Chapter 7 Maverick
maverick
. . .
Amelia said she was bored, so taking her out was the perfect chance for the paparazzi to catch wind of her and for me to puff out my chest like a peacock to win her over.
Cameras are already there when the SUV pulls up and stops on the curb, flashes sparking against the tinted glass.
Maggie’s voice still echoes in my head.
“Start going out with this girl, let the paparazzi get a whiff.”
Easy for her to say when she’s not six-foot-eight and trying not to devour the woman sitting next to me.
I step out into the night first, pulling my cap low and clenching my jaw against the chaos of voices shouting my name.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it fucking matters until I circle the hood, open her door, and extend my hand.
She takes it, and the paparazzi go wild. Flashes burst against her black leather and ink, her tattoos shimmering under the bright white light. My palm slides to the small of her back, guiding her out, and I let it rest there a moment longer than necessary.
The cameras devour it, and the truth is, I am too.
She tosses me a side glance with her chin tilted like she knows exactly what I’m doing. I grin, showing her my pearly whites.
The bouncers wave us through as the doors swing open into VYCE’s main floor, where bass rumbles up through the soles of my boots and vibrates my rib cage.
Neon strobes flash across the crowd, bathing everything in flickering yellows and violets. The air is heavy with sweat, perfume, and top-shelf liquor, and Amelia looks hot as fuck.
I keep my arm tight around her waist, pulling her in close enough that the crowd sees exactly what Maggie wanted. Tennessee’s fuck-up QB1 draped all over the tattooed bad girl.
Except it doesn’t feel like an act. Not with her pressed against me, her curves brushing my side with every step.
She leans in to say something as her lips part, but I get there first. I lower my head close enough that the cameras think I’m whispering sweet nothings, but I’m just breathing her in. My cheek brushes her temple; her hair smells like coconut and vanilla, and it’s a damn miracle I don’t bite down.
Her fingers curl against my chest. I think she’s about to push me away, but she doesn’t. If anything, she lets me stay, her green eyes flashing up at me, daring me to do something.
We hit the VIP lounge, and I slide in beside her, thigh to thigh. She looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
I drape my arm along the back of the couch, leaning in close enough that the perfume clinging to her skin starts wrecking me all over again. Cameras are still flashing through the glass wall, but I’m too focused on her sharp green eyes narrowing at me.
“Why are you so far away?” I murmur, glancing down at the bare inch of space she’s keeping between us. “Kinda hurts my feelings, dollface.”
Her head snaps toward me, her lips parting in disbelief. “You’re literally pressed up against me,” she bites out, jabbing her finger into my chest.
I chuckle. “Not close enough.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering, “Bite me,” but her flush betrays her, heat crawling up her neck.
I dip lower, as I pretend to whisper for the cameras, even though the words are just for her. “Baby, you keep tempting me like that, I just might.”
Her breath barely stumbles, but I feel it.
“I’m sure you’ve brought hundreds of women here,” she finally exclaims, as she takes a sip of her fruity drink.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I tip my head back against the couch. “Hundreds? You’re not wrong,” I tease, letting the words hang there, knowing she’ll hate every syllable.
Her eyes narrow. “Gross.”
I shift closer, my knee brushing hers. “Gross would be lying about it, dollface. But you want the truth?” I lean in, just close enough that my lips almost graze her ear. “I haven’t touched anyone since I laid eyes on you.”
She sucks in a breath for a brief second, but I see the way her eyes widen, and her hand stills around the glass.
She hates that I caught it.
Her knee bounces restlessly against mine. Her eyes drop to her drink, anywhere but me, and when she finally looks at me, there’s a scowl on her face, but I’m calling bullshit.
It makes me grin wider. “What’s the matter, Amelia?” I announce, settling back into the cushions. “Cat got your tongue?”
She doesn’t look at me at first as she crosses one leg over the other, her boot swinging idly. “Cute,” she drawls, tilting her head. “Did you practice that one in the mirror first?”
I bark out a laugh, dragging a hand over my mouth. “No, I’m just born with charisma.”
She scoffs into her drink as she takes a sip, rolling her eyes.
I lean back against the couch, tilting my head toward the dance floor where the crowd is nothing but moving shadows under neon. “What do you say we make this night a little less boring?”
Her eyes narrow. “Define less boring.”
I grin, pushing to my feet and offering my hand. “Dance with me.”
She laughs, sharp and disbelieving. “You? Dance?”
“Don’t sound so shocked, dollface,” I shoot back, leaning closer so the lights catch her tattoos and the cameras can’t miss a single second. “I’ve got moves.”
She arches a brow, clearly debating whether this is worth her time, but my hand’s stretched out, waiting for her.
With a muttered curse, she slides her fingers into mine. The second her skin touches mine, I feel it like a jolt straight to my chest.
I tug her up beside me, tucking her close as I guide her toward the stairs.
Spinning us into the press of people, I slide my hand to the small of her back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She stiffens, eyes flashing up at me.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” she yells over the music.
“Dancing,” I shout back, grinning down at her. I tug her closer, our hips brushing as the bass drops. “What’s it look like?”
Here With Me by Peekaboo blasts through the speakers. The drop thunders through my chest, syncing with the pulse in my veins.
Amelia’s back presses into me, hips rolling with the beat, her long black hair catching the flashes of neon from overhead. The scent of her wraps around me, dizzying, and I swear to God, the whole club could fall away and I’d still only see her.
I’ve had women thrown at me throughout my career, and none of them ever made me feel like this. Not one of them made me want something real. But Amelia Hamilton? One song, one dance, and I already know, I’m fucked.
She rolls her eyes, mumbling something I can’t hear, but she doesn’t pull away.
