Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“I’m being mature,” I insist, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You’re being gross.”
“I’m being honest,” he counters, catching my hand and kissing the palm.
I sigh. “Just tell me you’ve been safe. Like, in general. Before this.”
He nods, all teasing gone. “I have. No one raw since my last girlfriend.”
Last girlfriend. I don’t want to talk about whoever that would have been—probably some celebrity or pop star or cover model—so we won’t think about her right now, whoever she is . . .
“Annabelle, I’ve been tested,” he goes on, his hands now stroking my boobs in the most incredible way. “I get tested every six months. Team policy.”
“Oh.” I nibble a lip, hips beginning to move again.
“Clean bill of health. Scout’s honor.”
Oh, it feels so good . . . “Were you a scout?”
“No,” he groans, dick still hard. “We can get tested together if you want. I don’t want Tim’s germs.”
I laugh, head tilting back. “Mmkay . . .”
So good.
“And next time we’ll use protection.”
Mmmkay . . .
Suddenly he moves, taking me with him, flipping me so I’m on my back, his huge body moving over me. His hands grip the headboard on either side of me, arms flexing, face buried against my neck as he moves—deeper, harder, like he’s trying to etch himself into my skin so I’ll never forget him.
Not rough but not gentle . . .
“I’m not gonna be able to stop thinking about you,” he rasps. “You’re so sexy. You feel so good.”
My hands roam his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders—like I’ve short-circuited every nerve in his body.
“I want to stay here,” he pants. “Right here. Buried inside you. Fuck you forever.”
Fuck you forever . . .
How romantic.
That shouldn’t feel like the most intimate thing anyone’s ever said to me—but it does. And it knocks the breath right out of my chest.
I wrap my legs tighter around him, pulling him closer, breath catching, pleasure curling tight in my belly as he shifts again, his rhythm going from teasing to torture, and I swear I see stars.
Bright light shines through the window. We’re a tangle of limbs and breathless curses, Maverick muttering something filthy and worshipful into my skin, while I cling to him like a koala hanging on for dear life.
His pace picks up like he’s on a mission from the pleasure gods—and I know I’m screwed. Toast. Straight-up, golden-brown, butter-me-up toast.
“Oh fuck, Annabelle . . . Fuck . . .”
Yes . . .
Yes . . .
F-fuck . . .
My bones liquefy.
My soul briefly leaves my body, waves politely from above, then floats back down . . .
We collapse in a heap, tangled and sweaty and making an imprint in the mattress.
Maverick groans into my neck, his voice gravel and glory. “Jesus. How do you feel?”
I take a long breath. Blink at the ceiling.
Then deadpan, “Pregnant. Definitely pregnant.”
He laughs, tipping his head back, one hand on his chest as he feels around for mine. “You can’t say shit like that when my heart rate is already one forty.”
I roll and kiss his shoulder, smiling into his flesh. “Kidding. But I do feel . . . hungry. Like I want tacos? But I’m also not in the mood to go anywhere.”
Maverick yawns. “Shower, then order something?”
Mmm. “Perfect.”
Chapter 22
Maverick
We fall into a pattern.
Not a perfect one. Not the kind where someone makes green juice at sunrise and folds the laundry into little aesthetic cubes.
But ours.
Annabelle hogs the blanket. She puts hot sauce on everything—including scrambled eggs, which honestly feels criminal. Wears slippers with pajamas, even though she gets naked for bed.
And I’m obsessed with her.
Not in a creepy fucking way. No. It’s an “I could get used to this” kind of way . . .
Annabelle keeps her stuff in the guest bathroom—but somehow uses all the counter space in mine too. Leaves hair clips lying around everywhere but can never seem to find them. And I’ve caught myself smiling at my phone like a lunatic more times in the past three days than I have in the last three years.
So yeah. A pattern.
Which is why when the doorbell rings and my teammate Deshaun saunters in like he owns the place—because I gave him the code, obviously—we’re lounging on the couch about to dig into takeout, too tired to get cute and leave the apartment.
He stands in the entry hallway, staring over to where we’re chilling. “Is this the new missus?”
What a gentleman. Not.
Deshaun strolls into the living room, plops onto the opposite end of the couch where we’re sitting, and grabs an egg roll from our bag like we invited him to dine with us.
What the fuck, dude!
Any other day I would barely notice—’cause he’s done it dozens of times—but what if Annabelle and I were, like, fucking in the living room or something? I wouldn’t want this jackass to see that, and neither would she.