Chapter 28 Maverick
Maverick
Phoenix kisses me like absolution, and I answer like a desperate man who plans to keep sinning. I don’t deserve it—but fuck it, I’m taking it anyway.
I release her wrists, and my hands go straight to her hips as her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer and refusing to let me go. A small, wishful part of me hopes that the way she holds me—sweet and greedy—means she wants this as much as I do.
There’s nothing to do but give in to her demand. With both hands braced on her hips, I slide her up the wall, her legs locked around my waist while I devour her mouth.
Heat radiates from her through thin leggings and my slacks. There is nothing I won’t give for her, even though I know I don’t deserve her.
This woman sees straight through to the parts of me I never show. She knows who I am, and she still stays. I don’t understand it.
The others want her just as fiercely, but somehow she burns for me just the same as she does them.
Conrad’s not here with his rules and demands. Atticus isn’t here with his games. Storm isn’t here with his brooding need. It’s just me. Only me.
And her body burns for me.
“Maverick,” she whimpers. The need in her voice cuts through me. I did this. I made her doubt.
I said things—almost did things—just to hurt her. Vile things I can’t take back, but maybe I can atone.
Her shampoo surrounds me, wiping out the stale coffee and desperation clinging from that other woman. The taste of Phoenix—warm vanilla and honey—replaces the whiskey, and I lose myself in her.
It’s always been her. Since that first day. How could I think for a second that anyone else could ever come close?
“Firebird,” I breathe when I break the kiss.
“Take me to your room, Maverick,” she begs. “Please.”
She starts to lower her legs, but I haul her tighter, lift her clean off the wall, and carry her like she weighs nothing. I’m not letting go—not until she’s in my bed, not until every wicked word I threw at her is forgotten.
“I’m still mad,” she says, as if reading my mind.
“I know. You should be.” I shoulder into my room and kick the door shut. This is for her and me—no one else.
“Good. You should know.”
“I do.” I lay her back on my sheets, not letting go until her head finds my pillow and her hair fans out beneath her. I press kisses down her throat. “Do you want to talk first?”
“No. We’ll talk after. Right now I need you.” The honesty in her eyes almost breaks me.
“Firebird, I—”
She sets her palm over my mouth. “I know. But you can tell me anyway…after. Right now I need you to show me.”
I nod, kiss her palm, then place her hand on my chest so she can feel how hard my heart hammers—only for her.
She keeps one hand there and takes my hand in hers, pressing it over her heart. “Do you feel that?”
It thunders in her chest.
“I do,” I admit.
“I’m trusting you. Don’t break it,” she whispers, eyes locked on mine.
I don’t understand how someone like her exists. How she sees me through the bullshit and under the mask I’ve perfected for years.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t trust me with something so fragile. I’ll hurt you. I’ll disappoint you like I do everyone else.”
I brace for pity, for disgust, for anything that makes me smaller. I get neither—only understanding and iron determination.
“Not in here,” she says, pushing me back so she can rise to her knees, face-to-face.
“All of that bullshit stays on the other side of that door. Expectations, judgment, stress, self-doubt—every last bit. When it closes, this space is ours. Sacred. Only you and me. We both leave our baggage at the door.”
“Firebird, it’s not that—”
“The other side of that door,” she repeats, punctuating every word with a finger in my chest. “Protect this space with me.”
I try to pull away. Phoenix cups the sides of my head and forces my eyes back to hers.
“Okay, little Firebird.” I give in, because I can’t do anything else. She won’t let me—and I don’t want to. I let her determination be enough for both of us.
I consider asking what she wants, even letting her take control. But that’s not what she’s demanding. She wants me. Only me. So that’s what she’s going to get.
At my core, I’m a selfish son of a bitch.
I’m going to take what I want from her—and what I want is control.
Not the whips-and-chains kind of control Atticus demands, not the fear Storm craves, not the power Conrad expects to have handed to him.
I’m going to show her that I control her body not because she allows it—but because I do.
In this, at least, I’m one hundred percent confident in my abilities.
I press her into the bed and hover over her, my palms caging her face before they glide lower, tracing the delicate map of her sides to the hem of the shirt on her body. I fist the fabric and rip it.
Her breath catches while her pupils blow wide with the act.
That’s right. My little Firebird plays at being civilized, but at her core she’s a savage just like me.
Red lace lifts and defines her breasts to perfection. Under other circumstances, I’d admire the color against her pale skin, how that expensive scrap shapes to her. Right now it’s an obstacle.
