Page 52 of The Malibu Arrangement

And then, his lips are on mine, crushing my bottom lip hungrily, his stubble rough against my chin. I taste mint and coffee and something uniquely him—something that makes my knees weak and my pulse race. His hands slide into my hair, fingertips pressing against my scalp, and I know now that what he's saying is the truth. The way his breath catches when I press closer, the slight tremor in his strong hands—he wants me. And, god, I want him so desperately my skin feels electric wherever we touch.

His breath is hot against my ear as he whispers, "Does this feel like I just want any warm body?" Strong hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the cool, polished marble tabletop. The stone chills my bare skin as he gently pushes my knees apart. His fingertips trace delicate patterns up my thighs before his lips follow the same path, his stubble lightly scratching the sensitive skin there. When he finds that perfect spot where my pulse throbs beneath the surface, I can't help the sound that escapes me. Heat blooms deep in my belly, radiating outward until even my fingertips tingle with wanting him.

Is this really happening? Does my fake-husband—with his chiseled jawline and those impossibly magnetic eyes that seem to drink me in—really feel this way about me? I never thought it possible. But, as his warm lips and soft fingertips make their deliberate way up my bare thighs, inch by agonizingly delicious inch, leaving goosebumps in their wake, I find that I don't care if I'm just a warm body or somebody he actually desires. Because I desire him—the sandalwood scent of his skin, the weight of his body pressing against mine. Every cell in my body is tingling like an electric wire in the rain, a current of pleasure threatening to short-circuit my thoughts completely.

Now he's kissing me again, his soft thumbs brushing my cheekbones while his fingers thread into my hair at the nape of my neck. His palms cradle my face with the reverent care of someone holding a bird with a broken wing. His lips, soft yet demanding, press against mine with an urgency that makes my knees weak. They taste of Pacific salt and something darker, richer—coffee maybe, or just him. I breathe in his exhale, cedar and citrus cologne filling my lungs as he draws me against the solid wall of his chest, the expensive cotton of his shirt bunching between my fingers as I grip it, desperate to eliminate even the molecule of air separating us.

His fingers work at my buttons as his lips find mine, his touch whispering across my skin. The path of his mouth traces from my lips to my throat, then lower still as the fabric falls away. A sound escapes me—something primal and wanting—and I find myself holding him with my legs, anchoring him to me as though he might dissolve into the night if I let go.

Max's voice is barely above a whisper as he undresses me, his eyes never leaving mine. "Still think I only want a warm body?" The cool marble countertop presses against my back as his lips trace a path down my neck, across my collarbone, lingering at my breasts until I can barely breathe. "Would I worship you like this if I wasn't completely yours?"My skirt pools around my ankles. His hands steady me as my knees weaken, and when his mouth finds its way between my thighs, the world dissolves into sensation. Each deliberate movement of his tongue sends electricity through my body. No one has ever paid such careful attention to exactly what makes me respond. This isn't casual desire—this is devotion.

He shows me just how devoted he is to my pleasure as his long, nimble fingers slide inside me, his soft thumb stroking my sensitive clit while his hot, velvet tongue traces deliberate circles around the swollen bud and my throbbing, honey-slick core. The cool Carrara marble beneath my feverish skin feels almost like a blessed relief as my body blazes hotter than a January hearth. His fingers—two, then three—pry me open further, his relentless tongue finding its way deeper inside me as I writhe helplessly, the intolerably beautiful sensation radiating like liquid lightning from my pulsing center to every trembling cell of my body as I scream out his name, the sound echoing through the cool early-December night. God, what is this overwhelming sensation? I realize that, before this earth-shattering moment, I'd never actually experienced a true orgasm, not like this all-consuming tidal wave. It feels like every one of my nerve endings is simultaneously aflame, my entire quivering body transformed into one giant, exquisite goosebump.

Max whispers my name against my lips as his fingers work the buttons of his crisp white shirt, revealing a tanned chest dusted with dark hair. He captures my mouth again in a kiss that steals my breath—his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before slipping inside, tasting of expensive scotch and desire. When his teeth graze my lower lip, I gasp. "If you could see yourself through my eyes," he murmurs, his voice a rough velvet that vibrates against my skin, "you'd never question how I feel."

His breathing comes in hot, ragged bursts against my neck. The world beyond this marble countertop—beyond his touch—dissolves into nothing. There is only the scorching heat where our bodies meet, the intoxicating scent of his cologne mingled with sweat, the masterful rhythm of his fingers exploring me, coaxing me toward the edge while his mouth devours mine hungrily. My eyelids flutter closed as my head falls back in ecstasy. I feel the whisper of fabric sliding down his legs, then the unmistakable weight and heat of him pressing against me—impressive, intimidating in its proportions, promising both pleasure and sweet pain as it nudges insistently at my center.

