Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (23 page)

He closed the door and pressed her against it. "Hi," he said.

"I'm not upset now," she replied, sliding her hands under his shirt.

He froze.
 

She rolled her eyes. "I'm saying that I'm calm and rational and want to have sex. Please."

"The
please
made all the difference in the world," he murmured against her lips. "I've been thinking of you since the moment I left you."

Her heart trilled happily. "I came as fast as I could."

"Not yet you haven't." He grinned wickedly as his talented hands went under her top. "What do you have on underneath?"

"Nothing," she said, gasping as his hands closed on her breasts and found out for themselves.
 

He hummed. "It drives me crazy when you don't wear a bra."

"Good to know." She undid his belt buckle and jeans, reaching in his pants. "Would it drive you crazier to know I don't have panties on either?"

His hand slipped down into the snug fit of her yoga pants, one long finger sliding into the top of the crease between her legs. "You drive me crazy, period," he murmured.

She nodded, her eyes closing as her head fell back. She'd expected him to touch her impatiently, but his finger glided over her in a butterfly touch, and still it sent currents all over her body.
 

He pushed her pants down to her knees, his finger see-sawing gently as he got to his knees. Before she could register anything, his tongue replaced his finger.

She cried out, holding on to his shoulders. The gentle caress of his tongue sent sparks of heat throughout her body. He lapped at her like she was the most delicious frosting, and he wanted to savor every little bit of it.

Feeling the pleasure building despite wanting it to go on forever, she held on knowing she was close. "Max," she moaned.

His lips and tongue focused on just the right spot, and she cried out as she exploded.

Without a word, holding her steady, he stood. Somehow he managed to keep her standing and cover himself in a condom.
 

"Look at me," he murmured, waiting for her to open her eyes before he guided himself into her.

She gasped at the feeling. Even though she'd already climaxed and wouldn't have thought herself capable of coming again, she felt it begin to build with every slow stroke of his hardness in her.

He brushed back her hair, his gaze steady on hers. "I thought about this all night. I wanted you next to me so I could roll over and slide into you, warm and sleepy. I wanted to wake you up with my fingers and my mouth."

She moaned again as his hand reached between her legs to touch her.
 

"But you know what I wanted more?" he whispered, his voice husky with desire. "To hear you make those sounds that are like music to my ears and know that I inspired them."

"I'm supposed to be inspiring you," she said, trailing her hands over his chest.

"You are, can't you see?" He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

It was the most intimate dance she'd ever partnered in. She lost sense of where she ended and he started, lost in the feel of him in and around her. She gripped him, feeling the pleasure rise in her higher and higher, until the only thing she could do was cry out "Max" as she tumbled over the edge.

He groaned her name, his head rearing back as his fingers tightened on her. She felt him stiffen, and then he leaned against her, holding both of them up as they caught their breath.
 

Then he said, "Have you had breakfast?"

She chuckled. "You're such a man."

"That is exactly what a guy wants to hear afterwards." He dropped a kiss on her lips and began putting her clothes back in place. "You know what I want? A muffin from Tiptop."

"I already had wheatgrass, but I'll have a latte."

"I'm going to pretend that you turned down a muffin from Clara for wheatgrass because you're still out of your mind from my body, because otherwise I'd have to question your sanity." He took her hand and led her to his car.

She tugged on his hand before they got in. "Thank you," she said softly, hoping he understood what she meant and how strongly she meant it.

He stared at her solemnly. He lowered his head and gave her a tender kiss. "You're welcome."

Chapter 14

After a restless night, Max woke up to an overly silent house. Feeling stifled and alone, he decided to take a section of the score with him to Tiptop. He had a plan: a cappuccino, a muffin, and some editing.

He was going to make headway today—nothing was stopping him. And when he finished, he'd reward himself with a second muffin.

Clara stopped talking to the woman next to her and smiled at him when he walked in. "There he is. The usual?"

He nodded, kind of surprised to realize he was already a regular.
 

"You remember Debra, right?" Clara motioned to the woman she'd been talking to. "She owns the bookstore."

He'd been focused when he'd walked in and hadn't really noticed it'd been Eleanor's aunt. "Of course, I remember."
 

"Max the composer, who lives next to Eleanor," Debra said, eyeing him curiously. "You haven't stopped by again."

"I've been busy." He held up his papers.
 

"Hmm."

He didn't know what that meant. He really didn't want to know. He motioned to an empty table. "I'll get started while I'm waiting."

Clara's smile was all sympathy. "I'll bring it over."

