26. Maisie
MAISIE
T his is definitely not my dorm bed.
For starters, it’s bigger and softer than mine. And then there’s the fact that someone’s arm is wrapped around my waist, and Austin’s bare chest presses against my back, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt.
And then it hits me all at once.
Austin. Last night. The game. The bar. The way he looked at me, like I was the only person in the room when he asked me to stay over. The way he smiled when I said yes, like he’d been waiting for it.
Now I’m here. In his bed. Under his covers. Tucked against him like I belong here.
His arm is still wrapped around my waist, like he fell asleep holding me close and never let go, one of my legs is tangled between his, and his breath hits my neck softly, making me break out into a shiver.
I stay perfectly still. Not because I’m scared of waking him—though I am—but because I don’t want to break this feeling.
My heart’s pounding against my chest, loud enough I’m sure he can feel it.
Is he awake?
Part of me wants to turn around. See if his eyes are open. Ask what this means. Make sure I didn’t just dream it all.
But the other part—the louder part—is afraid to find out. Afraid if I move, it’ll all disappear. Afraid if I look too close, I’ll ruin it.
My heart races out of my chest as panic starts to rise, because?—
What if this doesn’t mean anything to him?
What if I’m just another girl who crashed here after a night out. What if he doesn’t even remember asking me to stay? What if the way he looked at me last night was just a side effect of adrenaline and alcohol and the high from winning his first game back?
I shift slightly, trying to steady my breath without making it obvious I’m unraveling inside. But the second I move, his arm tightens, pulling me in closer. And I have my answer. He’s definitely awake.
His fingers flex against my waist, like he’s memorizing every curve.
“Hey.” His voice is low and scratchy, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
I blink, turning over to face him. His eyes are heavy with sleep, one barely open, framed by dark lashes.
There’s a faint red crease on his cheek from the pillow, and his hair is messy, but looks so soft, making me want to reach out and run my fingers through it.
His lips curl into that lazy half-smile that steals my breath away.
“Hey,” I whisper back, quieter than I meant to.
He shifts onto his side, never breaking eye contact. His fingers trace a path from my waist up to my ribs. “How’s your head?” he murmurs.
I swallow, the knot in my throat tightening. “Fine. Yours?”
His smile deepens. “I’ve had worse,” he says. “This is a pretty solid way to wake up.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I can’t look away. I don’t even want to try.
His eyes flick down for the briefest second, but I feel it like a full-body ache.
Then he shifts closer, just enough that his warmth wraps around me again, and I swear the whole world quiets down to the steady rhythm of his breath against my skin.
His fingers brush my jaw, trailing up until they cup my cheek. His thumb drags lightly across my skin, and it’s so gentle I want to cry.
He’s looking at me like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
Like he’s nervous.
Austin… Nervous .
My heart stutters as his eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Is this okay?” he whispers, making my breath catch in my throat.
He’s so close. His hand is warm against my cheek, his forehead almost resting against mine, and my body is buzzing with something that feels like hope and fear all tangled together.
I want to say yes.
God, I do.
So badly it aches, so badly it terrifies me.
But the words get caught somewhere deep in my throat. Because suddenly I’m thinking of everything I’m not sure I can handle.
“What about the other girl?” I ask him, hating how quiet my voice is.
His brows knit, a flicker of confusion passing across his face. “What?”
My gaze drops to the hollow of his throat, the line of his collarbone, the soft stretch of skin there. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like looking him in the eye while I hand him my fear on a silver platter.
“The one you like,” I say. “Or were talking to. Or thinking about. I just—if I’m… if this is…” I shake my head, the words jamming up. “I don’t want to be a second choice to you. I can’t be the girl you settle for because someone else didn’t want you.”
My voice cracks.
“I don’t even understand how that’s possible, honestly. That someone wouldn’t want you. But if there’s someone else?—”
I trail off, my breath catching, because saying it hurts more than I thought it would. But Austin doesn’t pull away.
He stays right there, his fingers still warm against my jaw, and those light hazel eyes locked on mine.
“There’s no other girl, Maisie.” There isn’t a hint of hesitation in his voice. “There’s only you.”
I blink up at him because I don’t know what to do with those words.
They don’t feel real, not when I’ve spent so long telling myself I don’t get to be the girl who gets chosen.
