Chapter 19 Amelia/Maverick
amelia/maverick
. . .
Maverick kissed me a week ago, since he wanted to “practice”, and my brain hasn’t shut up since. The image of his mouth on mine, the press of his chest, the sound he made when he positioned me onto his lap... it repeats in a relentless loop, like muscle memory carved into my skin.
God, I’m pathetic. One kiss and I’m already halfway gone. Men like him ruin women like me—make you feel chosen, then walk away when the shine fades. I should’ve learned my lesson the first time.
My phone buzzes on the small table near the workstation.
Catalina
I can’t believe you’re married to Maverick, and you didn’t fucking tell me.
Layla
YOU’RE WHAT?
Amelia
Stop being a drama queen.
Layla
Is it ignore Layla day wtf
I roll my eyes, setting my phone down back on the table beside my workstation.
The front doorbell rings, but I don’t bother looking up. Probably another walk-in or June’s lunch delivery.
“Hey, wifey. Miss me?”
My stomach drops, and my hands suddenly begin to sweat.
I look up, and immediately choke on a laugh.
Maverick’s standing in the entryway of Blackbird Ink Co., in a fucking crop top.
He’s in tight black shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, the fabric stretched over thick thighs that flex with every step.
The black compression crop top clings to his abs, every ridge of muscle outlined, glistening where sweat still slicks his skin.
My eyes snag on the chain at his neck, the gold catching in the light, and there it is.
His wedding ring, resting against his chest like it belongs there.
A stupid pang twists in my stomach because I can’t tell if it’s for show or if it actually means something to him.
I turn my attention back to him, pushing those thoughts out of my mind because I know it’s sick that I let my past dictate my future.
My eyes watch the droplets trail down his stomach, catching the light before disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.
His blonde hair is a chaotic mess from his helmet, strands curling damp against his forehead, giving him that wild, reckless look.
“What the hell are you wearing?” I ask, squinting at him.
He grins. “I wore this specifically for you, baby.”
June, thankfully, is in the back and not witnessing this circus.
I cross my arms. “You look like a walking thirst trap. Congratulations, I guess.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Practice ended, and I came straight here. Thought I’d get some fresh ink… from my wife.”
I stare.
“You are so irritating,” I mutter, trying to hide the smile threatening to pull at my lips.
“Yeah,” he says, sliding onto the client chair. “But I’m your problem now.”
maverick
“I want something across my chest,” I say, dragging my fingers down the center of my sternum. “Script that means something. Brotherhood, loyalty, you know, deep shit.”
Amelia cocks a brow from behind the counter. “Deep shit, huh?” She uncaps a pen, scribbling something on a sticky note. “Any specifics or just… vibes?”
I grin. “Mmmm, vibes.”
“All right, Hayes. Shirt off, and sit down.”
I obey, peeling off my shirt and tossing it aside. Her gaze darts over my body, but just as quickly averts her eyes, like she hadn’t meant to look, but I caught her.
And do I want her to keep looking at me.
She puts on gloves, grabs a razor, and steps between my knees. “Lean back.”
I settle into the leather chair, and she switches on the overhead lamp. Her fingers tilt my chin as she angles my body where she wants it, then her hands are on my chest, prepping my skin.
It shouldn’t be a big deal.
But when she takes the razor and shaves the area where the tattoo will go?
I suck in a breath as my hands grip the armrests.
“You good?” she asks, not looking up.
“Peachy,” I lie.
She’s dragging the razor with delicate precision, her free hand resting just above my waistband for balance. I watch the curve of her lips and the way her lashes fan out when she’s focused, as she leans in closer to wipe me down with antiseptic.
I literally stop breathing.
Fuck Maverick, you’re thirty-four, get it together.
“You’re squirmy for a quarterback,” she teases, grabbing a paper towel, wiping at my chest.
I laugh under my breath. “It’s not the needle I’m worried about, dollface.”
She pulls back, positioning herself to straddle my lap. Her thighs cage me in as her gloved hands smooth across my chest.
There’s no way in fuck she’s straddling me right now; she could’ve sat in her chair like a normal person, but she chose to kill me instead. Great.
“This okay?” she asks sweetly, tilting her head.
I nod, but my voice is nowhere to be found.
It’s gone, along with my dignity.
“Good,” she says, grabbing her tattoo gun. “Now stay still.”
Stay still? Is she fucking serious asking me that?
Her hips shift as she leans in to adjust the stencil, the denim of her jeans brushing against my thigh for just a second too long. Heat shoots straight through me, and my fingers curl tighter around the armrests.
Her machine hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already fucking losing it.
My cock thickens, pressing hard against the inside of my shorts.
I take a shaky breath, trying desperately to stay cool, not making a sound, and not letting her see how close I am to unraveling just from the touch of her body against mine.
Her hand slides across my ribs, steadying herself as she leans in to double-check the linework, her fingertips grazing my skin.
The touch of her fingertips is light, almost nothing, and it destroys me.
I suck in a breath through my teeth, jaw clenched tight as her hair falls forward, a dark curtain that nearly brushes my chest.
Oh, I’m fucked.
The sting of ink bites into my skin, again, but it barely registers compared to the weight of her body settled over mine. She’s literally sitting on me, calm as can be, her hand steady while mine are locked tight around the armrests like I’m holding on for dear life.
