Chapter 35 Hendrix
CHAPTER 35
HENDRIX
I t’s disorienting to wake up to the whisper of waves, but it’s a sound I could get used to.
I stretch my arm across what feels like acres of mattress to caress the empty spot where Maverick lay beside me.
“This bed.” I scissor my bare legs over the sheets that probably cost as much as my rent, supple cotton and sinful sateen. “I could get used to it.”
I only have a week before I head to Mama’s, but I plan to make the most of it and enjoy every moment. The way Maverick talked about his “place in Malibu” I envisioned a pretty house by the ocean, not this gated coastal estate perched on a three-acre stretch of sand that kisses the Pacific.
I could just live in this bedroom. It’s massive with a California king, sitting room situated by a two-sided fireplace, and a balcony overseeing the ocean. I would gladly stay here all day, but unfortunately my video call in a couple of hours sets a different agenda.
“Get your ass up,” I grumble into the pillow of my dreams.
Naked, I shuffle into the bathroom with its poured terrazzo floors and spa bathtub, the epitome of luxury. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and take off my scarf so the long braids spill to my waist. I need low-maintenance hair because I have no idea what’s waiting for me at Mama’s or what I’ll need to do. For now, Maverick says he wants to take care of me, and the last of my resistance has been worn down.
I grab Maverick’s navy-blue silk robe from its hook in the closet and pull it on. Drawing the lapels up to my nose, I inhale traces of him, clean and masculine and expensive. I pad down the stairs to find him. The low rumble of his voice on the phone in his office spurs me to indulge my curiosity and explore a little. Last night I didn’t inspect the infinity pool, guest house, or subterranean garage. Soledad would die over the Bulthaup kitchen and the living room with its soaring ceiling and breathtaking ocean view. I swear I’m caught in an unimaginably opulent dream.
But it’s Maverick’s home. One of them.
I hesitate outside the open door to his office when I hear him still on his call.
“I don’t give a damn,” he says, voice terse. “Figure that shit out and come back with a solution, not more excuses. I don’t have time to walk you through every step of this process. Do your fucking job.”
I’ve never really heard him in mogul mode, and gotta say… it stirs the juices. I’m tempted to slide under that desk on my knees, pull him out, and greet him properly. When he catches sight of me, his tight mouth yields a smile and he waves me in. His office is all glass and chrome and panoramic ocean views, the coolness balanced with warm touches of brown and cream, suede and leather. The desk’s surface is completely clear save for his iPad. I settle on the edge of the desk and wait for him to finish his call. Hands free since he’s using his headphones, he pulls my foot to rest on his knee. The robe falls aside, giving him a clear view of bare legs and the shadowy secrets between them.
“That could work,” he says on his phone call as he kisses the arch of my foot and then sucks my calf. He looks up at me with flirty eyes and something so hot and sweet my synapses fry.
“I do remember,” he mutters, kissing his way around my ankle. “Work on that.”
His tongue licking at the soft skin behind my knee coaxes a gasp from me and I tip my head back, palms flat to the desktop. Dragging his chair closer, he pulls my thighs onto his shoulders and buries his face between my legs, reaching to pull me open and lick up my center.
“Jesus,” I moan as he sucks my clit and bites at all the tingling, begging flesh he can get his mouth on.
He suddenly scoots back—breathing hard, mouth wet, eyes feral. “Yeah, I’m here, Collin. I heard you.”
He closes his eyes and pulls back an inch, letting my leg slide away with seeming reluctance.
“Sorry.” He blinks and licks his lips. “I got distracted. Repeat that. I missed what you said.”
I chuckle and stand.
“Later,” I whisper. “Have you eaten breakfast?”
He shakes his head no, grasping me by the nape to pull me down for a kiss. His tongue explores the bow of my lip and he sucks the bottom one noisily, greedily. Tasting myself on him remains one of the most erotic things I’ve ever experienced, the fusion of us carried on his lips and tongue.
“I’ll cook,” I whisper, trying to get my breathing under control.
He puts the phone on mute and says, “Chef’s doing it.”
Must be nice.
“Go check in the kitchen. His name’s Laurenz.”
He unmutes the call and swats my ass before swiveling his chair to face the ocean.
“That’s better,” he tells the caller. “How soon can you get that done?”
I stride to the kitchen and find a tall man with olive skin and wavy dark hair that brushes his shoulders cooking on a NASA-looking stove I probably wouldn’t even know how to get started. He glances up and smiles, seeming completely at ease in his board shorts and San Diego Waves T-shirt.
“You must be Ms. Barry,” he says, never missing a beat dicing red peppers on a cutting board. “I’m making Maverick an omelet. Want one?”
“You can call me Hendrix.” Conscious of being naked beneath the robe, I pull the collar closer around my neck. “An omelet would be great. Cheese and mushrooms?”
“Of course.” He whisks eggs and tilts his head queryingly. “That’s all you want?”
“If you have chicken or turkey sausage, I’ll take that, too.”
“Got it. Ready in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” I point a thumb over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go get dressed. Be back in a bit.”
I walk swiftly back up the stairs to Maverick’s bedroom. Ignoring the temptation of the sunken bathtub that could probably hold three grown men, I opt for the shower. I make it quick, racing through my skin care, spraying my braids and laying the edges into soft waves at my hairline. I toss on a white sundress with capped sleeves and tiny pink-and-green eyelet flowers. It’s cool and casual, comfortable, feminine.
