Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

My eyes closed automatically, my body arching into his on instinct. I fisted the hem of his shirt, needing something, anything to hold on to as he fully brought his mouth down on mine.

Fire and lightning and tingling need danced along every inch of my skin. Maxim tasted like cinnamon and chocolate and I couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped my throat as his tongue teased mine. His grip tightened on my hair for a second before he kissed me quickly and drew back.

His eyes were a churning molten blue, like the flames in the centermost part of a fire. “Thank you,” he whispered, his warm breath washing over my still-tingling lips. He glanced down at my mouth once more, as if he were contemplating kissing me again.

But he didn’t.

He backed up, genuine gratitude radiating from him as he pointed toward the hallway. “Game,” he said, then hurried out of the kitchen so fast you’d have thought it was on fire.

Well, I certainly was, even long after he’d left the house.

And it wasn’t until I’d finished up my classwork a couple of hours later that I realized what had actually happened.

I hadn’t slipped into one of my fantasies where Maxim woke up and realized I was the girl of his dreams.

No. Maxim Zolotov had the yips.

And he believed I was the cure.

My cell rang from where it rested next to my opened laptop, and I practically squealed when I saw the FaceTime app and Mila’s contact picture. It’d been three hours since Maxim had left me aching and stunned in the kitchen, and I more than needed my best friend.

“Mila!” I said once I swiped open the call.

Her beautiful face filled the screen, a wide smile on her lips. “Caio, Evie!” she said in her best Italian accent.

I laughed and echoed her greeting. “Caio! Is it as beautiful as we always imagined?”

“Better!” she said, then shifted the camera.

I gasped. “Is that the freaking statue of David behind you?”

Mila giggled then turned the camera around, letting the famous Michelangelo artwork fill the screen. I got a few awkward looks from tourists and locals admiring the piece, but Mila spun the camera back around toward her quick enough.

“Jealous yet?” she asked, and I grinned at her.

“A healthy amount,” I said, glancing at the time. She was five hours ahead, and no doubt had just had a glorious dinner before strolling through the Accademia Gallery in Florence. “You’re living the dream.”

“You have no idea,” she said, walking to a secluded corner with an empty bench. She sat down, finally steadying the phone on her face. “We are so coming back here once the gallery is fully underway.”

“I’m in,” I said.

“What are you up to?” she asked.

“I finished up some classwork and then dove back into gallery mode,” I explained. “I think we need to make it a mix of commercial and artist-led,” I said, launching into the research I’d been doing the last couple of days. “There are a few successful galleries here already, but two of them are private-access only, and the other is more of a vanity gallery charging artists a rental fee.”

Mila nodded. “We’ve always wanted ours to be public,” she said. “So, we’ll stand out from the others in that regard. And I love the idea of it being partially artist-led. I’ve done some figures for the percentages we can charge for commissions, and then the commercial side can be your work.”

“It’s all coming together,” I said, unable to keep the smile from my lips.

“Definitely,” she said. “It’s going to be amazing.” She tilted her head. “But tell me you’ve done something other than class and gallery prep.”

I shrugged. “I’ve baked and babysat.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Mila rolled her eyes. “Have you done anything fun since I left?”

Maxim’s lips crushing mine, his hand skimming up my ribs, palming my breast as he devoured my mouth…

My cheeks flared with heat, and even though thousands of miles separated us, Mila didn’t miss it for a second.

“Whoa, what was that?” she asked, eyes widening with mischief. “What have you done?”

“I didn’t do anything!” I said.

“Nu-huh,” she said, shaking her head. “Spill it. Now.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

She gave me a faux-offended look. “I absolutely always want to hear it. I’ve wanted to hear everything that has to do with you since kindergarten, woman. Spill. It.”

I blew out a breath. “Fine,” I said. “You asked for it.” I closed my eyes, unable to look at her while I owned up. “I made out with your brother.”

“Eww!” she blurted, but followed it up with a squeal of delight. “That is amazing, Evie! Omigod was it awesome? Ew, wait, don’t tell me, it’s my brother.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, my chest loosening a little with the admission. Not that Mila would ever be upset with me for kissing her brother—she fully knew how much and how long I’d been in love with him—but still.