24. Mother of All Hickeys
24
MOTHER OF ALL HICKEYS
FELIX
Troublemaker By Grizfolk
M y curse is the unforgiving internal alarm clock that yanks me out of sleep far earlier than I deserve, given how late Maggie and I finally passed out. The room is still heavy with the warmth of shared breaths and tangled limbs, and her leg drapes across my stomach like she’s claiming me even in slumber. I reach down, brushing strands of honey-gold hair away from her face—the same face that’s pressed against my chest, her lips slightly parted. She lets out a soft sigh, her eyelids heavy, her features slack in the kind of peace that makes my chest ache. I trail my fingers along the curve of her shoulder, tracing her skin like it’s a map I’ll never tire of exploring.
Last night flashes through my mind in vivid fragments. Maggie—vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before, her walls lowered just enough for me to glimpse the raw, uncertain girl beneath her confidence. The way I’d teetered on the edge, so consumed by her that I thought I might shatter if she didn’t feel the same. And then she said it. The words that unraveled something tight in me: she wants me to herself. Those words burned through the air between us, melting every doubt. Somewhere between the storm in her eyes during the performance and the desperate, consuming way we fucked each other afterwards, we crossed a line we can’t uncross.
I like waking up to Maggie in my bed. I press a slow kiss to her forehead before easing my way out of bed. She makes a small, disgruntled noise, her hand reaching out instinctively before latching onto the pillow. She buries her face in it, shielding herself from the sunlight that sneaks between the blinds. She’s a beautiful mess—hair spilling over my pillow, the sheets clinging to her body, sculpting her like a masterpiece come to life.
I lean over again, unable to resist, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder. Reluctantly, I grab a pair of sweatpants, sliding them on before heading into the kitchen. The coffee machine hums to life with the press of a button. Massaging the back of my neck, I make my way to the bathroom, yawning as I flick on the light.
When I grip the edge of the sink and glance into the mirror, something catches my eye. There’s a shadow on my neck. I tilt my head in confusion, lifting my jaw to inspect it more closely.
“What the…?” My voice trails off as I take in the dark, angry bruise on my skin.
A hickey.
And not just any hickey—this is the mother of all hickeys.
It’s a masterpiece of malice, blooming in deep purples and reds, unapologetically high on my neck. No amount of foundation could hide this, and it’s far too conspicuous for even the highest collar. There was no fucking around when she decided to do this. She wanted me marked.
“Maggie!” I call, my voice bouncing off the walls as I step out of the bathroom. Her only response is the sound of sheets rustling and a half-asleep groan. I glance back at the mirror, rubbing at the bruise like it might magically fade. Who even gives hickeys anymore?
When I step out, I find her perched on the kitchen counter, one leg dangling lazily while the other’s tucked beneath her. She’s cradling a mug of coffee— my coffee—the steam curling up around her face. And she’s wearing my Henley, the fabric hanging loose on her but clinging just enough in places to make my brain short-circuit. The soft gray color makes her blue eyes pop, and they blink at me with an innocence that’s so utterly contrived, I almost laugh. Almost. And fuck, she made me temporarily forget about the hickey.
“What is this?” I demand, pointing to the bruise on my neck as I stride closer.
She tilts her head like she’s admiring a painting. She leans in, her lips so close I can feel the ghost of her breath. She presses a kiss to the bruise, and I swear my brain briefly loses all function.
“That,” she says, her voice honey-sweet, “is a hickey.”
“I know what it is, baby,” I snap, though the grin threatening to break free betrays me. “I have press with Ivy today.” My tone is exasperated, but she doesn’t look the least bit sorry.
“I know.” Her lips curve into a slow, self-satisfied smile, the kind that makes her look like a sexy as fuck brat. Lucky for her, I happen to like brats.
I grab her coffee mug, setting it down deliberately and grab her by the waist, pulling her flush against me. She lets out a surprised little gasp, her hands instinctively bracing against my chest.
“You fucking scare me sometimes, Sass,” I murmur before claiming her lips. Her arms snake around my neck as her fingers thread through my hair. My frustration dissolves into something deeper. If I didn’t have a schedule to keep I’d fuck the brat out of her right here on this counter. But I’m already running late, and Dylan’s probably pissed that I didn’t go to the after-party last night.