When I make it back downstairs to the kitchen, three pairs of eyes lift to greet me, making my steps falter at the entrance. Maverick, Chef Laurenz, and Maverick’s father. Maverick rises and comes over to slip his arm around my waist.
“Pop,” he says, squeezing my hip. “You remember Hendrix Barry?”
“From the playoffs, right?” Chris Bell asks, smiling even as he tucks into French toast topped with powdered sugar and strawberries. “You doing all right this morning?”
“Yes, sir.” I try to act perfectly normal, like that wasn’t only a month ago and now I’m obviously smashing his son. “Good to see you again.”
“You a Southern girl, huh?” Mr. Bell smiles. “That pretty accent and them manners your mama must’ve taught you.”
“Can’t get rid of either one of ’em,” I tell him, laughing. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“I like them both.” Maverick drops a kiss to my forehead. “Very much. Come, eat.”
He guides me over to the empty seat between him and his father, pulling the chair out for me.
“Thank you.” I pick up my glass of orange juice and take a sip, hoping it covers how unexpectedly nervous I am seeing his father like this , freshly fucked and obviously staying. Maverick’s head was between my legs not half an hour ago.
Father, forgive me for I have whored.
The conversation goes on around me for a few minutes while I pull myself together. Maverick must be reading my mind or picking up on my uncharacteristic reticence, because he smirks at me and licks around his mouth like he’s making sure he didn’t miss a spot. My jaw drops and I stare at him disbelievingly, checking to see if his father or Laurenz have noticed.
“Got some nerve wearing that shit in this house,” Mr. Bell says, nodding at Laurenz’s Waves T-shirt.
“I’m a San Diego boy,” Laurenz laughs, pouring eggs into a pan. “You know I gotta represent us winning our first championship. I promise when Mav buys the Vipers, I’ll get a Vegas shirt, hat, signs. The works. For now, let me enjoy my city’s first ring.”
“August West finally did it.” Mr. Bell’s tone is begrudgingly admiring. “He earned it, but we coming for that crown next season.”
“And Kenan Ross did it,” Maverick says. “Got him a piece of the team.”
“I hate the Waves right now,” Mr. Bell says. “But a Black man becoming an owner, even a minority stake, is a good thing.”
“Always,” Maverick agrees. “I called to congratulate him on the win and the good news.”
“You two should meet,” Mr. Bell bites into his French toast and sends his son a shrewd look. “See what you can get into together.”
“Bolt’s already set it up,” Maverick says with a sly smile.
Knowing what their family has been through and witnessing Mr. Bell’s grief firsthand, it’s good to see father and son plotting about the team that will soon belong to Maverick. And if there’s one thing Maverick Bell usually gets, it’s his way.
I’m living proof of that.
“Your breakfast, madam.” With a flourish Laurenz places an omelet so fluffy in front of me I almost don’t believe it’s real. I taste it and stifle a moan at the perfection exploding in my mouth.
“Like I told Coach,” Mr. Bell says, “we need to make some big moves in the offseason. We play it right, Vipers have a real shot next year.”
“Front office is on board as soon as I assume ownership. Everything should be final in the next few weeks.” Maverick says it casually, but there is a current of excitement running through the words. “That team will be ours.”
“Yours,” his father corrects.
“Ours,” Maverick repeats, his obstinate tone matching his dad’s. “I would never have even dreamed of owning a pro team had it not been for you.”
“You really did it.” His father leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his still-flat stomach. He looks so much like Maverick in that moment—his mannerisms and his expression even beyond the obvious actual physical resemblance.
“Your mother would be so proud,” Mr. Bell says, and a flash of what must be agony crosses his face.
“I know, Pop.” Maverick exchanges a glance with his father that conveys so much. The grief they’ve shared, but also the sense of accomplishment that belongs to them both, too.
“Well, what’s on the agenda for today?” Mr. Bell directs the question to me, shifting the conversation to a lighter tone.
I tug my braids over one shoulder. “I have a video conference thing in about an hour if there’s a corner of this house I can steal?”
“Of course,” Maverick replies. He reaches for my hand in my lap and pulls it up for a kiss. “I hope you don’t have to work all day.”
“Look who’s talking,” I say with a laugh, threading our fingers together and letting them rest on his knee. “You were out of bed hours before I was.”
I shoot Mr. Bell a look that is half embarrassment, half horror, and almost swallow my tongue. It’s pretty obvious I’m spending the week, but I didn’t have to hang all Mav’s business out on the line to dry in front of his father. I may be wild in the sheets, but I would never have a man spend the night in my mama’s house. Not with the “Footprints” poem and the Black Jesus oil painting hanging on the wall in the living room.
“I mean…” My wide eyes meet Maverick’s laughing ones.
“You’re right,” he says, saving me from whatever awkward thing was about to come from my mouth. “I was up early getting things done so we could spend the day together. You down?”
Mr. Bell’s kind, approving smile relaxes my shoulders a bit.
“Okay.” I stand and try to clear my plate, but Maverick grabs his and mine before I can do it. “After this meeting I’m free. What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I already know what he wants to do.” Mr. Bell chuckles and nods to the ocean beyond the kitchen window.
Following the direction of his eyes and noting the gleam in Maverick’s, I shake my head and sigh. “Oh, God, no.”
“Yup.” Maverick swats my ass, his grin as blinding as the morning sun streaking through the windows. “My girl’s learning how to surf.”