you this way. Bare to me. Eyes begging me to take you. To take you and have my dirty way with you and make you mine.”

I flush, recognizing my exact desire in his words. “You’re driving me crazy,” I say with a smile.

“How crazy?” he asks, as he pulls his belt from his pants.

I eye it as it dangles from his hand, a surge of fear and uncertainty mixing with my lust and sending me spiraling off in a direction unknown to me. “How crazy do you want me to be?” I ask, the desire to know what’s in his head quickly becoming a need.

“As crazy as I want.”

He smiles. Takes my wrists in his hands and slowly wraps the belt around them until they’re bound in front of me. I stare down at the black leather while Max pulls a condom out of his pocket and then steps out of his pants and briefs. His cock springs free, large and straining towards me. My own need and desire reflected on his body.

He clears a space on the counter and spins me around. “I thought I was going to be able to take my time with you, but you’ve got me too far gone.” I hear the tear of the condom and can’t help but turn my head to watch him slide it on. There’s something so intimate about seeing his hands on his dick like that.

He steps close. Hands on my hips, bending me over the counter, legs spread, arms bound and reaching out over my head. He presses himself into me, sliding in, letting me take him slowly. Letting me get used to the way he fills me. Stretching me to my limits. He groans as he pushes his hips to mine, fully sheathed.

He moves, building speed, and I am a raw nerve, nothing but sensation and all I know is Max.

Max inside me.

Max’s hands on my hips, my back.

The sound of his skin slapping against mine.

He grabs my waist and I arch my back, letting him in even more. I cry out as my orgasm overtakes me, appearing from nowhere and spiraling through my body, clenching my hands into fists, nails digging into the leather around my wrists. My knees buckle and I sag into the counter while Max chases his own climax, moving faster and with more force. He comes with a growl, pushing into me and rolling his hips while I quiver around him.

Still inside me, he leans forward and kisses that spot between my shoulder blades. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I meant to go slow…”

“Don’t you dare apologize. That was everything.”

Max sits up and pulls out of me before helping me to stand since my weak muscles and bound wrists made it more than a little awkward for me to move.

“No, sweet girl. That was rushed and all about me. You’re just too much for me.”

“If that was rushed, then … I don’t know …” I search for words, still not quite able to form coherent thoughts.

Max pulls off the condom and I show him the trash can hiding under the sink. He washes his hands while I go clean up in the bathroom, clothes in hand, my legs complaining about the stairs the whole way, limp and spent.

T
he timer
on the meatballs beeps while Chelsea is upstairs getting cleaned up. I pull open a few drawers, looking for a potholder. Of course, I find a neat pile of them in a drawer right beside the stove. The perfect place. In perfect condition. Perfectly stacked. It’s hard for me to imagine the wild-eyed woman—wrists bound and panting with need—as the same woman who could be capable of this near obsessive and almost totally sterile level of organization.

I don’t know if I’ll ever forget the look in her eyes when I told her she was enough for me. This flood of feeling that neither of us were prepared for. And her body, holy shit her body. So fucking beautiful. I certainly wasn’t prepared for her to react to my touch like that, like my fingers were lightning, creating earthquakes inside her.

I pull the meatballs out of the oven as Chelsea comes around the corner, looking luscious with her
just been fucked
hair. “Thanks,” she says, struggling to meet my eyes.

“Of course.” I pull her to me and lift her chin until she sees me. I can’t stand the thought of her pulling away, hiding from whatever it was that just happened between us, not after seeing her so open to me. “I would have searched for some plates, but I didn’t want to get too nosy.”

Chelsea laughs, crinkling her nose a little in that way that means she’s nervous. “We got a little distracted and I never got the noodles or the sauce ready.” Her eyes are trained on mine.

“Well, what are you waiting for, woman?” I ask, pressing a kiss into her forehead. “Make me some dinner.”

She laughs lightly—although I still hear a hint of tension behind it all—and flits about the kitchen in an exercise in efficiency and concision. She pours wine for us as I set the table, amazed at how comfortable I feel in her home. I sit at her table and watch her work with her hummingbird-like energy. Before tonight, I would have envied her drive, her need to stay in motion, but after seeing that look in her eyes, after watching her come totally undone before me, I’m not so sure her need for perfection comes from a healthy place.

She serves me, putting my plate down in front of me almost ceremoniously, and then perches on the edge of her chair, waiting for me to take the first bite. I had already decided that no matter how the dinner actually tasted, I was going to go on like it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Which, to be honest, surprises me, because I am not one for falsehoods and pretense. I like to call it like I see it and keep things honest and real. But something tells me she needs to please me, needs to be good, needs to feel like she’s succeeded, and something inside me has risen up to answer that call. Something in this perfect woman is dreadfully broken and I want to put her back together again.

The good news is that I don’t have to fake a damn thing. The meatballs are delicious. I moan and my eyes roll closed. “Shit, woman. Smart. Sexy. Beautiful. And you can cook? How perfect can you be?”

She beams and takes a bite, blushing as she chews. We talk as we eat. I ask her about her family and she goes on about how wonderful they are. She tells me about her sisters—love shining in her eyes.

“Our childhoods couldn’t be more different,” I say and take a bite of meatball.

She shakes her head, suddenly self-aware. “I can only imagine. I’m sorry for going on and on.”

