Master of his heart (Brielle and Max)

Chapter 622
Brielle needed an outlet, but she hadn't chosen Max.
Max settled her into the car, fastening the seatbelt with a click that sounded like
commitment. Her eyes, clouded with confusion from the alcohol, fluttered open
and met his. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.
Trying to balance her woozy frame, she leaned in for a kiss, but Max deftly
placed a hand in front of her lips. The scent of liquor was overwhelming.
Brielle blinked and, resigning to the barrier, pressed her lips to his palm instead.
That simple act sent a ticklish sensation coursing through Max, a feeling that
burrowed into his pores and settled deep within him. He withdrew his hand,
hiding it behind his back as if to capture that fleeting moment forever.
Slumped in her seat, Brielle seemed on the edge of slumber. But then, a warm
kiss brushed her lips. “This one’s on the house,” he said, his voice a casual note
as he secured the seatbelt properly and stood up to leave.
Brielle caught him. Her mind was a foggy swirl, and her eyes gathered a misty
haze. “Where's Mr. Lynch?”
Max stiffened, a cocktail of irritation and annoyance brewing inside him. He
gripped her chin and, with the sleeve of his suit, wiped her lips, erasing the kiss
as if it never happened.
She was drunk and still thinking of someone else.
His touch was too rough, and Brielle’s lips felt raw. A frown creased her brow, and
she murmured, “Ouch.”
Softening his grip, Max stormed off to the driver's seat.
Patrick had left to drop off Dustin, leaving Max to drive. The ride was anything but
peaceful, with Brielle’s hands wandering and her head bobbing close to him. Max
tried to contain his temper, but the thought of her being alone with Dustin soured
his mood.
Once back at Premier Palace, he carried her straight to the master bedroom.
After filling the bathtub, he stripped Brielle down without ceremony and placed
her in the water. Drunk as she was, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she
showed no signs of waking.
1/2
Chapter 622
Max watched her peaceful face, the petty jealousy ebbing away. He leaned in for
a kiss but was met with resistance and a sudden rush of nausea from Brielle.
She vomited, the contents unpleasantly adorning Max's suit pants.
His frustration was palpable, but he simply massaged his temples in resignation.
Even in her inebriated state, Brielle managed a polite smile and a slurred, “Sorry.”
“Sorry? Mr. Dorsey?” she said, her words laced with alcohol.
Sober, she called him Max. Drunk, he was Mr. Dorsey.
Max's expression darkened. He showered and changed into his pajamas, then,
with unpracticed hands, began to wash her hair. His clumsy movements drew
winces. “Gentle,” she protested.
“I've never done this before, so deal with it,” Max snapped back.
Brielle’s mind was a blur, and she suggested, “Maybe you need more practice.”
Max's pride stung; he just barely managed not to scowl. “Duly noted, Ms.
Haywood.”
Brielle mumbled an acknowledgment before falling back into a deep sleep.
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Before Max could reply, Brielle stirred and opened her eyes, still disoriented by
her unexpected return to Premier Palace.
Hearing Wesley's concern, she interjected with a simple request. “Soup.”
Wesley looked to Max, who continued drying Brielle's hair and went with the flow.
“Bring a bowl of soup,” Max said.