Chapter 22 Maverick
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.
“Annabelle.” My sigh is long and loud. “This is Deshaun. My teammate. He’s a total pain in my ass, and now yours.”
Ha.
“Hey, Deshaun, good to meet you.” She’s smiling sweetly, but her eyes scream “I’m judging you and you have exactly thirty seconds to win me over.”
Deshaun eyes her, then me, then our food, like he’s collecting intel. “So is it true? You went and got hitched?” He shoves the egg roll into his gullet and chews.
Annabelle snorts. “The details are foggy.’”
Deshaun leans back, still chewing. “I didn’t believe it when I saw it on the news, ’cause it’s the news, right? Can’t believe everything you see. But fucking unreal man—here you are, chillin’ together.”
“Here I am, chillin’.” She laughs, pressing a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but there isn’t a real marriage certificate, so right now we’re just . . .”
“Just what?” he asks when she doesn’t continue.
“Feeling it out.”
Horrible choice of words, because his brows shoot up. “You can do that? Just feel shit out?”
I laugh. “No, you can’t just feel shit out; she’s giving you shit, you moron. We agreed that since the media was going to be up my asshole about this, we might as well . . . give it a try.”
There. That sounds like a better choice of words.
No one wants Deshaun leaking my personal business ’cause of his loose lips, but her explanation seems to satisfy him—at least for the moment. But the guy’s curiosity is nowhere near done.
He wipes his hands on a napkin, eyes flicking between us. “So, Annabelle . . . you got siblings? Where you from?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Nope, I’m a lonely only and live in Washington—the town where Mav and I met.”
Deshaun grabs a crab rangoon and bites into it. “What’d you study in college?”
Annabelle blinks, then glances at me like “Should I tell him this?” I shrug—I’m learning all this stuff about her too.
“Went to college for half a minute,” she says finally. “Tried it for a semester but dropped out. I wanted to do something creative. Ended up freelancing graphic design and managing a bridal shop’s socials until I couldn’t stand the bridezillas, so obviously I started planning weddings.” She laughs.
Deshaun grins. “Bet you’ve got some good stories.”
“You have no idea.”
He cocks his head. “You ever play sports? You seem like the sporty type.”
Annabelle laughs. “Soccer. Played keeper through high school. Tried roller derby once. Didn’t end well.”
Roller derby? Damn, that’s intense.
Annabelle turns to Deshaun, eyes glittering with interest now that she’s shared a bit of her own background. She props her elbow on the arm of the couch, chin in her hand like she’s settling in for tea. “Okay, Deshaun, your turn. Tell me the most embarrassing story you’ve got about Maverick.”
Deshaun’s grin turns absolutely wicked. “Ohhh, you sure you wanna open that door?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t even blink. “Kick it off the hinges.”
I groan. “No one needs that door kicked. Leave the door alone.”
Deshaun doesn’t hesitate. “Oof. There’s a few. But my personal favorite? Gotta be the time his towel dropped. In the locker room. On media day.”
Annabelle perks up, fully invested now. “Tell me more.”
“These idiots are so juvenile.” Deshaun grins like he’s been waiting years to retell this to a woman I’m dating.
“Full crowd—reporters, cameras, PR staff, even the rookies standing around, trying to act cool. Maverick’s talking to some sideline reporter about nutrition or recovery or whatever—then BAM.
Somebody sneaks up and yanks his towel off, and it falls to his ankles. ”
Annabelle is cackling now. “Noooo.”
“Oh yeah. Everything on display. Twig and berries dangling in the cool breeze. Reporter gasped. Maverick gasped.”
My wife is giggling. “I mean . . . does that sort of thing happen often?”
I nod. “You’d be shocked. It’s like a room full of toddlers sometimes.”
Deshaun is absolutely in his element now, lounging back like he’s telling ghost stories around a campfire.
“And the best part?” he says, chuckling.
“Mav didn’t even realize it was gone at first. Stood there, talking about protein intake with his noodle swinging around, hand motions and all, like he wasn’t airing out the family jewels on national television. ”
“I wasn’t on national television,” I grumble. “Stop overexaggerating.”
Annabelle is howling, half curled into herself from laughing.
“I played it cool and yanked the towel back up without drawing attention, like no big deal. Shit happens all the time.”
“Smooth.”
“You can demonstrate later.” Annabelle wiggles her eyebrows. “I’d love to see a dramatic reenactment.”
I shoot her a look, but I’m grinning despite myself. “You want a reenactment? Gonna need to dim the lights and clear the area. Safety first.”
Annabelle shrugs like that’s no issue. “I’ll bring a spotlight and magnifying glass.”
Deshaun chokes on his drink—technically my drink, since he’s chugging from my cup. “Oh damn! I like her.”
After several hours cramping my style, Deshaun eventually leaves with a promise to return and then: We’re left on our own, Arizona city skyline stretching beyond the window, glowing amber and lavender in the early evening light.
