Chapter 23 Maverick
maverick
. . .
Maggie
Henderson Gala is next week, bring your fake wife and don’t be a fucking idiot.
Yayyyyy, another fucking gala, gag.
Fuck me, I’m so bored.
My pretty dollface is working late tattooing, and I’m here waiting for her like a lovesick puppy.
I lean against the couch cushions, twiddling with my thumbs as Rex glares at me from the cat tower I bought him.
“I bought that for you, fucker. You could at least love me,” I mutter.
Rex slowly blinks at me, flicking his tail and hisses.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll just go fuck myself,” I grumble, shoving myself up off the couch.
Getting up from the couch, I stretch my arms overhead until my shoulders pop, and wander upstairs. My feet drag across the hardwood because, honestly, I’m only heading up there to kill time until Amelia comes home.
I step into our room because she’s my wife, duh.
Her scent hits me first, and I know it by heart. Vanilla mixed with coconut. My heart skips a beat, restless energy sparking under my skin, and I let out a low groan to fill the quiet.
She left the room a mess, and it makes my eye fucking twitch, but I push past the ache to clean because I feel like being a nosy bastard and looking through her things.
Her clothes are tossed over the chair in the corner: her ripped black jeans, her sexy little sheer tights, her distressed, oversized, grunge band tees, and her tiny tank tops that drive me crazy when she wears them.
Her jewelry’s scattered across the dresser, tangled chains and chunky rings gleaming in the lamplight.
I pick up a silver Cuban link necklace, roll it between my fingers, then set it right back in the exact spot, because if she comes home and thinks I went through her stuff, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Turning around towards the bed, my eyes land on a sketchbook splayed open on the bed, pages full of half-finished tattoo designs; sharp lines, delicate shading, little flashes of the way her brain works.
I flip a page and whistle low. “Damn, dollface,” I mutter, tracing one of the designs with my finger.
Tossing the book back onto the comforter, I pace around the room. My chest feels tight because everywhere I look, it’s her; her mess, her sharp edges, her softness.
My girl bleeds into every corner of this place, and I can’t get enough of it.
Stopping in my tracks, my eyes land on a sheer black cloth. I walk over, crouching down in my closet where she shoved her things, running my fingers over the sheer fabric. Tucked half-under a hoodie in the back of the closet is a white mask with a black hood.
Cheap, plastic, and unmistakable.
Ghostface.
His face scares me, but fuck, why am I turned on about the thought of wearing this for her and chasing her?
I freeze, barking out a laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Oh, baby,” I mutter, pulling it free. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
I hold it up, the hollow black eyes staring back at me. The memory flashes through my head; We were having a drink at Reed’s bar when I asked her about her favorite scary movie. She said Scream, told me that Ghostface was hot.
I’d nearly passed out.
Now, I’ve got the mask in my hands.
I tug it on, grinning behind the plastic, as I look at myself in the mirror. Black sweatpants hang low on my hips, loose enough to reveal the sharp definition of muscle at my waist. Every feature of me is exposed: broad chest, chiseled abs, tattoos running down my right arm.
Damn, I look hot as FUCK.
My pulse is already racing, my chest vibrating with adrenaline, because I know she’s due home any second.
I stalk downstairs, plant myself against the wall by the front hallway, and wait.
Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with this. She’s going to be a fucking puddle when she sees me looking so smoking hot.
The lock clicks, and my adrenaline spikes.
AHHHH.
I press my shoulder into the wall and force myself to stand perfectly still, chest bare, the mask hiding the grin stretching across my face.
The door swings open.
She steps in, hair tousled, tattoos glowing under the soft hallway light, with her bag slipping off her shoulder. She looks exhausted, mumbling under her breath as she kicks the door shut with her boot.
She rummages through her bag as she slowly looks up, her eyes landing on me.
I’m so fucking hot, dollface, I know.
“Oh, what the fuck!?” she yells, her green eyes going wide. Her purse flies out of her hand—whack—bouncing off my chest, and before I can react, her tiny fist connects straight with my throat.
“Ghhkkk—fuck!”
I stagger back, coughing, clutching my windpipe.
She’s standing there with fire in her eyes, chest heaving, ready to swing again. “Maverick, have you lost your fucking mind?!”
I rip the mask off, still wheezing, and grin through the pain, because fuck me, she looks gorgeous when she’s pissed. “Worth it,” I croak. “You said Ghostface was hot, so I thought I’d bring your fantasy to life. You can’t resist me now.”
Her lips part, fury twisting into something else, something darker.
