Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

“Who knows, maybe I would have bedazzled your name on the back of something random. You know how girls scribble guys’ names in their notebooks in high school or something.” Her lips quirked into a playful smirk.

“You honestly think you’d care if my name was on your back if I wasn’t in the NHL? If everyone didn’t know that name when you’re off to class?” I propped my hand on my fist, mirroring her position.

“I think I had your name on my back when I was seven years old, freezing my butt off on an ice-cold bench at the rink because you had a game three hours away and Mila didn’t want to sit there by herself while your mom chatted with the other moms, or worse, while your Dad stood at the glass with his arms folded. By the time I was thirteen I knew it wasn’t so that everyone else could see it, and know that I was linked to you. It was so you saw it. So when you looked up into the stands and saw us there, you’d know we supported you—I supported you.” She swallowed. “Because I may have been in the back of the car with Mila on some of those rides home, but I heard how he talked to you.”

I stared at her, absorbing every word.

She flashed a quick smile. “And besides, it’s not like I run around telling everyone that Maxim Zolotov is my best friend’s older brother. Though my Motion and Movement class knows now, since they’ve seen your pictures.”

I leaned in a little closer, the tequila dulling the voice inside my head that told me to back away, to keep a firm line where there had always been one. “Oh yeah? And what did they say?”

“They said I wasn’t capturing you.”

My brow furrowed.

She reached over and smoothed the line between my eyebrows with her forefinger. “So serious,” she teased, withdrawing her finger. “They meant I wasn’t capturing your essence, your focus. The pictures were a little shallow.” She tugged her lower lip between her teeth, fighting off a smile.

“What?” I caught myself leaning in a little more, wanting to free her lip from the torture of her teeth. Wanting to know how it felt to bite it myself. That’s the tequila talking.

“They definitely thought you were hot.”

I laughed.

“So hot,” she continued, with an eye roll and an exaggerated little moan. “And who can blame them? You are hot. Smoking hot. Burn-up-the-ice hot.” She nodded with every affirmation.

“You’ve had too much tequila.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “But it’s true. And I’m not just talking about your body. Though, I’m pretty sure a few of the girls want to do their laundry on your abs. I mean, how do you even get those lines?”

“Which lines?” Shit, I shouldn’t know…but I wanted to.

“The ones that go right down the side.” She traced the line of my abs just an inch or two above my shirt, not really touching me, so how the hell could I feel it like a caress? “You know what they’re called, right?”

“What are they called?”

“Fuck-me lines,” she whispered.

My dick jumped.

“And you definitely have them,” she continued.

“I thought you weren’t into judging bodies,” I teased, reaching over and gently tugging one of her hoodie strings.

“I mean…your body is art, remember? I’m all about judging art. And we’re talking about the pictures,” she said slowly. “And fine, if we’re not judging bodies, then let’s talk about your face.”

“Evie.” I shook my head. This was a bad idea. The entire tone of our conversation had changed, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to move off the stool.

“You, Maxim, are the most beautiful man I’ve ever photographed.” She leaned in. “I’m just being honest over here.”

“Photograph a lot of guys?” I tried to joke and failed.

“Well, yeah. It’s my job.” Her hand reached for my face and she cupped my cheek.

God help me, I leaned into her touch.

“Your eyes are this gorgeous shade of blue—cobalt,” she whispered. “And they’re perfectly spaced. It’s like someone took the golden ratio of perfection and made a Maxim blueprint. Your cheeks are perfect. Your chin is perfect.” Her fingertips skated along my skin, sending shocks of electricity down my spine. “Your nose has this little bump from where you’ve broken it a few times—”

“Four times.”

“Thank God, because it saves you from being pretty-boy perfect,” she remarked. “And your lips…” She stroked her thumb over my mouth. “You have a mouth that begs to be sculpted, or painted, or photographed. It’s really not fair. You should honestly see if there’s a way to turn some of your hotness back in and share it with other people.”

I smiled and she sighed.

“I happen to think you’re beautiful,” I said slowly, deliberately, so she’d hear every word. Then I took her face in my hands and leaned in so we were only a breath apart. “And you have a mouth that begs to be kissed, Evangeline.”