Beautiful.
Romantic.
She’s curled up beside me on the couch, barefoot, her hair a little messy from laughing too hard, one hand still clutching the edge of the throw blanket like she might start up again at any second.
I glance over, and she’s already looking at me. “What?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “You blushed when he was telling that story.”
“I was not blushing.”
“You one hundred percent were. Like, full tomato mode.” Her hand finds my thigh, and she squeezes. “Don’t worry, I thought it was cute.”
I groan and rub a hand over my face. “It was a traumatic memory. And you brought up a magnifying glass like I have a small dick.”
She laughs. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“The hell it wasn’t.” I grin over at her as she moves closer.
“You don’t have a small dick.” She shifts on the couch, palm smoothing over my leg, inching closer and closer to my shaft. It twitches with interest. “I bet it doesn’t even fit in my mouth . . .”
Yeah. My dick is very interested. “For science?”
She nods. “Exactly. I take scientific accuracy very seriously.”
Her hand slides higher, teasing the waistband of my shorts, and I swear I forget how to breathe. Her fingers are soft, her touch maddeningly slow.
“I mean,” she says, biting her lip as she leans forward, brushing her mouth against mine. “It would be irresponsible not to conduct a full investigation.”
My head bops up and down again, agreeing with every word coming out of her mouth . . .
Uh-huh.
Yes.
Agree.
“You’re so hard already . . .” she’s murmuring, shifting from her spot next to me to the area rug at our feet; kneels between my legs, her fingers tugging at the elastic of my bottoms.
I love where this is headed.
I watch, lifting my hips to offer the assist so she can pull my shorts down . . . Fingers graze the waistband, teasing . . . savoring every second of her little power trip.
My breath catches somewhere between anticipation and pure desperation as she peels the fabric down slowly, eyes locked on mine the entire time. The air between us crackles.
She’s on her knees, hair falling over her shoulder, gaze hot enough to scorch. “Feeling shy?”
“Not even a little.”
Air hits my erect cock, cool in contrast to the fire roaring through my veins. She hasn’t even touched me yet—really touched me—and I’m already halfway gone, every muscle wound tight like a live wire.
Annabelle hums low in her throat. Licks her lips as if she were a lioness about to devour her prey. When she smiles, it’s slow and calculating; she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and the minx likes it.
My knee does a bounce up and down as I wait, impatiently.
Suck it, I want to say.
Put your mouth on it . . .
“Patience, husband,” she says, dragging the word out like honey. “Science takes time.”
I swear, if she just sits before me and stares at it, I’m going to explode anyway from the intensity of her gaze, the soft pink tongue peeking out her mouth, the sparkle in her eyes.
“Mmm,” she moans, fingers finally gripping my shaft and stroking it up and down.
Up . . .
Down . . .
My head hits the back of the couch. As much as I want to watch, I want to feel. Hands grip the couch, wanting to fist something but unable to reach her hair.
My knuckles whiten against the cushions, every muscle in my body strung tight.
Her lips ghost along the inside of my thigh, breath hot, fingers never stopping their rhythm. I look down and catch her watching me. This is just as much about what I do as what she’s doing.
The eye contact is lethal.
I reach down, finally able to thread my hands through her hair. Her head tilts into the touch, a low hum vibrating against my skin as she presses her mouth to me.
“You’re so sexy,” I breathe as her heat envelops my cock. I can’t remove my eyes as her head bobs up and down, up and down, sucking . . .
Sucking.
She knows every reaction she’s pulling from me, and she’s chasing each one down with wicked purpose. Every soft sound she makes, every glance she flicks up at me, are gasoline on a fire that’s already blazing out of control.
“Annabelle . . .” I beg, with her name on my lips like a warning and a plea.
I’m not sure if I want her to slow down or never stop.
I hate losing control.
But her mouth . . . the heat . . . how deep I am in her throat.
“Oh sh-shit, you’re so fucking good at this.” My heart pounds. “You trying to ruin me?”
She nods around my dick. Her rhythm quickens; her touch is unrelenting, and I’m spiraling—fast. My hands tighten in her hair and I push her head down, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as the pressure coils tighter and tighter.
I’m gonna come.
I’m gonna come . . .
“Annabelle—” I choke out, warning her with my tone.
And then I’m gone.
Hips jerk.
The world narrows to sensation and sound and her.
My muscles lock, head thrown back as the release tears through me, blinding and explosive as I come in her mouth. Her hands anchor my thighs.
Her throat takes everything I have left.
Then I go limp, body trembling. “Holy . . .”
I can’t even finish the sentence.
Annabelle looks up at me, that same wicked spark in her eyes that she had when she was blowing me, satisfied with the wreckage she’s left me in: a pile of useless flesh.
I reach for her, needing her close. “Get up here.”
She crawls into my lap, smug and soft and warm, and kisses me like she’s sealing a secret between us.
“Having a wife is so cool.”