I cup both breasts, feel the give, the heat, the rasp of lace—and tear the cups open to the cold air.
“Maverick,” she moans when I take a plump pink nipple into my mouth and suck. Her back arches, and I slide an arm beneath to hold her there.
She releases another cry when I switch sides. Her hips roll, hunting friction, seeking relief. I deny her. She’ll feel what I allow and nothing else.
“Maverick, you asshole, please,” she pants.
I keep sucking while one hand slides down, strips her skirt, then drags her panties to the side. I want nothing touching that pussy but air—until I’m ready.
A frustrated growl rumbles out of her; I smile against her nipple and return to the first.
“Maverick,” she grits now, irritation edging her voice.
Good.
I ignore her.
Her fingers lace in my hair to haul me back to her mouth.
I sit up, break free, catch both wrists and pin them above her head. Defiance lights her eyes as her hips shift again, chasing what I won’t give.
“Do you know how beautiful you are like this?” I ask, voice low. “Pinned under me. At my mercy. I see the fight in you, Firebird. You want control. In this room, you have none.”
She squirms; I trail my hand down her again. Gooseflesh rises; her breathing deepens; a shiver slips through her.
That isn’t her—it’s me. It’s what I do to her body.
“Maverick,” she warns.
I ignore the word and watch the reaction. She’s pissed, but it doesn’t change how she wants me. It doesn’t change the hard peaks of her nipples or how hot and wet she is for me.
She might fight it, but her body is ready to yield.
I hook her ankles onto my shoulders and kneel at the edge of the bed, kissing one dainty ankle before I settle both in place.
Her pussy glistens, and my mouth waters.
She watches me from under heavy lids, certain I’ll kneel and worship.
She’s wrong. I drag my tongue up the seam of her, teasing, barely splitting her lips, tasting. My hands clamp her waist as I lick again, deeper.
She moans, eyes fluttering shut.
I set my stance, thighs tight, power loaded like I’m about to pull a deadlift. As she softens under my mouth, I lock on to her waist and lift, rolling her thighs more securely onto my shoulders as I stand and lift us both away from the bed.
Her startled scream cracks the air as I hold her against her to the wall. One of her hands fists the hair at my back of my neck, the other flattens against the ceiling above her.
Then I devour her, tongue fucking her while my nose rubs the tight bead of her clit. Her heels dig into my back. She curses me.
It’s messy, feral, perfect.
Her thighs start to tremble almost immediately, spurring me on.
I don’t stop at the first orgasm. Or the second.
By the third, her fingers are at war in my hair, not sure whether to hold me closer or force me away. I make the choice for her. I free one hand from her waist, slide it to her ass, and sink two fingers into her soaked heat—drawing slick before circling her pretty, pleated hole.
“Maverick,” she pants. No yes. No no. Just a broken cry as pleasure swallows her again. I take her gasp and push my first finger into her tight ass. She clenches, moans, rocks against my face for more.
My greedy little Firebird.
She tries to push me off, but I like the sting in my scalp. One finger works her ass as my tongue lashes her clit. I don’t think one orgasm even ends before the next hits. I add a second finger, spread them, stretch her open while I flatten my tongue and let her use it.
She can’t blame me when she’s the one riding my mouth.
“God, Maverick,” she screams. The others can hear my name on her lips, and I haven’t even given her my cock yet.
With her pinned to the wall, both palms to the ceiling, I lift her higher. I catch the fire in her eyes as she watches me take her apart.
I lose count. My face is drenched. Her release coats my chin. Her legs go lax and her whole body trembles at the tiniest brush of my tongue.
There’s power here—one flick of my tongue, and she jolts like I’ve wired her to lightning. Not every man can do that to a woman. Not every woman can take it.
Carefully, I peel her from the wall and carry her back to the bed. I use my shirt to wipe my face and fingers.
She lies loose-limbed, watching, waiting to see what I do next.
“You okay, Phoenix?”
She shakes her head, sits up. “I need more. Need you.”
I shove my pants down and step free. My cock is so hard it hurts.
She doesn’t look away as I stroke myself, slow and deliberate, letting an echo of my own need ripple across her face.
I drag the wooden desk chair closer to the bed and sit, wood creaking under my weight. It’s the chair I throw shirts on, the one that never mattered—until now. I spread my knees and hold out a hand.
“Come here, Firebird.”