The lights shine on her tattoos, making her look like a living piece of art, and I know every camera in the room is capturing this; her pressed against me, my mouth close to her ear, like we’re two people who can’t get enough of each other.
Maggie’s going to lose her mind when these shots come out.
I dip my head, my lips almost brushing her skin. “Relax, dollface,” I whisper. “You’ll survive one dance with me.”
She tilts her chin up, fire blazing in her green eyes. “One too many, more like.”
I laugh, dragging her in tighter until her chest presses against my ribs, and I don’t let her go as my palm spreads wider over her hip, my thumb skimming the edge of bare skin.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear as the drop hits again. “If you get tired of me, you can always bite.”
Her lips part, but the song surges, drowning everything out.
My hand’s firm on her hip, as the other brushes the curve of her spine, pulling her closer than she probably meant to get. She glares up at me, but she doesn’t push me away. Her body sways with mine, every roll of her hips brushing against me until my blood runs molten.
Her eyes flash as the drop hits, catching the violet lights overhead, her freckles glowing faintly against her pale skin.
I dip lower, my mouth grazing her ear as I breathe her in, my voice rough. “Keep looking at me like that, dollface, and I’m gonna forget we’re in public.”
She snorts, but her lips part, her breath stuttering against my throat. The sound goes straight to my cock, and suddenly the club disappears; the cameras, the crowd, and the reason Maggie shoved me here in the first place.
All I know is her, soft and defiant in my arms, and the way this song makes every movement feel like foreplay.
I press her tighter against me, my thigh sliding between hers, while my grip at her waist tightens until there’s no space left. She gasps as her nails bite into my chest through my shirt.
I’m losing my mind.
I should pull back, remember why we’re here.
Fuckkkk.
My face dips lower, lips hovering over the corner of her mouth. Close enough to taste her, close enough the cameras will swear we kissed.
Her glare wavers, heat flaring in her eyes, and she whispers, “Don’t you dare.”
My grin breaks, my nose brushing hers. “Baby, I already am.”
She jerks back, her glare is back in place, lips twisted into that lethal little smirk. “Not a chance, Hayes.”
Her words slice through me, but the heat in her eyes gives her away. She didn’t pull back because she wanted to; she pulled back because she had to.
I force a laugh, even though my blood is still hammering. “Suit yourself, dollface.” My hands linger on her waist a beat longer before I finally let go, giving her room to step away.
Amelia steps away with her chin high, but I catch the way her breath still comes in quick, rapid bursts. She can’t quite look me in the eye, and maybe I shouldn’t, but it makes me grin like hell.
She thinks she pulled away.
But in every way that matters, Amelia Hamilton is already mine.
Ding Dong by Crankdat echoes through my home gym. The clang of iron hitting the vinyl floor rumbles throughout, sweat dripping down my spine as I rack another set. My muscles burn, lungs on fire, but it doesn’t matter; I can’t get her out of my fucking head.
The iron barbell hovers over my chest as my arms tremble, and I grunt through the rep. “C’mon, Hayes. Lightweight, baby. Lightweight.” I press it up, racking it with a loud clang, then slap my chest. “That’s what I’m talking about. Mustangs QB1, baby. Still got it.”
I grab the dumbbells next, curling them slowly as my biceps strain. “Yeahhh, look at that pump. Arms looking juicy, Hayes. Amelia’s not ready for this shit.” I smile at my reflection, giving myself a nod. “Dollface is gonna see me and be like, ‘oh my god, Maverick, your veeeeins.’”
Switching arms, I push through another set. “Fuck yeah. Veins are popping, she’s gonna dieee.”
I squat down, grab a heavier set, and grunt as I lift the weight. “Pain is temporary, daddy arms are forever,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Dropping the weights with a thud, I pace in front of the mirror, pointing at myself. “That’s right. You’re six-eight, quarterback of the Mustangs, hottest man alive according to JP, and you’re not scared of one tattooed girl who wants to kill you in your sleep. You got this, Hayes.”
I flex once, chest still heaving. “She’s gonna cave. No one can resist these guns.”
I grab my water bottle, tilting it back, when my phone blares on the bench, vibrating so hard it nearly falls to the floor. I fumble it up, towel hanging around my neck, and see the name flash across the screen.
Maggie.
I swipe to answer, still grinning. “Mags! You calling to compliment the pump? Because it’s insane today. I’m talking chest like granite, arms like—”
Her voice cuts sharply through the line, dripping with exasperation. “Maverick. Shut up.”
I blink, grab my water bottle, and chug as I pace the floor. “Whoa, someone’s cranky. You skip breakfast again?”
“I don’t know how the fuck you do it,” she snaps, no patience for my jokes.
I grin, dragging a towel over my face. “Do what? Be this handsome and athletic? It’s a curse, really.”
“Don’t start with me,” she snaps. “But congratulations. You broke the internet. Pictures of you and that tattooed goddess at VYCE are everywhere—Twitter, Instagram, the damn NFL network. Everyone’s obsessed with your mystery woman.”
I freeze, towel halfway down my face. “Mystery woman,” I repeat, a laugh catching in my throat. “You mean Amelia.”
“Don’t play dumb,” Maggie fires back. “The internet is eating it up. The NFL’s golden boy tangled up with an inked-up tattoo goddess? It’s dynamite. You’ve got everyone talking, sponsors calling me instead of the other way around.”
Maggie doesn’t even pause. “You pulled off more in one night than I could do in six months of PR.”
The call with Maggie ends, and I’m pacing the gym with a towel draped around my neck, sweat still dripping down my chest.
I stare at my phone, pulse still racing.
Tonight.
Tonight, I’ll find the right moment to tell her—a fake marriage. My fingers curl tightly around my phone, and my grin sharpens.
Shit, this is either going to save my ass or ruin me completely.