"'Let the wild rumpus start,'" Debra said. At his blank look, she said, "
Where the Wild Things Are
. You really should read it. I have a copy waiting for you. Come in after you finish."

"Maybe," he said.

"That means no," she replied with an amused smile.

"Maybe."

Laughing, she squeezed his arm. "It was nice seeing you, Max."

Feeling lighter-hearted, he got to work. He barely looked up when Clara brought his coffee and muffin over—the thread for the score was finally taking shape in his head.
 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone Eleanor had given him. He'd been carrying it like he was a teenage girl, and it was a freaking promise ring from his first crush. But it focused him, astonishingly. He'd been holding it while he worked.

He finished rewriting this section and sat back to look it over. Not bad, he decided. It was a good compromise between what Cohen wanted, what Duggan had said he wanted, and what Max could live with.
 

Gathering his things, he bussed his own table and waved to Clara as he left. He walked down the street to the barbershop to stop in and say hi to Bernie.

The old man waved to him with his scissors. "Young Max. I was going to text you later. We were supposed to get together tonight for poker, but Joe's wife told him her book club is coming over, so we're all meeting at Mama's Crowbar. You in?"

He smiled at the old man. "What time?"

"That's what I like to hear." Bernie grinned. "See you at seven. You need a shave?"

He ran a hand over his face. "Why not?"

He stayed longer than he expected, even after his shave, just chatting with the local guys. They told him about some of the saucier women in town, which didn't include Eleanor or her aunt, thank goodness. Max wasn't sure Bernie would have allowed it; the old man had a deep reverence for Eleanor, as if she were his granddaughter.

Finally he tore himself away. On his way to his car, he noticed Lily sitting on his bench, alone, writing in a notebook.

Grinning, he decided to go harass her for a change. He walked up and plopped down on the bench hard enough that it rocked.

"Hey." She glared at him. "You made me smear the page."

"Is school out already?" he asked.

The teenager shrugged, lowering her head and pretending to focus on her notebook.
 

He tried again. "Have you talked to your grandfather about writing?"

She snorted. "No."

"Why not?"

"Like he'd care," she mumbled.

"I bet he would." Max stretched his legs in front of him. "He thinks the world of you."

She looked up sharply. "How would you know?"

"I met him, and I asked."

"You're so weird," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I'm named Amadeus. I didn't have a chance."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Then she bent her head and began writing in earnest.

Max watched her for a moment. He knew artistic frenzy when he saw it—she was in its grips. He quietly got up and left her to create.

On the way back to his car, he called his dad.

Leo answered on the first ring. "I was just thinking about you, son. How's the symphony coming?"

"I've been working on the film score actually," he admitted, knowing his dad would understand. "But I didn't call about that. I wanted to thank you."

"For what? Listening to what you've done so far? You know I'm always here."

"Exactly," he said seriously. "And I wanted to thank you for that. You're a great parent, Dad."

"You're welcome," his dad said, just as gravely. "Son?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Will you make sure you tell your mother you said that? She'll never believe me if I say it."

Chapter 15

Robbie texted right as Eleanor stepped out of the door to meet him at the bar, asking for a rain check because he was caught up at a job site.

Standing on her porch, she pouted a little as she replied that he had to buy the first round. She'd have called Max, but she knew he had some sort of plans for this evening. She was about to go back inside when a little black car pulled up. She didn't recognize it, and she couldn't see inside because the windows were tinted.
 

But then a woman in a white leather coat eased out of the driver seat, large sunglasses perched on her long nose. Her hair was in a smooth, long ponytail, and she oozed grace and class.

"Anya Rusakova," Eleanor said with a smile. She walked out to greet her friend. "Have you lost your way?"

"I don't understand why you choose to live in Siberia, darling." Anya glided forward and air-kissed both Eleanor's cheeks.
 

Eleanor grinned ruefully. "It's not so bad. We have electricity, usually."

Her friend lowered glasses and gave her a long perusal. "You look good," was the final proclamation. "Especially since you haven't been dancing."

She rolled her eyes. "It's good to see you too. Sorry you can't stay long."

Anya gave her a sly grin. "I've missed you, Eleanor. You're terrible for leaving me to dance alone."

"I really am." She ignored the pang of longing in her chest and focused on the woman before her. "I didn't know you were coming."

"You never told me what you thought of the music." Anya's brows formed a flat, disapproving line. "Then I realized you wouldn't listen to reason, because you're stubborn—"

"Me?"

"—So I came to talk you into working with me." Her friend smiled modestly. "You're welcome."