She stares at me, at my bare chest, at the outline of my cock straining in my sweats, and I swear I see her bite her bottom lip before she schools her face back into a glare.
I step forward, pressing her against the closed door, with my palm braced beside her head. “Tell me the truth, dollface,” I whisper, “Does it do anything for you? The mask? Be honest with me.”
Her throat works, green eyes locked on mine, and she gives the tiniest nod. Her teeth catch her lip again, cheeks flushing. “Yeah,” she whispers, the word dragging heat straight through me. “It’s so fucking hot.”
Every muscle in me goes tight, cock twitching, hunger clawing up my spine. “Jesus Christ…”
She tilts her chin up, a smirk curving wickedly across her mouth. “Chase me a little.”
My pulse detonates.
I throw the mask back on. My chest heaves, blood roaring in my ears, because she just handed me everything I’ve been dying for.
“Oh, baby,” I growl, stalking forward as she backs away with that devil smile. “You have no fucking clue what you just started.”
She squeals, laughing halfheartedly, and speeds down the hallway, hair flying.
I chase after her in an instant, my heart pounding, the house vibrating with her laughter and the sound of my footsteps pounding behind her.
Her laugh echoes down the hall as she rushes to the kitchen, hair flying behind her.
Adrenaline surges through my veins. The world condenses, everything sharpens—the slap of her bare feet on the hardwood, the flash of her tattoos as she rounds a corner, the way she glances back at me with that wild grin.
“Run, dollface,” I call, voice muffled and dark through the mask. “See how far it gets you.”
She shrieks, laughing, and flips me off over her shoulder. “You don’t scare me, quarterback!”
I lunge after her, pounding down the hallway. “You were biting that lip when you said I was hot. Don’t think I didn’t see it.”
She skids around the corner toward the stairs, squealing as I close in. “Shut up!” she snaps, but her voice breaks on a laugh.
“You want me to chase you?” I rasp the words rougher, dirtier through the plastic. “You got it, baby.”
I fake left, then catch her waist when she tries to juke past me. She squeals, writhing in my grip, nails scratching down my forearms as she twists free and bolts up the stairs.
I pause at the bottom, leaning on the railing, mask tilted down at her. “Where are you gonna hide, huh?” My voice drops lower, darker. “There’s not a corner in this house you can run to where I won’t find you.”
Her laugh floats down the stairs, taunting. “You sound insane.”
“I am insane,” I growl, bounding up two steps at a time, my sweats clinging low on my hips, cock aching with every stride. “Insane for you.”
She squeals again, dashing into the bedroom, slamming the door, but I’m right behind her, as my shoulders crash into the wood. The door flies open, slamming against the wall.
She’s standing there at the edge of the bed, chest heaving, eyes wild. And that grin, fuck, that grin could gut me.
I stalk forward, mask still on, sweat running down my back. “You better beg now, dollface.”
“Or what?” she challenges, hands on her hips. “You’ll kill me?”
I chuckle, stepping closer until she’s forced back onto the mattress. “No baby, I’ll fuck you until you can’t run anymore.”
Her lip trembles against a smirk, and she mutters, “Prove it.”
My blood roars, my restraint shatters as my knees sink into the mattress, mask still in place, ready to show her exactly what happens when you dare me.
She falls back against the bed, propped on her elbows, hair wild around her face. Her chest is heaving, eyes wide but gleaming, that wicked little grin pulling at her mouth like she knows she’s got me by the balls.
I climb onto the mattress, my knees sinking into the comforter. My cock straining against my sweats, every nerve in me lit like fire.
She laughs, breathless. “You look ridiculous.”
I tilt my head, voice dropping to a dark rasp through the mask. “You said Ghostface was hot, dollface. Don’t backtrack now.”
Her plump lips part, biting her bottom lip as her eyes trail down my body, and I feel it hit me deep in the gut, the way she’s looking at me.
Hungry.
I reach out, hooking my fingers under her ankle and drag her toward me. She squeals as her nails dig into the comforter, but she doesn’t try to stop me.
“Still think I’m ridiculous?” I murmur, settling between her legs, leaning over her. The plastic of the mask nudges her cheek as I grind my cock against her clothed core.
Her breath stutters, but she smirks up at me. “Maybe a little.”
I groan, rutting harder, the friction almost enough to undo me already. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me.”
Her hands slide up my chest, fingertips brushing my skin, daring me. “Then take the mask off.”
“No.” My voice comes out sharp and desperate. “You’re gonna take it like this first. You asked for it. Chase me, you said. Now I’m gonna ruin you.”