His voice breaks as he whispers my name, his hands trembling while he rolls on protection. My pulse hammers everywhere—wrists, throat, between my thighs—like my body might shatter from wanting him. I rake my nails down his back, desperate to pull him closer, to feel the weight of him crushing me. The anticipation is unbearable; I'm already arching upward, seeking him, my body a live wire. When his eyes lock with mine, something primal and possessive flashes across his face. I dig my heels into his lower back, urging him forward, silently begging. I need him to claim me, to fill the aching emptiness that's consuming me from within.

He stands before me, naked and magnificent, his erection jutting forward like a challenge. I lick my lips, my body already trembling with need. He seizes my ass with both hands, his fingers digging into my flesh as he yanks me to the counter's edge. In one powerful motion, he impales me on his length, the sudden fullness making me cry out. My vision blurs as he drives deeper than I thought possible, each thrust sending electric shocks through my core. His grip tightens around my waist, muscles flexing as he lifts me entirely off the marble. I lock my legs around him, surrendering completely to his strength and rhythm. My head falls back, exposing my throat, which he claims with his teeth—not quite biting, but marking. He captures my face between his hands, forcing my gaze to his, and crushes his mouth against mine, his tongue invading with the same relentless intensity as his body.

No, he doesn't want just any warm body beneath him. He wants me—Celeste—with my particular scars and freckles and fears. And I've never craved anyone with this desperate, clawing hunger. His mouth claims mine with such ferocity that my lips will surely bruise by morning, his tongue exploring every corner as if memorizing the geography of my mouth. Each thrust sends shockwaves through my spine, each gentle bite on my swollen bottom lip makes me gasp. I feel his heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. When I finally shatter, it's like a California earthquake—a 7.8 on the Richter scale—fracturing me into a thousand glittering pieces. Heat floods every cell, electricity crackling across my skin like lightning striking the Malibu coastline during a winter storm. His name—Max—tears from my throat, raw and primal, again and again until my voice breaks.

His shoulders slump as he gasps for air, his chest heaving against mine as he pulls out. But his grip tightens—possessive, desperate—as my legs are still locked around him. When he crashes his mouth back onto mine, there's nothing gentle about it. It's all hunger and need, teeth grazing my lower lip before he lifts me back onto the cold marble, the shock of it making me arch against him. Neither of us can bear to break apart. My fingers twist into his dark hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan against my mouth. The marble bites into my skin, but I don't care—all I feel is the delicious ache where his kisses have claimed me. "Tell me again, Celeste," he demands, voice rough and broken. "About how I don't really want you. Christ, I've never wanted anything the way I want you."

His hands—those long, elegant fingers with perfectly manicured nails—devour every curve of my body, igniting my skin with electricity that makes me gasp. He's hard again, throbbing against my thigh, his desire unmistakable. With a growl that sends shivers down my spine, he lifts me in one swift motion, my body crushed against the hard planes of his chest as he carries me to a chaise lounge hidden beneath gauzy white tents by his infinity pool. The tent becomes our private universe—navy velvet lounges swallowing our bodies, amber-scented candles throwing wild shadows across our skin, a vibrant Moroccan rug beneath us catching the evidence of our passion. He seizes a remote, and suddenly the air vibrates with pulsing bass and haunting melodies that match the rhythm of our bodies as we claim each other, desperate and hungry, as if this night might be our last.

Hours later, after a marathon of lovemaking that left us both breathless, we're finally sated, laying side by side on the plush crimson velvet lounge in this candlelit tent. Outside, December winds whisper against the canvas walls, but I don't feel the coolness, only the lingering heat between us. We're lying there, my head nestled in the crook of his arm, his fingers tracing lazy patterns through my tangled hair. He leans down, pressing his lips first to my temple where my pulse still hammers, then captures my mouth in a kiss so tender it makes my heart ache. My palm rests on his chest, feeling each heartbeat beneath warm skin and firm muscle. My body still quivers with aftershocks, every nerve ending alive and singing, saturated with a pleasure so complete I feel drunk with it.

I know that I have to get some sleep. It's now 3 in the morning, the red digits of Max's watch glowing against his tanned wrist. Six hours of lovemaking has left my thighs trembling, my lips swollen, my entire body feeling like overcooked spaghetti sliding off a fork. The tent smells of sandalwood and sweat, our mingled scents trapped in the canvas cocoon. I dread crawling back to my empty bed with its cold sheets, but my alarm will shriek in three hours and I'll be stumbling through the office like a zombie. Max traces circles on my hip, his touch saying he doesn't want to leave either, though tomorrow he faces back-to-back meetings until eight tomorrow night. But when he kisses my shoulder, his stubble rough against my skin, I think: #worthit!

