Chapter 30 Maverick
Maverick
“All in?” I can do that.
I can do her.
Her back’s against the edge of my desk, eyes wide, lips parted. My hand slides around her waist as I lift her, setting her on top of everything—my laptop, some unopened mail, an empty protein bar wrapper. Contracts. Proposals. A folder labeled Performance Metrics that’s about to become very ironic.
None of it matters now.
She matters.
She came back.
She loves me.
Annabelle fucking loves me.
I kiss her. Hard. Hungry. A little unhinged? I feel like I’ve been holding back, and I don’t want to anymore. Not with her.
She kisses me back like she’s starving for it—pulling me closer, fingers in my hair, mouth open and eager and hot enough to melt all my good intentions into a puddle on the floor.
She tugs my shirt. I tug hers. It’s damp and sweaty—and kind of gross if I’m being honest—so I yank it over her head and toss it toward the door instead of letting it marinate next to us on the floor. It lands halfway across the room, where it belongs.
Her laugh is breathless—light, giddy, wrecked—and it only fuels the ache already coiled tight inside my chest. “You didn’t like that shirt?” she says as I lower her against the desk.
“I like you better out of it.”
Her fingers are impatient, tugging my shirt free, pushing, pulling, until it’s gone too. Somewhere behind her, something clatters off the desk and falls to the floor with a thunk.
Neither of us gives a crap.
I kiss down the slope of her shoulder. The crook of her neck. Her fingers thread through my hair again, pulling, guiding, demanding, then gripping my dick in her hand and stroking it.
“You’ve been driving me crazy.” Hard as a fucking rock, I groan against her throat. “Since day one.”
She moans softly. “Good.”
God help us.
It’s all heat and skin and breath—her mouth at my jaw, her fingers at my back, my hands locked on her hips like they were carved just for me. The desk creaks under us, loud enough to make her laugh, and I swear it’s the most perfect fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
Every brush of her mouth says I’m here. Every slide of her palm says I want this too.
Pretty Annabelle . . .
Finally naked.
Thumb on her clit, I move it in small circles, priming her. Take my dick and line it up with her entrance . . . slide into her slick heat.
So sexy that she’s carrying my baby.
My bairn.
My kid.
Jeez, if I wasn’t already fucking her, I would want to fuck her . . .
Her thighs wrap around my hips, urging me closer, her breath coming in short, broken gasps that only make me sink deeper into this moment. My pelvis slams into her—the desk rattling—everything shaking. I watch as a pen rolls across the surface and falls off the other side . . .
She arches into me, chest pressing to mine, her mouth hot and hungry as she chases the rhythm like she can’t get enough. Our kiss is a tangle of tongues.
Wet. Hot. Kisses . . .
Her boobs bounce as I fuck her, and I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, unable to stop myself from brushing my lips over the curve of her breast. Her sharp intake of breath stokes something primal in me, like a lit match to gasoline.
Mine.
“I love you,” I groan, because I can’t not say it.
She tilts her head back, ponytail hanging down her back. “I love you too.”
I love you.
Love you.
Love you.
Every beat of my body answers with a yes, yes, yes.
Her hands grip my shoulders, fingers curling tight like she’s anchoring herself, like she needs to feel every inch of me pressed into her, around her, with her.
I brace my arms on either side of her, my head dipping to rest against hers, and we move together in perfect, fevered rhythm—no hesitation, no holding back.
Fuck, she feels good; fuck, she feels good . . .
The room filled with friction and breathless gasps. The creak of the desk beneath us. Things falling to the floor as it shakes.
The sharp sting of her nails on my back. The slide of her lips along my jaw, my neck, my name whispered like a prayer.
Callum.
“Callum, oh God, Callum . . .”
A fucking symphony. Music to my cock.
Every stupid thing I’ve done in the past and every woman I’ve banged that didn’t give a shit about me—none of that matters.
My eyes close as I thrust, entire body tingling. Balls. Legs.
We fall—together.
It hits me in waves. Every heartbeat pounding like a drum beneath my ribs. Her body softening against mine. Our chests rising and falling in sync, like we’re still finding the rhythm even now, even in the quiet.
The room is a wreck. Desk half cleared. Clothes scattered. One of her earrings glinting on the floor like a little silver casualty of war.
I press a kiss to her shoulder, her cheek, her lips.
Her smile is lazy and a little dazed.
“We’re gonna have to fix that desk,” she murmurs, breath still uneven.
I grin. “We can add it to the baby registry.”
She groans and swats at me, but doesn’t let go. Neither do I.
Eventually, I scoop her into my arms and carry her down the hall to the shower. We rinse off together, slow and warm, her back pressed to my chest beneath the spray, fingers laced with mine. Not sexy. Not wild.
Just . . . us.
Once we’re dressed—I glance toward the door and ask, “Wanna go eat? So we can talk?”
She nibbles her bottom lip. “Where?”
“Here. In the building.” There’s a quiet restaurant tucked away. Private. Dim lighting and cloth napkins. I’ve never taken anyone there before.
“Sure, yeah.” She nods. “I’d like that.”
Downstairs, it’s almost empty. The host knows me but doesn’t make a thing of it. Leads us to a quiet booth tucked into a corner, with candlelight and soft jazz humming from invisible speakers.
The view is breathtaking.