Every shift of her hips presses her closer, and all I can think about is how she’s tattooing me like this is routine, while I’m falling apart inside, fighting the urge to groan every time her thighs squeeze against mine.
She shifts forward slightly to reach the ink cup, and her thighs press tighter around my hips. My hands flex against the sides of the chair, trying like hell to stay still, but my body has other plans.
A subtle rock of her hips as she straddles me more comfortably, but it lights my nerves on fire. Every tiny adjustment presses her down harder, and the pressure between us is brutal.
My cock is already straining against my shorts, and the friction of her center grinding over me makes my pulse spike so hard I swear she can hear it.
Heat radiates through the thin layers of fabric, her body brushing mine again and again in these small, unthinking movements that feel anything but innocent.
She has to know I’m hard, or she’s playing dumb.
The drag of her center over the hard line of my cock is slow, unintentional, and it nearly rips a groan out of me.
Fabric to fabric, heat to heat, every slight shift grinds against the ache straining in my shorts.
My grip on the armrests turns brutal, veins standing out in my forearms, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from begging.
Focus.
You’re a grown-ass man. You can survive your sexy fake wife grinding on you.
I try breathing through it.
Football drills. Cold showers. Carter’s bare ass.
But nothing fucking works.
“You’re moving,” she says softly, still not looking at me.
“Maybe because you’re grinding your perfect fucking ass on my—”
“Shhh,” she coos, wiping the fresh ink. “I’m working.”
She adjusts, and her pelvis rolls again.
I bite back a groan, my hands on the verge of breaking the armrests, and I’m surprised they don’t crack under the strength I’m exerting.
She looks down at me, right in the eyes, and smirks.
Fuckkkkkk.
That’s it. That’s the moment I know I’m done for.
My cock jerks beneath the fabric of my shorts, throbbing hard against the waistband, every pulse sharper than the last. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, copper tang blooming on my tongue, trying to hold myself still.
I’m going to fucking cum.
I feel it before I can stop it.
A hot, intense pulse shoots through me, as my cock twitches hard beneath the thin fabric of my shorts.
Heat floods low in my gut, unbearable, and I grit my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut for a split second.
My chest heaves, breath caught between a groan and a curse, and I send up a silent prayer to whatever higher power might be listening—that I can ride it out quietly, that she won’t notice.
No, no, no. Please don’t. Just once, I don’t wanna cum right now, please.
But no, my body fucking betrays me.
My cock jerks hard against my shorts as my orgasm rips through me, brutal and unforgiving. Warmth floods my core, tearing every ounce of control out of my grip as my vision blurs white at the edges.
A groan slips out of me as I come undone beneath her. Hot release spills thick into my briefs, soaking through in messy spurts. I can already feel it spreading, the damp heat sticking uncomfortably against my skin.
I can’t stop it, can’t hold it back, and the shame of it tears through me even as the pleasure ravages my body.
My cock throbs, still twitching beneath her.
I fucking came. Great job, Maverick.
Jesus Christ.
My eyes snap shut as I breathe heavily, trying to catch my breath from an intense orgasm from her just sitting on my lap, my chest rising and falling in short bursts, and her hand pauses mid-swipe with a wipe.
I don’t even dare look at her.
“Everything okay?” she says, too casually.
My throat is dry. “Yup.”
I can feel her watching me, studying me, waiting for me to say something else.
She shifts forward again, this time, I know she’s doing it on fucking purpose.
My hips jerk helplessly. “Fuck, Amelia.”
She grins without looking up. “Almost done,” she says sweetly.
She finishes the tattoo like nothing just happened, like I didn’t just embarrass myself in every imaginable way. She wrecked me without even taking off her damn clothes.
Next time, she’d better pray I have some self-restraint left.
I’m not coming in my fucking pants again. I’m going to bury myself so deep inside her that she forgets this isn’t fake for me.
She leans back slightly to admire her work, her hips still straddling me, and I don’t know what snaps in me, but I reach up, grip her chin, and tilt her face down toward mine.
“Don’t smirk at me like that, dollface,” I growl, “Unless you want me to flip your pretty little ass over and fuck you on this chair ‘til your legs forget how to work.”
I slide my thumb across her bottom lip, watching it bounce back into place. “You know what you did. You’ve been teasing me since the second you sat down, grinding those hips like you wanted to break me.”
She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I don’t recall doing anything, quarterback,” she says, sweet as poison. “But if your self-control’s that weak... maybe that’s a you problem.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth, then quickly back up to meet my gaze.
“You think I won’t ruin you for anyone else?” I whisper, letting my hand slide to the back of her neck.
Her thighs tighten around me, her breath stuttering.
That perfect composure she always hides behind?
Cracking.
Yeah, maybe I’m crazy for her. Maybe I’ve totally lost it. But I’d let this woman break me over and over just to hear her gasp the way she just did.
“I’m not gonna kiss you again,” I whisper, only she can hear me as I press my forehead to hers. “Not until you beg me to.”
“I don’t beg.”
Fuck. Me.
She leans in just enough for her lips to barely brush mine. Her breath fans over my mouth, teasing, promising.
“But maybe,” she whispers, pulling back with a smile that could end me, “if you ask nicely... I’ll let you try again.”
My entire body goes tense. I’m this close to throwing her down and showing her what asking nicely looks like with my mouth between her thighs.