He takes a ragged breath. "I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice raw. "Come to bed with me tonight. I swear I'll behave, but Christ—" His hand grips mine so hard it almost hurts. "I need you there. I need to feel you breathing next to me." He shakes his head violently. "No. That's not enough. Move in with me. The main house. Now. Tonight. This separate wing bullshit is killing me when all I've wanted—all I've fucking ached for—is to have you with me. Really with me." His green eyes burn into mine, desperate and exposed, like he's offering his still-beating heart on a silver platter, terrified I might refuse it. I can't breathe.

I nod and follow him inside, my body heavy with exhaustion yet light with a happiness I'm almost afraid to trust. After grabbing a few essentials from my side of the house, I slip between his sheets. The question of whether I'll stay here permanently hangs between us—was his invitation born from the heat of the moment, or something more? I'll wait for daylight to see if the offer stands.

For now, I savor the warmth of his skin against mine, our limbs tangled together in the darkness. As sleep pulls at me, I wonder if what we've found is as delicate as morning mist, destined to evaporate in reality's harsh light, or if it might withstand the day.

Something in me hopes desperately for permanence, even as my old fears whisper that nothing this sweet ever lasts.

Chapter Forty-Three

A CHANGE IN ATTITUDE

Max

I get to work at my usual 6 AM, exhausted from getting no sleep, but feeling incredibly happy for maybe the first time in my life. It’s so strange - all my life, I always thought I was happy. But maybe I really wasn’t. Maybe it was just contentment, and I’m actually seeing the difference between these two emotions.

I was definitely content before. I had Gianni and my brothers, and loving grandparents who raised me like a son. I've always had a stunning woman on my arm—supermodels with legs for days and actresses with porcelain skin who looked perfect in every paparazzi shot. I had my career as the youngest CEO of a movie studio in the history of Hollywood, corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Los Angeles skyline, name etched in glass on the building. The A-List parties with champagne fountains and caviar stations, the red carpet walks past screaming fans, the front-row Oscars seats where legends leaned over to whisper in my ear, the glossy magazine covers where my jawline looked chiseled from marble. The billion-dollar superhero franchises with merchandise in every Target across America, the prestige biopics that critics called "transcendent," the satisfaction of having Scorsese and Spielberg on speed dial—these are all things that I thought made me happy but I now know only made me content.

But this feeling, after a night with Celeste where we made love under Egyptian cotton sheets until dawn, her jasmine perfume still clinging to my skin—this must be what true happiness feels like. My face muscles ache from smiling, an unfamiliar sensation that pulls at the corners of my mouth and crinkles the skin around my eyes. Even Valentina, my usually unflappable secretary who's seen me through 18-hour days without so much as a raised eyebrow, did a double-take this morning when she walked into my office at precisely 7 a.m., her coffee-brown eyes widening at the sight of me.

Valentina breezes into my office, her dark bob swinging, iPad clutched to her chest like a shield. "Hey, Max," she says, sliding my printed agenda across the polished mahogany desk. “Lunch today with the head of Paramount, then that investors call with Tokyo today at 4—the Nakamura Group. Sean Winter wants to discuss his Oscar follow-up at 5:30 at Nobu, you have three pitch meetings and your development team needs thirty minutes on the Netflix psychological thriller series..." Her voice rises and falls in that familiar singsong pattern while I nod, watching steam curl from my hand-thrown ceramic mug. The rich Kona blend—flown in weekly—coats my tongue as I let her meticulous recitation wash over me. I've had today memorized since last Thursday, but her earnest blue eyes and careful note-taking deserve my patience. Valentina taps her manicured fingernail against the meeting agenda. "And you should pay special attention to the Holloway pitch at two o'clock—you know, the psychological thriller based on that best-selling novel everyone's mother has been reading in their book clubs. The one with the unreliable narrator and the twist ending. That one could be our next prestige project if we play our cards right."

She finally looks at me. “What?” she asks. “What’s that smile about?”

I swivel in my leather chair, gazing at the Los Angeles skyline that stretches before me like my own personal kingdom. The thought flickers through my mind—what if I just disappeared for the day? But no. Kensington Pictures would grind to a halt without me at the helm. Still, I can't shake the image of showing up at Claremont unannounced, whisking Celeste into my Rolls, and catching the next flight to Paris or Rome—just because I can, just because I want her with me.

“Am I not entitled to smile?” I ask her. “Perhaps I’m happy today.” Then I start to laugh. “Actually happy.”