Postcards From… Collection. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
pulled a face.
“Trust you to notice them.”
“They’re cute.”
“On a ten-year-old. Not on a prima ballerina. I bet Anna Pavlova didn’t have freckles.”
He saw the exact moment that she remembered, again, that she was no longer a prima ballerina. The light in her eyes dimmed and her full lips pressed together as though she was trying to contain something.
“Come here.”
He held out an arm and she shifted across the mattress until she was lying against his side, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest.
If he kept concentrating on the lost, bewildered look in her eyes, he figured he had a fair to middling chance of pulling this off without embarrassing either of them. She needed him. That was enough to push all other thoughts into the background.
“It’s going to be all right, Maddy,” he said. “You’ll see.”
“I should have been ready for this. All ballet dancers have to retire, I know that.” Her words were a whisper. “Is it so wrong and greedy to want a little more? Another year? Two?”
Max tightened his embrace. He could feel how tense she was, could feel the grief and confusion in her.
“It’ll be all right,” he repeated, smoothing a circle on her back with the palm of his hand.
He felt the tension leave her body after a few minutes as the wine and jet lag and emotion caught up with her. He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing.
Knowing Maddy, she would probably be off home again tomorrow, her mad, impulsive trip having served the purpose of helping her express her grief and confusion. She had friends in Australia, a home. A life. She’d want to go back to the familiar as she tried to work out what happened next in the Maddy Green story.
She shifted in her sleep. As her perfume washed over him, a memory hit him. When they’d lived together, she’d left a scarf in his car after they’d gone to the movies one night. Rather than give it back to her, he’d hung on to it because it smelled of her perfume. A secret memento of Maddy.
Talk about besotted. He’d been so far gone it was a wonder the words hadn’t appeared over his head and followed him around: I am in love with Maddy Green.
Another memory: the night he’d decided to tell Maddy how he felt. It had taken months to screw up his courage enough to risk their friendship. He’d arranged candles and red roses and bought a bottle of French champagne. The kitchen of their crappy rental had looked like a bordello by the time he’d finished decking it out—a kid’s idea of a romantic scene, he recognized now. Then Maddy had come home, jumping out of her skin because she’d just been invited to join the Royal Ballet in London. He’d watched her unalloyed joy, untouched by regret for what she would be leaving behind. When she’d ducked off to call her mom, he’d quietly snuffed the candles and hidden the champagne in the back of the fridge and left his declaration unmade.
Thinking about it now, he could only thank God she’d been so preoccupied with her own news that she’d never thought to ask why she’d walked into the best little whorehouse in Sydney. She’d saved them both a painful and awkward conversation.
Maddy murmured in her sleep, her head moving on his shoulder restlessly. She rolled away from him, sprawling across half the bed.
He rolled the other way and resolutely closed his eyes. He had his first session with the life model he’d hired tomorrow. He needed to sleep, despite his circling thoughts and how aware he was of Maddy lying just a few feet away. He wasn’t a kid, held to ransom by his body and his emotions. If the past eight years had taught him anything, it was to grab sleep when he could find it.
HE WOKE TO FIND HIMSELF curled into Maddy’s back, her butt nestled into the cradle formed by his hips and thighs. One of his arms was wrapped around her torso.
He was painfully hard, his erection pressed against the roundness of her backside. So much for the protection of his boxer-briefs. His hand had somehow crept beneath her T-shirt to rest beneath the lower curve of her breasts. He could feel her ribs expand and contract as she breathed in and out.
She felt good. Small and sleek and feminine.
He knew he should back off, roll away before she woke and realized where she was and who he was and what was happening in his underwear.
He didn’t move. He wanted to flex his hips and press himself against her so badly it hurt. His whole body tensed as he imagined sliding his hand a few vital inches and cupping her breast. He could almost feel the softness of it in his palm.
Thanks to the notorious lack of privacy in dancers’ changing rooms, he’d seen Maddy in various states of undress over the years. She had small, pink nipples, and when she was cold they puckered into tight little raspberries.
He imagined plucking them, rolling them between his fingers. Pulling them into his mouth and tasting his fill of her.
His hard-on throbbed.
Man, oh man.
He closed his eyes. He had to back off. Now.
Maddy stirred, her body flexing in his embrace, her backside snuggling into his hips.
He’d never been so close to losing control in his life. His hand lifted from her torso. But instead of sliding it up and over her bare breasts, he twisted away from her warmth.
He slid to the side of the bed and sat up, scrubbing his face with his hands.
Talk about close. Too close.
His underwear bulging, he made his way downstairs. The cold water of the shower hit him like an electric shock, but it took care of business below stairs very effectively.
He eyed himself in the mirror as he shaved. He wasn’t going to give himself a hard time for waking with an erection. It was pretty much an everyday occurrence, with or without a hot woman in his bed. He wasn’t even going to give himself grief for horning onto Maddy while she slept. He was only human, after all.
But those few moments of temptation…
They were a whole other ball game. His jaw tensed as he imagined Maddy’s reaction if she’d discovered him feeling her up. She’d come to him seeking comfort and understanding and he’d almost jumped her when she was at her most vulnerable.
Just as well she’d probably be going home tomorrow. He clearly couldn’t be trusted where she was concerned.
Dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he headed into the kitchen to make coffee. He worked as quietly as possible to fill the stovetop espresso maker. While he was waiting for it to brew, he cleared away some of the debris on the kitchen table. Which was when he saw the envelope icon flashing on his cell phone, indicating he had messages.
He clicked it open with his thumb, frowning when he saw it was a message from Gabriella, his life model.
pls call ASAP.
He dialed her number, a bad feeling in his gut. The message was time-stamped early this morning, and Gabriella was due in an hour. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize something was up. As her phone rang and rang, he hoped the news wasn’t terrible.
It had taken him over a month to find the body type he’d wanted to act as model for his latest project. The works he planned had been inspired by his years in dance, and he’d been excited when a mutual friend had put Gabriella in contact with him. She was a dancer—nowhere near Maddy’s level, but she had the refined, defined muscles and flexibility he required.
He tried to anticipate the reason for the last-minute contact. She might be sick. Her car might have broken down. Or—disaster—she might have broken a leg or something else equally debilitating.