Chapter 58 Soaking Wet
Veronica's POV:
He was carrying me to the bedroom.
I was acutely aware of every point of contact—his arms beneath my knees and around my back, the way my body pressed against his still-damp chest, the strength in his grip that made me feel weightless.
My heart was still racing from the fall, from being caught, from the power of his overwhelming presence... he was just too magnetic.
"Care to explain why you were even playing around in the kitchen?" His words rumbled through his chest... being this close... I felt it reverberate through my own body.
"I just wanted to help her... she seemed to be doing a lot of work alone...," I said defensively, trying not to focus on how good he smelled—like salt water and something distinctly Max, something that made my head spin.
"And look how that turned out for you."
He shouldered open the door to my bedroom and carried me inside, placing me carefully on the edge of the bed. The gentleness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the sarcastic edge in his voice... even in this situation, he was mocking me... but I wasn't able to get angry at him.
It was only when he crouched down in front of me, his hands reaching for my foot, that I noticed the blood.
A cut ran along the side of my ankle, not deep but definitely bleeding, a thin red line where a shard of porcelain had sliced through skin. I stared at it, surprised I hadn't felt it happen.
God. I'd been that lost in him—that completely absorbed by the mesmerizing beauty of his soaked form—that I hadn't even registered getting hurt.
"Just don't do anything else until I come back with the first aid kit," Max said, his fingers lingering on my ankle for just a moment before he stood and disappeared into the bathroom.
His absence hit me harder than it should have.
The room felt emptier without him in it, colder somehow.
And I was left sitting there on the bed, my thoughts spiraling, realizing with clarity that... just how much I was craving his touch. How much I wanted to reach out and feel the damp fabric of his tank top, trace the lines of his tattoos, run my fingers through his wet hair.
How much I was yearning for him.
The realization should have terrified me. It should have sent me running. But instead, it just settled into my chest like something inevitable, something that had been building since the moment I'd met him.
Max returned with the first aid kit, kneeling in front of me again.
He worked like an expert in this... as he cleaned the cut with an antiseptic wipe—I hissed at the sting—and then applied antibiotic ointment gently.
"You're really good at this," I observed, watching his hands work steadly, and moved with confidence... like he'd done this a thousand times before.
He glanced up at me, a half-smile playing at his lips. "Years of practice with party boys, you know? Sometimes we drink and pass out on treks, and this skill comes in handy."
I couldn't help it—I laughed. The image of Max and his friends stumbling drunk through wilderness trails, patching each other up in the aftermath, was both ridiculous and entirely believable.
He was really wild. Too Wild!
"Is this what the 'other side' involves?" I asked, still smiling. "Trekking while intoxicated?"
Max chuckled deeply... as he pressed the bandage carefully over my cut. "You still don't have a clue about it, do you?"
"Then tell me the details," I pressed, leaning forward slightly. "What does it involve?"
He sat back on his heels, looking up at me with those blue eyes that always seemed to mesmerize. "It can't be explained in words, Veronica. It's an experience."
Damn his vague replies! Damn his broodingness!
I found myself thinking about Theo—how he would have given me a lengthy, detailed response complete with historical context and philosophical implications... in case I ever asked him a question... How he would have structured his answer into clear points, probably referenced some e-books in his tabs, made sure I understood every nuance.
And here was Max... always testing my patience...
It was messing with my head.
More than that, though, he was still soaking wet. It had been at least ten minutes since he'd come in from the beach, but his hair was still dripping, leaving damp spots on the carpet where he kneeled.
Water droplets continued their slow journey down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his throat.
It was messing with my mind even more than his broodingness.
I watched one particular droplet trace the line of his jaw, following the sharp angle down to his throat, and something inside me just... broke. Some wall of restraint or self-preservation that I'd been desperately trying to maintain seemed to be melting down now...
"Will you let me touch you?" The words came out of my lips before I could stop them.
Max's eyes snapped to mine, surprise flickering in him.
"Like... everywhere," I added, now I was whispering. "I want to touch you everywhere."
For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at me with an intensity that made my breath catch, made every nerve ending in my body light up with awareness.
He just couldn't believe that I would ask him something like that...
Then, slowly, that familiar cocky grin spread across his face—but there was something different about it this time.
He seemed turned on... looking heated and dangerous.
"Veronica Whitmore," he said, very deeply. "Are you really asking me what I think you're asking?"
"I—" My courage wavered for just a second. "I just want to know what you feel like. When you're like this. Wet."
God, that sounded so much worse out loud.
But Max didn't laugh. Instead, he shifted closer, moving from his kneeling position to standing, towering over me where I sat on the bed.
He was close enough now that I could feel the coolness radiating from his damp skin, could smell the salt and sun that clung to him.