40. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
Maeve kisses me.
For the first second, that's the only information my brain manages to process.
Maeve. Is kissing. Me.
Her hands are curled into the front of my shirt, her body stretched toward mine as she balances on her toes, and her lips are warm and soft against my mouth.
I don't move. Not because I don't want to.
Because nothing has ever felt like this before, and apparently my brain has decided the appropriate response is complete system failure.
I've kissed women. Obviously. I've had girlfriends. I've had sex. I've done every normal thing adults do when they're attracted to each other, and not once has my brain simply stopped functioning because someone's mouth touched mine.
This isn't even a complicated kiss. She's barely moving. Her lips are pressed to mine while my hands are still cradling her face, and I'm standing here like I've never seen a woman before.
My pulse pounds once. Hard. Then again. I should probably do something. Kiss her back. Move my hands. Breathe. Anything.
But my mind, the same mind that can run multiple operations simultaneously while tracking cameras, communication channels, and team positions, offers absolutely nothing useful.
No analysis. No statistics. No questions. Just…Maeve.
The realization settles over me, and something strange happens.
I exhale.
Not the measured breathing I've taught myself to use when the tapping gets too fast or the counting won't stop.
Not the two deep breaths I take when everything inside my head starts running faster than I can control it.
A real breath.
The kind I don't have to think about.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, my head is completely quiet.
No numbers. No patterns. No calculations. No part of me running through what comes next or what could go wrong. Just the soft pressure of Maeve's mouth against mine. Her fingers gripping my shirt. The faint scent of whatever soap she'd found in Bullet's bathroom.
Peace.
That's the only word I have for it. I don't know what to do with that realization.
Thankfully, my brain has stopped requiring me to do anything at all.
I finally kiss her back. Gently. Carefully.
Because this is Maeve, and she's been through too much in the last twenty-four hours.
Because less than ten minutes ago, she thought I was going to take her back to Ronan.
Because I don't know why she kissed me or what this means, and the last thing I want is for her to feel like she started something she can't stop.
So I let her lead. Her lips move hesitantly against mine, and I follow, keeping my hands exactly where they are against her face. It's the least complicated thing I've ever done. Which should concern me. It doesn't.
Her fingers loosen slightly against my shirt. Then I feel it. A tiny change. So small I might miss it with anyone else.
Maeve tenses. Just for a fraction of a second. Her weight shifts back onto her heels, and the warmth of her mouth begins to disappear from mine.
No. The thought arrives instantly. Decisively. Possibly irrationally.
I'm not done yet.
My left hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, my fingers threading gently into the soft hair at her nape.
I pause. Just long enough. Long enough for her to pull away if she wants to. Long enough for her to tell me no.
She doesn't. Her eyes open. Mine are already on hers. For one suspended moment, neither of us moves. I can feel her pulse fluttering beneath my thumb.
Fast. Mine isn't doing much better. I should probably say something. Ask a question. Clarify parameters.
Determine whether—Maeve's gaze drops to my mouth.
That's enough data for me.
I tighten my hand gently at the back of her neck and lower my mouth to hers again.
This time, I kiss her. Really kiss her. The surprised breath she takes disappears between us as I tilt her head and take over the kiss, all the careful restraint I'd been holding onto slipping loose at once.
My other arm wraps around her waist and pulls her closer. Not because she needs help staying on her toes. Because I want her there. Against me. Close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of her breathing.
Close enough that, for once, there is no screen between us.
No camera. No locked gate. No message thread. Just Maeve.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt again, and something deep inside my chest settles into place. I don't understand any of this. I don't know what happens next. I don't know why kissing her feels like the first time my mind has been quiet in years.
For once, I don't need to. I tighten my hold around the back of her neck and kiss her deeper. Because Maeve kissed me. And I'm nowhere near done kissing her back.
The edge of the counter hits the back of Maeve’s thighs, and the small *thud* of her hitting against the wood sends a physical jolt straight down my spine.
I don't stop kissing her. My hands slide down her T-shirt to her hips, lifting her just enough to guide her backward onto the cool granite counter.
Her legs part for me naturally, wrapping around my waist, and the contrast is immediate. The soft, yielding stretch of her black leggings presses right against the heavy, rigid fabric of my tactical cargo pants.
I pull back an inch, my breath ragged. Maeve’s lips are flushed and her chest is heaving. Her eyes are dark, fixed entirely on mine through the lenses of my glasses.
"Keaton," she whispers.
"Maeve." My voice is thicker than usual, low and gravelly.
I lean in, burying my face in the crook of her neck and inhaling the scent of her skin. Her fingers bunch into the fabric of my black t-shirt, pulling me flush against her.
My hands slide up under the hem of her shirt, finding the burning skin of her waist. "I need to touch you," I murmur against her neck. "Please tell me I can."
"Yes," she gasps, her fingers digging deeper into my shirt. "Please."
My hands track down to the waistband of her leggings and I hook my thumbs into the waistband, sliding the leggings and her underwear down her hips in one smooth motion.
"Look at me," I whisper, my hands settling on her bare thighs and lifting them slightly higher so I can crowd close against her.
She whimpers, her head dropping back against the cabinets as her eyes flutter closed.
"No, Maeve. Look at me."
My thumb brushes the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and her eyes snap open. She looks at me, staring right through the black frames of my glasses, and I want her to see it. I want her to see exactly what she's doing to me.
"Let me do this for you," I say.
Then I finally touch her—wet, hot, and completely ready for me. My brain goes entirely blank. There are no numbers and no parameters left. There is only the rhythm of her hips tilting into my hand, the sharp intake of her breath against my neck, and the absolute need to drive her out of her mind.