He’s bare-chested, wearing nothing but his low-slung sweatpants. His tattoo is alive, rippling in all its winged glory as he hits. Biceps flexing. Shoulders clenching. Abs gripping.
Am I hurting you . . ?
Flashes of him mounting me swim in my head. Flashes of his hands all over me. My nipple disappearing into his mouth. Me, being filled. Being taken. Being reckless. Being free.
I watch Maverick for a moment in silence. In awe. All that male power, perfectly controlled as he measures his punches. Each landing on the spot where he wants it to land, hitting precisely, expertly, one arm rolling after the other.
I don’t get many opportunities to look at him—not really, because when I do, I’m usually seized by the fact that Maverick is looking at me.
But now he’s concentrating on the speed bag, the same guy in the hoodie I met weeks ago who piggybacked on me at that gym.
His muscles have grown a little. He looks a little tanner, maybe he’s been running outside? He looks corded. More male. More adult. More dangerous than any fighter I’ve ever seen—because there’s no one who has as much to prove to all his haters as he does.
And I lean on the wall and watch the look of concentration on his profile. So lethal, so quiet. Every second that I watch, I feel this excruciatingly painful sensation of want mingled with happiness squeeze my chest.
He stops hitting.
Exhales.
And slowly frowns, as if deep in thought.
Did he sense me?
He’s starting to turn.
He sensed me.
Because as he turns, his gaze slides, without stopping, and pins me in place. His eyes smolder the instant they connect with mine. And I smolder inside.
“I’m on my way back to the hotel, I just wanted to say hi,” I nervously say. Even my voice sounds soft when I talk to him. All of me goes soft.
I wait a beat, and while I wait, this gorgeous smile starts to pull at the sides of his lips.
“So hi,” I finish, awkwardly lifting my hand.
He pulls off his gloves with the opposite arms, never taking his eyes off me, and I slowly lower my hand.
He starts approaching.
“Hi,” he says. He walks with that swagger and that look in his eyes that says, without apology or hesitation or remorse . . . I remember you in my arms last night, Reese.
Inhaling sharply at the memory, I need to cant my head back to meet his gaze, and when I do, he’s still smiling that powerhouse smile at me.
I thought I wanted to be loved. But now I realize, I don’t just want to be loved. I want to be loved by one man. This man.
He doesn’t look anxious or worried at all. He looks pleased, like a guy who’s just worked out as if he was born to sweat, and punch, and kick other men’s asses. Like a guy who knows he’s getting the girl at the end of the day—or like a guy who knows he already has her. Even if she hasn’t said “I love you” yet. Even if she’s with the Tates. And Miles is still out in the world somewhere.
“When are you leaving for Boston?” he asks me, taking my chin—just like that—and kissing me on the lips—just like that.
I gulp. “Tomorrow.”
My knees.
My poor tingling toes.
“Would you come with me?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me to Boston, Reese. For semifinals.”
“Like . . . travel with you?”
He nods.
My eyes widen. “I . . . YES.”
“Text me your traveling info when you get to the hotel. I’ll get us both on the noon flight.”
Me and him, together.
I don’t even know how I’m going to make this happen. I just know I’m making this happen. Brooke is always so understanding, and Racer always sticks by his dad when they’re on the plane. I can’t even fathom the Tates denying me.
He strokes the back of my head, then fists my hair in one hand as he draws me an inch closer. “I’ll take you to dinner, someplace nice. And I’ll drop you off at your hotel after.”
I find myself nodding. “Okay.”
“I’ll send you the confirmation.”
“I’ll send you my info.”
I should really probably stay away, but instead I lean forward and he steps closer, lifts me in his arms so that my mouth is leveled to his. And he kisses me, a toe-curling kiss that twists up my panties.
He sets me down and pats my butt. “Go then. Text me.”
“I will.”
I head to the doors. And I steal one last glance at him over my shoulder. Maverick is standing in the same spot, and when I catch him staring possessively at my ass, it makes me start to love the Himalayas like never before.
When I get to the hotel, I wait in the living room for the Tates to come back from their run. I hear Racer chattering outside and swing the door open.
“Hey, guys,” I say with a broad smile.
“Reese.” Remy brushes past me, carrying Racer up over his shoulders. Brooke pushes in the stroller and I help her fold it.
“Hey, is it okay if I go to Boston on my own? I’m meeting up with a friend,” I tell her.
She carries the stroller to lean it against a corner wall. “When do you get there?”
“To the hotel? By ten p.m. Maybe we’ll grab early dinner too.”
“It’s fine with us. Just tell your mother and it’s absolutely fine.”
“No,” Racer decrees from the kitchen where he and Remy are scouring for food.
“Racer, come on, let Reese enjoy her friend,” Brooke says, then she smiles and eyes me speculatively. “A boyfriend?”
“I . . . no. Just a friend.”
She smiles knowingly. “The guy back home?”
“Wee comes with me on Wemy’s plane,” Racer keeps protesting.
“Dad,” Brooke specifies. She groans and sends me a what-will-I-do-with-this-kid? look. “He hears us all call him Remy and he’s determined to call him that too. I’m going to have to start to call my own husband Daddy to see if it sticks.”
I laugh.
“Right, Daddy?” she calls as Remy lifts his head.
“That’s right,” he says as he fishes out a gallon of milk and pours Racer a small cup and himself a big glass.