But Austin says it like it’s a fact. Like it’s always been true.
My throat tightens, my chest pulling in on itself, and I swear I’m going to cry—right here, in his bed, wrapped in his warmth, wearing his shirt, while he says the things I never thought anyone would say to me.
I swallow hard and give the smallest nod I can manage.
He doesn’t rush. Instead, he just watches me—his eyes searching mine for permission.
Then, slowly, he leans in. His lips meet mine with a softness that makes my breath catch, warm and patient, like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Like he’s thought about it, wanted it, wanted me .
His hand slides up to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling gently in my hair. He tilts my chin up just enough, adjusting the angle to deepen the kiss.
I clutch his shirt in my fists, holding on because I don’t know where else to put everything I’m feeling.
Then his mouth parts, coaxing mine open. I hesitate for half a second, then follow, and when his tongue grazes mine, I gasp softly against his mouth.
Oh god .
It’s barely a touch—just the softest brush of his tongue against mine—but heat blooms low in my belly.
I didn’t know kissing could feel like this.
Like I’m unraveling from the inside out. Like he’s mapping my mouth with every slow, devastating pass of his lips.
I kiss him back, unsure of what I’m doing. But he makes it easy—guiding me with the tilt of his lips, the warm press of his hand at the back of my neck, the quiet hum of his breath when I get it right.
He makes me feel wanted. My whole body feels light, like I’m floating. Like I could lean forward and disappear into him completely and not even care where I end up.
I’ve only been kissed three times in my entire life, and they’ve all been by him.
And somehow, every time feels like the first, and the best, and maybe even the last, if I’m not careful. But I don’t want careful. Not with him.
My fingers move up of their own accord, tracing the lines of his chest beneath his shirt, the ridges of muscle, the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against my palm.
He lets out a low, breathy sound that shoots straight through me, setting fire to every nerve. Then he shifts, and slides one leg between mine.
Heat radiates off him, and suddenly I’m very aware of how little I’m wearing—just his oversized t-shirt and a pair of cotton underwear that feel entirely too thin against the heat of his thigh.
And he hasn’t even done anything yet.
Just this —his mouth on mine, his breath in my lungs, his skin pressed against mine—it’s undoing me completely.
His hand slides down, ghosting over my hip before curling around my waist, his fingers slipping just beneath the hem of the shirt as he pulls back slightly.
“Still okay?”
I swallow hard, and the words come tumbling out before I can stop them. “I haven’t… I haven’t done anything before.”
He pauses, his lips curling up into a small smile. “I figured.” There’s no judgment in his eyes. “We don’t have to do anything, Maisie,” he says. “I’m gonna go slow with you. Whatever you want. You take the lead here.”
My throat tightens and I nod. “I… I want to.”
He leans in, kissing me again. His hand moves, stroking up the side of my ribs, sliding over the fabric of my shirt, and then cupping my breast through the soft cotton.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push. Just palms me slowly, his thumb brushing back and forth in a way that makes my head spin and my breath catch.
A soft sound slips out from me, surprised and completely involuntary.
He groans low in his throat and presses his mouth to my neck, his teeth grazing my skin lightly. “You’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs against my skin.
I can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up. I arch into him, craving more of him. “Sorry,” I whisper.
He grins against my neck, then kisses the spot just under my jaw. “Don’t be. Never be.”
And then he’s kissing me again, but this time it’s different. There’s a hunger that wasn’t there before, like whatever restraint he had is starting to slip. Like now that I’ve said yes, he’s letting himself want me fully.
His hand slides down, fingers ghosting just under the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing—his t-shirt—and everything inside me sparks to life.
I shiver, nerves dancing across my skin as his touch finds bare flesh. His fingers curve around my waist, his thumb brushing over the soft swell of my stomach.
For a split second I freeze, that familiar self-conscious flickering within me, but he just keeps kissing me.
Then he dips his head, his lips trailing over my jaw, down my neck, across my collarbone, each kiss slow and soft, setting my skin on fire. His hand slides under my shirt, grazing my skin, climbing higher and higher, exploring, learning how I breathe, what makes me shiver.
When his thumb brushes over my nipple, I can’t hold back the small, desperate whimper that slips out.
His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so—Maisie, you’re…”