“No need to be sorry. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to hear it.”

“Was it hard? Growing up in the foster system?”

“I think growing up is just hard. Period.” I shrug, not sure I’m ready to show her the stark contrast between her memories and mine.

“That’s true.” Chelsea smiles and I know that she’s giving me the out, searching her head for a safer topic. I surprise myself and keep talking.

“From what I gather,” I say, stabbing the last meatball on my plate. “You were raised. For better or for worse, your parents instilled a sense of belonging and this burning desire to succeed in you. Me? I raised myself. Forged who I am despite the people and influences working against me.”

She nods, conceding the point, guilt casting a shadow across her face. “I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“But,” I say, leaning forward to catch her eye. “I’m not so sure it was a bad thing. I’m quite comfortable in who I am. All the things I am, I chose to be, you know? I don’t doubt my wants and needs because I understand where they come from.”

“I never thought about it like that. I’ve often wondered who I’d be if I wasn’t busy trying to live my life the way my parents taught me. Trying to live up to who they want me to be.”

“You’d still be you. Good and sweet and wonderful. And maybe a little more okay with being a lowly physical therapist.” I make sure she catches the sarcasm in my voice and sees how much I respect her job.

Chelsea picks at the food left on her plate, a flurry of thoughts parading across her face. “How did your parents die?” she finally asks.

I sit back in my chair and clear my throat, dropping my eyes from hers for the first time since we sat down. It’s the one thing, the one thing in my past I haven’t made peace with. The one part of myself I don’t want to share. Don’t want her pity or her judgement.

“It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head, an apology in her eyes. “I was out of line.”

I think of her in the kitchen, bared to me in more than just the physical sense. She showed me her soul tonight and here I am, hiding mine from her in return. That’s not fair or right or just.

“They were murdered.” The words taste like ash.

Her lips part. Shock. Pain. Regret. They dance on her face in the silence. “Oh wow…” At least she didn’t say she was sorry. So many people go for that. Empty words to fill the space, designed to make themselves feel better.

“My dad was involved in a crime ring in New York. All kinds of illegal stuff. Guess he got started with them when he was a teenager and then just never got out. He didn’t climb very far up the ranks. I don’t think he was an ambitious man. But he got in deep enough, I guess.” I want to watch her face as I talk, but I’m mostly speaking to my plate. “According to my grandma, my mom was okay with it in the beginning. Liked the danger, I guess. And the easy money was probably nice, too. But after I was born, she wanted him to get out. And it didn’t take long until he wanted to get out. Building a better life for his family stopped meaning providing all the material things and started meaning providing the stuff that matters. Safety. Protection. The ability to sleep at night. That kind of stuff.”

I glance at her and she’s rapt. Her eyes trained on mine. No judgement. No pity. Nothing. It’s not at all what I expected and everything I should have expected because when hasn’t she been exactly what I needed?

“He thought he got out,” I say. “But I guess the mob had other ideas. They broke into our house and killed my mom while my dad watched and I hid under the table in the kitchen. She fell to the floor in front of me, her blood sneaking out towards my hands while my dad screamed. The sound…” I shake my head. “It haunts me.”

Chelsea reaches across the table and touches my hand. Silent support.

“The guy came for me next, digging under the table for me.” A memory, harsh and ugly. My hands smearing in my mother’s blood as I tried to push away from the snarling man who would kill me. I won’t share that with Chelsea. It’s mine to bear. “My dad shot him. The guy didn’t die right away, turned and killed my dad and then died, half under the table with me.”

I finish the story and regret everything. That was my story. Mine and no other. I’ve never shared it with someone who wasn’t my grandma or a therapist and I don’t know what caused me to share it today, but I wish I could scoop it back up and hide it away. Take it all back and return to flirting and laughing with Chelsea.

“How old were you? Six?”

I nod.

“That’s a lot to carry.” Her voice is soft, her focus trained on me. In this moment, I am all that she sees and I refuse to buckle under the scrutiny.

“It was. It is. I think things would have turned out a whole hell of a lot differently if it hadn’t been for my grandma. She was determined to raise me up strong enough to carry it all.”

“Was she your mom’s mom or your dad’s mom?”

“My dad’s. And she was hell-bent on making me better than him. In showing me how to find my own true north and keep my moral compass pointed that way. I had four good years with her until she passed. And those four years were the foundation that kept me sane while I was bounced around the system.”

And there it all is. Well, the majority of it anyway. Out there in the open for Chelsea to study and digest. I thought it would be uncomfortable, having everything out in the open like this, but it almost feels good to share it. And good that of all the people in the world I could share it with, I chose her.

“Sorry,” I say, swiping up my wine with a flourish and taking a quick sip. “Not exactly second date material.”

“This doesn’t exactly feel like a second date.” Chelsea takes a drink of her own wine. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I’m glad to know you. To skip past all the parts where I have to guess at the things that made you the man in front of me and just get to the truth of it.”

“I do appreciate a general lack of bullshit and prefer to get right to the point.”

Chelsea laughs. “I may have noticed that about you.”

“Oh yeah? And what else have you noticed about me?”

“That you’re good and you’re strong and you see right through the bullshit other people put up. You see who they are underneath it all. You see me, I think. Maybe even better than I see myself.”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’ll get there.” I stand and gather out plates. “If you’ll let me.”