I smile when Brooke joins them, then take out my penny and head to my room, kissing my lucky penny like a dope before I pull out my cell phone and text Maverick my info.
Am I hurting you . . ?
Flashes of him mounting me swim in my head. Flashes of his hands all over me. My nipple disappearing into his mouth. Me, being filled. Being taken. Being reckless. Being free.
I watch Maverick for a moment in silence. In awe. All that male power, perfectly controlled as he measures his punches. Each landing on the spot where he wants it to land, hitting precisely, expertly, one arm rolling after the other.
I don’t get many opportunities to look at him—not really, because when I do, I’m usually seized by the fact that Maverick is looking at me.
But now he’s concentrating on the speed bag, the same guy in the hoodie I met weeks ago who piggybacked on me at that gym.
His muscles have grown a little. He looks a little tanner, maybe he’s been running outside? He looks corded. More male. More adult. More dangerous than any fighter I’ve ever seen—because there’s no one who has as much to prove to all his haters as he does.
And I lean on the wall and watch the look of concentration on his profile. So lethal, so quiet. Every second that I watch, I feel this excruciatingly painful sensation of want mingled with happiness squeeze my chest.
He stops hitting.
Exhales.
And slowly frowns, as if deep in thought.
Did he sense me?
He’s starting to turn.
He sensed me.
Because as he turns, his gaze slides, without stopping, and pins me in place. His eyes smolder the instant they connect with mine. And I smolder inside.
“I’m on my way back to the hotel, I just wanted to say hi,” I nervously say. Even my voice sounds soft when I talk to him. All of me goes soft.
I wait a beat, and while I wait, this gorgeous smile starts to pull at the sides of his lips.
“So hi,” I finish, awkwardly lifting my hand.
He pulls off his gloves with the opposite arms, never taking his eyes off me, and I slowly lower my hand.
He starts approaching.
“Hi,” he says. He walks with that swagger and that look in his eyes that says, without apology or hesitation or remorse . . . I remember you in my arms last night, Reese.
Inhaling sharply at the memory, I need to cant my head back to meet his gaze, and when I do, he’s still smiling that powerhouse smile at me.
I thought I wanted to be loved. But now I realize, I don’t just want to be loved. I want to be loved by one man. This man.
He doesn’t look anxious or worried at all. He looks pleased, like a guy who’s just worked out as if he was born to sweat, and punch, and kick other men’s asses. Like a guy who knows he’s getting the girl at the end of the day—or like a guy who knows he already has her. Even if she hasn’t said “I love you” yet. Even if she’s with the Tates. And Miles is still out in the world somewhere.
“When are you leaving for Boston?” he asks me, taking my chin—just like that—and kissing me on the lips—just like that.
I gulp. “Tomorrow.”
My knees.
My poor tingling toes.
“Would you come with me?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me to Boston, Reese. For semifinals.”
“Like . . . travel with you?”
He nods.
My eyes widen. “I . . . YES.”
“Text me your traveling info when you get to the hotel. I’ll get us both on the noon flight.”
Me and him, together.
I don’t even know how I’m going to make this happen. I just know I’m making this happen. Brooke is always so understanding, and Racer always sticks by his dad when they’re on the plane. I can’t even fathom the Tates denying me.
He strokes the back of my head, then fists my hair in one hand as he draws me an inch closer. “I’ll take you to dinner, someplace nice. And I’ll drop you off at your hotel after.”
I find myself nodding. “Okay.”
“I’ll send you the confirmation.”
“I’ll send you my info.”
I should really probably stay away, but instead I lean forward and he steps closer, lifts me in his arms so that my mouth is leveled to his. And he kisses me, a toe-curling kiss that twists up my panties.
He sets me down and pats my butt. “Go then. Text me.”
“I will.”
I head to the doors. And I steal one last glance at him over my shoulder. Maverick is standing in the same spot, and when I catch him staring possessively at my ass, it makes me start to love the Himalayas like never before.
When I get to the hotel, I wait in the living room for the Tates to come back from their run. I hear Racer chattering outside and swing the door open.
“Hey, guys,” I say with a broad smile.
“Reese.” Remy brushes past me, carrying Racer up over his shoulders. Brooke pushes in the stroller and I help her fold it.
“Hey, is it okay if I go to Boston on my own? I’m meeting up with a friend,” I tell her.
She carries the stroller to lean it against a corner wall. “When do you get there?”
“To the hotel? By ten p.m. Maybe we’ll grab early dinner too.”
“It’s fine with us. Just tell your mother and it’s absolutely fine.”
“No,” Racer decrees from the kitchen where he and Remy are scouring for food.
“Racer, come on, let Reese enjoy her friend,” Brooke says, then she smiles and eyes me speculatively. “A boyfriend?”
“I . . . no. Just a friend.”
She smiles knowingly. “The guy back home?”
“Wee comes with me on Wemy’s plane,” Racer keeps protesting.
“Dad,” Brooke specifies. She groans and sends me a what-will-I-do-with-this-kid? look. “He hears us all call him Remy and he’s determined to call him that too. I’m going to have to start to call my own husband Daddy to see if it sticks.”
I laugh.
“Right, Daddy?” she calls as Remy lifts his head.
“That’s right,” he says as he fishes out a gallon of milk and pours Racer a small cup and himself a big glass.
I smile when Brooke joins them, then take out my penny and head to my room, kissing my lucky penny like a dope before I pull out my cell phone and text Maverick my info.
