Chapter Twenty-One
I Want More
Maverick
The pantry kiss won’t leave me.
Days pass, but every time I close my eyes, I feel her pressed against me. The taste of her, the sound of her breathing hard against my mouth, the way her body melted into mine before her brain caught up.
She wanted me. She can deny it all she wants, but I felt the truth in her trembling hands, in the way she gasped my name like it still belonged to her. And I wasn’t about to let that go.
I think about it as I drive to her house, carrying takeout from her favorite little diner. Ivy spots me first, squealing as she races into the kitchen.
“Mav!” She grabs my hand, dragging me toward the table. “Did you bring fries? Did you bring the milkshake?”
I grin, handing her the bag. “Of course. Extra whipped cream, just like you like it.”
She bounces, already digging into the paper sack. Zora hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowing on me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I shrug, meeting her gaze head-on. “I wanted to.”
Something flickers in her eyes—irritation, maybe. Or the memory of my mouth on hers. Either way, it had heat in it and I’ll take that any day of the week.
Dinner is loud, messy, filled with Ivy’s chatter.
She tells me about a spelling test, about the pony she swears she is going to get someday, and about Bun-Bun’s adventures.
Zora tries to focus on her food, but every time my hand brushes hers reaching for ketchup, every time my knee knocks hers under the table, her breathing hitches.
I notice. I keep noticing. And I let her see me noticing.
****
I carry my daughter upstairs and tuck her into bed after she falls asleep on my chest while we watch a movie. Zora busied herself in the kitchen, stacking leftovers in containers, and wiping down the counter.
“You don’t have to stay,” she says, not looking at me.
“Maybe I want to,” I murmur, leaning against the counter, watching her.
She freezes for half a second, then keeps moving. “Maverick...”
I push off the counter, closing the space between us slowly, deliberately, giving her a chance to move. My voice drops low. “Tell me you didn’t think about it. About me. About that kiss.”
Her hand stills on the dish towel. Her jaw clenched.
I step closer, so close my breath stirs the hair at her temple. “I think about it every night. About the way you tasted. The way you shook when I touched you. And I know you feel it too.”
Her chest rises and falls, fast and uneven. “This is reckless.”
I smile, low and sharp. “Yeah. Feels good, though, doesn’t it?”
She turns, finally meeting my eyes, and there it is, the battle raging inside her. Fear and fire. Guilt and want. I brace one hand on the counter beside her hip, my body caging hers in without touching.
“I’ll wait if you need me to. I’ll prove I can. But don’t ever lie to me, Zora. Don’t stand here and tell me you don’t want me.”
Her lips part, a shaky breath spilling free. For a long moment, we just stand there, tension snapping tight between us, my body begging to close the last inch. But I don’t.
I let her feel the heat of me, the hunger, the promise. And then I step back, my voice rough with need. “Think about it,” I say. “Because I am. Every damn second.”
I grabbed my jacket and force myself out the door before I give in completely. And the look on her face—flushed, breathless, and hungry—follows me all the way home.