Chapter 24 Maverick #2
“Hypothetical babies,” I joke. “And I stand by all of them. Especially Maverick Junior.”
She snorts. “Hell no. I’m vetoing Maverick Junior immediately.”
Rude. “You’d really rob our imaginary child of such a majestic legacy?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I clutch my chest. “You wound me.”
She’s thinking about something. I can see the wheels turning in her head. The way her fingers twitch in the popcorn bowl, the way she suddenly won’t meet my gaze. And for a second, I wonder if she’s going to say something—maybe confess to the test I already know about.
But she doesn’t.
And I don’t push.
Instead, I let the silence stretch comfortably as I lean back into the couch. “I could totally see us with a kid who makes their own costumes for Halloween and insists on being a traffic cone or a toaster.”
She chuckles. “You would want to raise a tiny weirdo.”
“Nothing wrong with being a traffic cone.”
Annabelle hums beside me, low and amused, but her eyes are anything but playful. They’re dark. Methodical. And they sucker punch me in the gut, because I know what that look is. Where this is headed.
My pulse quickens, excited.
“True, there isn’t,” she says in a velvety tone. “But I think I prefer this look instead.”
Then she moves—no rush but not hesitant.
Calculated.
The robe slides open as she climbs into my lap, one knee bracing on either side of me. Bare skin. Bare thighs. Thong underwear, no bra.
My hands roam instinctively to her hips before my brain completely short-circuits, unthinking and automatic.
“What’s going on?” My mouth has gone dry as my palms gently skim over her backside . . . over her round ass. “Are you hitting on me?”
Her smile is wicked. Lethal. “You said you wanted to raise a weirdo.”
“Okay . . .” I rasp, struggling to focus on anything beyond the curve of her waist and the press of her body against mine.
She leans in, mouth hovering near my ear. “Consider this a glimpse of the genetic chaos you’re signing up for.”
Her hips roll slowly above me, over the hard dick in my pants, enough to set every nerve ending in my body firing at full capacity.
“Jesus, Annabelle . . .” I exhale like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Keep going—don’t stop.”
Her laugh is low and sinful as she sits back on my thighs, robe gaping open, every inch of her on full display in the glow of the TV, her gorgeous round tits in my face. Close enough to taste, to worship, to lose my goddamn mind over . . .
“This isn’t educational content,” I manage, throat tight.
She drags her nails up my chest, over my shirt, slow enough to make me twitch.
“Oh, it’s absolutely educational,” she whispers. “You’re learning about restraint.”
Her hips grind down, rolling slow, measured. I feel every inch of her—heat, rhythm, the unmistakable press of bare skin through thin layers of clothing—and my vision goes hazy.
Then her hands dip under my shirt, smooth palms gliding up my stomach, chest, ribs. The shirt’s off in a flash—tugged up and over my head and tossed to the cold marble floor.
She continues grinding on me. Her robe brushes my chest, gaping open—but not enough. Not nearly enough. I reach for the lapels, but she swats my hand away.
“Nuh-uh. I’m in charge,” she says, voice syrupy and smug.
“Are you?” I challenge. “Lesson one—you shouldn’t wear anything you’re not ready to lose.” My fingers curl around the robe’s tie, and her breath catches, but she doesn’t stop me.
I tug. The knot gives way.
The robe slips from her shoulders like it was waiting for permission, pooling around her waist and baring her completely to me.
“My wife has the best boobs ever . . .”
She freezes.
Then blinks.
Then grins, slow and wicked, pupils blown wide.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “You love that word, don’t you?”
I nod, mouth sucking on the side of her neck, trying to get her to moan.
She does. “You can’t just drop the w-word while I’m on top of you like this.”
“Mmm. You want me to stop?”
She shakes her head, smiling as she tilts her neck, giving me more access to her flesh. “Touch me again and I’ll legally change my last name.”
My hands roam everywhere, and she gasps as I trail my mouth down her neck, her chest, worshipping her skin. Body.
“Lesson two,” I murmur against her skin. “Your husband is extremely hands on.”
And horny.
She moans, grinding down harder now, desperate to be impaled on my cock, and I match her, pulse for pulse, pressure for pressure, losing myself in every sound she makes as she dry humps me like we’re two teenagers.
“What’s lesson three?” she groans as, together, we work my mesh shorts down my hips, erection springing free—hot, heavy, ready—and her eyes go wide like she’s seeing it for the first time.
“Lesson three is about honesty.” I mumble, fingers toying with her nipples. They’re beautifully tight, begging to be sucked. “If you want something, you tell me.”
Her sexy, pouty lips part like she’s going to argue, tease—but I don’t let her.
“If you’re worried. If you’re scared. If you’re falling too fast or thinking too much or feeling everything all at once—you tell me.”
She goes still, just for a second.
“Because I can handle it,” I add, softer now, brushing my mouth across hers. “But I can’t read your mind. So don’t make me guess.”
“You’re so . . . so . . . hot.”
I grin against her jaw. “Honesty kink. Who knew?”
She grabs my face and kisses me like I just unlocked a new level.