I pull back reluctantly, and her arms tighten around my neck, not letting me go. Fuck does it feel good to have her showing this kind of affection. Resting my forehead against hers, she slides her hands into my hair, massaging lightly, and I sigh, leaning into the touch.
She presses her cheek against my shoulder, her voice a soft murmur against my skin. “Do you have to go?”
The vulnerability in her tone hits me square in the chest, and my heart feels like it might dissolve right then and there.
“Afraid so,” I say quietly, brushing my thumb along her hip. “Are you gonna be here when I get back?”
She sighs, her fingers trailing down my back. “I have to get edits to Dylan tonight.” Her voice is tinged with regret.
With one last squeeze of her hips, I step back. She lets me go, hopping off the counter with a graceful bounce. When she bends to open the refrigerator, my shirt rides up her thighs, and I know— I know —she’s doing it on purpose.
I cross my arms, watching as she rifles through the shelves before opening the freezer. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the rows of pints crammed inside.
“What is all of this?” she asks, turning the containers around to inspect the flavors like she’s discovered buried treasure. This wasn’t the way I wanted her to find the ice cream but the look on her face erases any disappointment at foiling my plan.
I shrug. “I didn’t know what your favorite flavor was, so I got every kind I could find.”
She freezes, her head snapping around to look at me. Then, she launches herself at me, her legs wrapping around my waist as she kisses me with fervor.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she murmurs between kisses.
I pull back, leveling her with a mock-stern look. “That was before you maimed my neck, you little savage.”
Her laugh is a melody, high and bright, as I squeeze her ass and swing her back onto the counter.
“Now help me cover this up.”
* * *
I barely make it to the stage when Dex intercepts me. “Great performance last night,” he says, his voice light but edged with something teasing.
“Uh, thanks,” I say, trying to tilt my head in a way that he won’t see the softball sized bruise on my neck. I did my best to cover it up with Maggie’s limited makeup, but I still look like someone punched me.
“What’s wrong with your neck? Did you sleep funny?” He turns to get a better look just as I turn away from him, making it look like we’re doing some kind of weird dance.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” I grumble. The last thing I need right now is Dex giving me shit.
But of course, he doesn’t let it go. He never does. “Is that a hickey?” His eyes narrow in mock suspicion as he reaches out, pushing my hand away before I can stop him.
“Get off!” I snap, jerking back, but it’s too late. His expression lights up with the smug satisfaction of someone who’s just uncovered a particularly juicy secret.
“It is,” he laughs and then nods in the direction of Ivy waiting on the stage. “Let me guess?”
“God, no!” I protest. The mere suggestion makes me cringe. Ivy? Not in a million years.
Dex raises an eyebrow, uncertainty in his expression. “I hope not, because Maggie would bury her. Scary chick, that one.”
“You have no idea,” I mutter under my breath, but then his words sink in, and I stop dead in my tracks. “Wait, Maggie?” I say, incredulous. A laugh bubbles out of me despite myself, and I shake my head. “Seriously?” I try to play it off but it’s too late.
Dex grins like the Cheshire Cat. “I guess all that shit I said to her during the performance about you and Ivy lit a fire under her ass,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “It’s like she pissed on your neck to mark her territory.” He throws his head back, laughing so hard he has to steady himself on the speaker.
I blink at him, torn between wanting to strangle him and… well, maybe thanking him? No, definitely strangling him. “You did what ?” My voice comes out louder than I intended, and a few heads in the crew turn to glance our way. I lower it to a harsh whisper. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Hey, someone had to!” he says, throwing his hands up in mock innocence. “Oh, and that’s for laughing at me when I almost lost a ’nad,” he adds, gesturing pointedly at my neck before taking a prudent step back, just out of arm’s reach.
“You’re an asshole,” I growl teasingly, lunging at him, but he dances away.
Before I can make another move, Dusty’s voice cuts through, sharp and commanding. “Quit playing with Dex and move your ass!”
Dex takes advantage of the distraction, throwing me a wink as he backs away. “You’re welcome,” he calls over his shoulder, his words dripping with mock sincerity.
I glare at him. “Do not let Maggie know that you know about us,” I warn, pointing at his chest.
Dex mimes zipping his lips, locking them, and tossing away the imaginary key. As I make my way over to Ivy and the press I start to break out in a sweat—and not just because of the summer heat. There’s no way they’re gonna be able to hide this hickey in press photos. Fucking Maggie , I laugh to myself.