on already.
The invisible tension that had been banding her chest eased.
“I’ll do that,” she said, standing and tugging the plates from his hands. “The chef should never have to clean up.”
“We’ll do it together,” he said. “Then you can help me eat this cheese.”
“I don’t think so,” she said with a laugh. “The pâté yesterday was bad enough. No man will ever be able to lift me again if I keep packing it on.”
He gave her a reproving look. “Maddy, there’s not a spare ounce on you.”
“Says the man who doesn’t have to fling me around a stage.”
They crossed to the kitchen together and he threw her a tea towel after she’d dumped the plates in the sink.
“I hate drying,” he said unapologetically.
“Another thing I remember.”
“And you hate to vacuum.”
“And clean the bathroom. Don’t forget that. But I’m great with laundry.”
“Together, we almost make the perfect housemate,” he agreed.
“Except for forgetting to take the garbage out,” she said.
They both laughed.
“Remember the tantrum Jacob pulled that time when we missed the garbage collection two weeks in a row?” she said. Jacob had been one of several dancers who had lived with them.
“Definitely an eleven on the Richter scale.”
“Nothing like a gay man for a really good, wall-shaking, knee-trembling tantrum.”
He squirted detergent into the sink and reached for the taps.
“Did I ever tell you about the time he tried to seduce me?”
Maddy gave a shout of surprised laughter. “No way!”
“Way.” Water shot out of the faucet with a hiss and spray ricocheted off the plates and up into his face.
“Merde!” he said, flicking off the taps and wiping water from his face with his hands. “The water pressure in this place is completely screwed. Half the time it’s a trickle, then this happens.”
“You see? Drying does have its good points,” she said with a grin.
He shot her a wry look, then reached for the hem of his soaked T-shirt. Before she understood what he was doing, he’d whipped it over his head. She watched, mesmerized, as he used the balled-up T-shirt to dry his face and mop up any excess moisture on his broad chest. Then he threw the T-shirt to one side and reached for the taps again.
She could barely do more than blink and breathe as she stared at his chest and shoulders and belly. Dark hair curled across his defined pectoral muscles, narrowing down into a sexy trail as it moved south. His jeans rode low on his hips, revealing the hard planes of his abs and the beginning of the delicious, uniquely male groove where his belly muscles met his thighs.
All her hard-won comfort flew out the window. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to reach out and touch him so badly that her fingers clenched into the tea towel. He was beautiful. Perfect. And so damned sexy she wanted to rub herself against him like a cat in heat.
“It was after that party we had when Georgie went off to America. We were all wasted, since we had a long weekend to recover. Remember?”
He was watching her, waiting for her response. She lifted her eyes to his face but was unable to stop her gaze from dropping once more to his chest. He was so male and hot…
“Um. Yeah. That was the party where Georgie threw up in someone’s shoe, right?”
He laughed. She stared, fascinated, as his head tilted back on his neck and his belly muscles flexed.
Oh. Boy.
She was in big trouble. Big, big, big trouble.
“I woke up at about four in the morning and Jacob was standing beside my bed, the corner of the sheet in his hand, about to slide in with me. I asked him what he thought he was doing and he said—and I shit you not—’my mother always told me it never hurts to ask.’”
He laughed again. And again his belly muscles did their compelling flex-and-contract thing. She was officially obsessed. And about to do something really, really stupid. She’d never been good at denying her sexual needs. She’d never had to be. She enjoyed sex, and she’d been lucky enough to live and work in a community where she’d never been judged for her appetites. There had been very few men who she’d desired in her life that she hadn’t had. She drew the line only at married men—and Max.
But now…Standing so close to his half-naked body, it was difficult to see him as anything but a sexual prospect.
“I told him that if he got into bed with me, he was going to find out that his mom was wrong. Big-time. Then he actually tried to talk me into it. Like he was a car salesman, and all it would take was a bit of good sales patter to get me to change teams.”
He shook his head, grinning at the memory. She took a deep breath, then another. She forced herself to take a step backward.
“Jacob always had a thing for you,” she said. She could barely recognize her own voice, it sounded so tight and controlled.
“Yeah, it was called a penis.”
He passed her the first clean plate, and she almost dropped it she was trying so hard to avoid making contact with his bare skin. One touch. That was all it would take to slip the leash off her self-control right now. He was way, way too sexy and masculine and desirable.
Somehow, they got through the dishes. If Max noticed that she barely lifted her gaze from the floor and that she kept a good few paces between them at all times, he didn’t show it. She sighed with relief when he disappeared upstairs afterward and returned wearing another T-shirt.
But to her dismay, it didn’t help any. Not enough, anyway. Now she had two images vying for attention in her subconscious—Max in the shower, horny and hard, and Max’s chest and belly, up close and personal. Every time she so much as glanced at him both images danced across her mind. Heat fizzed along her veins. Her skin felt sensitized and she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears.
“There’s a Godard movie on tonight,” he said as he dropped onto the couch, propping his long legs on the coffee table in front of him and palming the remote control. He patted the couch next to him. “Come on. I’ll translate for you and tempt you with cheese.”
She stared at the couch. There was no way she could survive a whole evening sitting next to him without climbing aboard and taking him for a ride.
She closed her eyes as she imagined his reaction if she tried to enact any of the fantasies running riot in her mind right now. He’d be stunned. He might even laugh at her. Whatever he did, it would be the end of their friendship as she knew it, the comfort and ease between them a thing of the past.
“Let’s go out,” she suggested.
He frowned. “Out? It’s too cold, Maddy. Below zero, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Her glance skittered around the apartment, seeking inspiration, and finally landed on her shopping bags. She remembered the dress she’d bought and the flamenco class that had inspired her purchase.
“Let’s go dancing,” she said. As soon as she said it, she knew it was right. Dancing was safe. She could churn up the dance floor, get sweaty and breathless in the safety of numbers.
Max was still frowning.
“There must be someplace nearby. Somewhere with Latin-American music?” she asked. God, she was almost begging. She needed some outlet for all the frustration and confused tension building inside her.
“There’s