We’re not eighty floors up, but we’re twelve—high enough to see the city stretching out in every direction. Rooftop pools glisten under the sunlight. Cacti down below casting long shadows across perfectly landscaped walkways.
“This is unbelievable,” she murmurs again, leaning toward the glass with a little smile on her face.
And maybe it’s the candlelight, or the soft jazz playing, or the fact that I’ve seen her naked twice today, but I can’t stop watching her.
“What?” she asks, catching me.
“You.”
She arches a brow. “Me what?”
I shrug. “You look like you belong here.”
She snorts into her water. “In a swanky restaurant wearing a sundress from Target?”
Yes.
“Exactly.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can see the blush creep up her cheeks. Her hand slides across the table, and her fingers brush mine. And for a second, we just sit there, holding hands and talking and flirting as if this is any other date night.
We order.
Gaze at each other.
When the waiter returns with two plates, Annabelle twirls the pasta on her fork slowly and says, “I still can’t believe all this.”
“The food?”
“The fact that I’m here. That we’re here.
” She gestures between us. “A few weeks ago I was leading your buddy Harris Bennett around and losing my marbles over that damn festival.” She tries to hide the smile tugging at her lips but fails.
“Doesn’t it feel surreal? Like we skipped a hundred steps and now we’re just . . . doing it.”
“Maybe we skipped the steps we didn’t need.”
Her smile fades into something quieter. “You don’t think we’re rushing it?”
“We’re not rushing. We’re just not waiting around for permission.”
She’s quiet several seconds. “Well, you’re very reassuring.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, and mean it. “We’ll figure it out together.”
She’s quiet for a second, then: “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”
“Whatever it is, I think it’ll be loud. And sassy.”
Her brow lifts. “So . . . like us.”
“Exactly like us.”
Her laugh is soft and warm, and I swear something shifts in my chest again—another click into place. Another quiet yes. Then her face changes as the screen of her phone lights up and she glances at it, smile freezing on her face.
“What is it?” I ask.
She sets the phone on the table and nudges it toward me. “Lucy sent this.”
A photo.
Of us. At this table. Right this second.
Blurry. Zoomed in. Grainy—but unmistakably us.
My jaw tightens. She sets the phone back down. “So much for privacy.”
Fuck. “I don’t want this to ruin the evening. Hold on.” I toss down my napkin, stand, and stomp toward the host stand.
The poor guy behind it is poking at the computer screen at the hostess desk when he spots me stalking toward him and freezes like a deer in headlights. “Sir—Mr. McBride. Can I help—”
“There’s someone taking pictures of me. Of us having dinner.” I jab a finger toward the booth. “In this building. In a private restaurant where I expect privacy.”
How many fucking ways must I say it? Do I Have to Spell It Out?
The man’s face goes pale. “I-I’m so sorry, I had no idea anyone—”
“I’m not mad at you,” I grind out, lowering my voice, trying not to make a bigger scene. “But someone is snapping photos while we’re sitting here and I’d love for it to stop.”
He fumbles with a headset. “If I find them, d-do you want them removed from the restaurant?”
“Please,” I snap, running a hand through my hair, frustration prickling at my scalp. I glance back at our booth to find Annabelle, gaze glued to the action.
Shit. I head back toward her, jaw clenched, and drop into my seat like the world just handed me a shitty curveball and I still plan to hit it out of the park.
“It’s handled,” I say, reaching for her hand again. “Security’s doing a sweep. Whoever it was won’t be bothering us again.”
Her brow furrows. “Is this going to get worse?”
“Probably,” I admit. “But not tonight.”
Annabelle shakes her head. “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll . . .” Get used to it. “Now, what were we saying? Oh. Baby.” She leans toward me. “Should I whisper?”
“No, babe, don’t whisper.” God, she’s cute.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says after a beat. “About what this all means.”
“The baby?”
She nods. “And . . . everything else. Us. You. Me. What kind of parents we’ll be. What city we’ll live in. If we’ll kill each other before the baby even arrives.”
“Do you want to live somewhere else?”
Annabelle shrugs. “Not the city.”
Slowly, I nod. “That’s possible. Lots of my teammates only live in Arizona during the season. We’re scattered all over during our off time.” I hesitate. “I only live here full-time because . . . it’s only ever been just me.”
She glances up, and her voice is quiet. “I don’t need a white picket fence or anything. But I want space. Grass. A porch swing, maybe.” A pause. “Somewhere I can breathe.”
My chest clenches, because I want that for her. For us. “You’ll have it.”
She smiles at her plate for a second, then looks up. “Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when the baby comes?”
I lean back in the booth. “Of course I do. Every day now since we found out.”
“Do you think we’ll be okay?”
I nod slowly. “Sure—how hard can it be?”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Famous last words.”
“Hey, I didn’t say I’d be good at it—I just said I’d survive.”
“Pretty sure the baby is supposed to be the one doing the surviving, Callum.”
“Minor detail,” I mutter with a grin, watching her stab another bite of pasta. “I’ll learn fast. I’m coachable.”
Annabelle chews slowly, nodding like she’s mentally adding that to her list of things I say that give her hope. Her foot brushes mine under the table. It’s subtle, but it grounds me. All of this does. Candlelight. Her. The promise of something new.
And that’s when the thought plants itself.
She’s going back to Washington soon.
She’ll pack up. Board a plane. Return to that familiar house and her old routine, with this tiny piece of me growing inside her . . . and I’ll be here.
Unless . . .