Chapter 17 Annabelle
Annabelle
The first thing I register is the pain.
The second thing I register?
Warmth. A solid, delicious source of it pressed against my back.
His hand.
Low on my stomach. Fingers splayed just under the hem of the shirt I don’t remember putting on—his shirt, based on the size, the worn fabric, and the faint whiff of cologne clinging to it.
His thumb strokes my skin. Slowly. Gently. Thoughtfully.
Mmm . . .
Suddenly the ache in my head doesn’t feel quite so pressing.
My eyes crack open, vision blurry and unfocused, the morning light bleeding around the edges of the curtains. The sheets smell like lake air and cedar and him, and when I shift slightly, our legs brush. My bare thigh slung over his.
We’re tangled. Completely, utterly tangled.
Last night comes flooding back in hazy, disjointed flashes: The dancing.
The laughing.
Tequila.
Pastor Dan.
Callum’s hands.
His mouth.
The dock.
Cousin Evy.
I squeeze my eyes shut, groaning softly.
“Headache?” His voice is low and gravelly next to my ear. Sleepy and sexy and so deliciously deeper in the morning . . .
“Mm,” I manage, not trusting myself with actual words.
He shifts closer, his nose brushing my shoulder as he kisses it, his hand still drawing slow, lazy circles across my skin. I should move. I should sit up. I should find some water and pretend to be a normal, functioning human.
Instead, I melt deeper into the mattress, into him.
“Want me to get you aspirin?” he murmurs.
I turn just enough to peek at him over my shoulder. His hair is a mess, dark strands curling boyishly over his forehead. Ugh.
“You’re not hungover?” I croak out skeptically.
He grins, perfectly normal looking, one side of his mouth lifting like he’s proud. “Scottish constitution.”
I roll onto my back with a groan. “You are so annoying.”
Those large hands of his begin rubbing my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the base of my neck, kneading and working my tight muscles.
“Yes. More,” I groan, eyelashes fluttering. “Keep doing that and I might actually forgive you for not being as miserable as I am.”
His low chuckle has me tingling despite my pounding temples. I crack one eye open to glare at him. “How are you so chipper? We drank a lot last night.”
“Because I was smart enough to down two glasses of water before bed.”
“Where was my water?”
He rubs slow, deliberate circles along the small of my back now. “Relax—I had you drinking it too.”
“Oh.” I blink again. “I don’t remember that.”
His hand slips under the hem of his T-shirt that I’m wearing, tracing lazy patterns on my hip bone that soon have me squirming. “You’re too cute when you’re hungover.”
“You’re too horny when you’re hungover.”
Maverick shrugs, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck. “Guess I am.” His hand eases its way to my front side . . . glides up my stomach . . . cups my boob. “How are you wearing clothes?”
His guess is as good as mine.
“I want to look at your tits,” he murmurs. “Get naked—you won’t have to do any of the work.”
Promises, promises . . .
I let him strip the tee off, a pillow princess of the most royal kind, arms flopping to the sides as he sits up to take a better look.
Even hungover, even with the world spinning slightly, he makes me feel like I’m the only thing he sees. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than wrapped around me like this, all bare skin and breathless murmurs.
This is what? Day five? Two more to go before I go back across the lake to my dumpy, boring apartment. Back to reality.
Maverick dips his shoulders, lowering his face to my chest, and I watch as his tongue languidly licks one of my nipples, his mouth sucks on it until my lower half becomes wanton and needy and greedy.
His stubble grazes my skin as his lips drag lower, tongue circling lazily before he switches sides, lavishing the same attention on my other breast. My back arches off the mattress, seeking more, my fingers plowing into his hair as he kisses his way down my stomach.
I know where he’s going, and I want it bad.
The sun’s barely up, light filtering through the blinds in golden slats, casting shadows across the sheets and the planes of his back as he settles his shoulders between my thighs, looking up at me like I’m the entire reason he woke up this morning.
Gives my pussy a lick.
In that moment, I don’t feel hungover.
I feel high.
“I didn’t even like you a few days ago,” I whisper, threading my fingers into his messy hair. “And now look at me.”
His grin is sinful. “You love it.”
Love.
That word.
A memory of last night and the words “I think I love you” come rushing back, along with snippets of other memories. I said it back.
A surge of panic flickers through the haze of pleasure, but then his hand slides up my thigh again, anchoring me, and everything blurs when his mouth sucks at my clit. Fingers spread me.
Ohhh . . .
Mmm . . .
I think I love you, I think I love you, I think I love you . . .
My head throbs.
My body’s trembling—part from the memories, part from his mouth—but mostly because of the way I feel everything.
All of it; his hands. His breath. The deep, dizzying pleasure building in my core.
I can’t take it anymore.
“Come here,” I whisper, voice rough, needy.
He looks up, a question in his eyes.
I tug at him, urging him upward, dragging him over me with shaky hands and pounding heart to kiss me, slow and deep.
“Mmm,” I moan into his mouth as he positions himself to enter me, and I reach between our bodies the way I did last night to guide him. Both of us gasp the second our bodies connect.
This is reckless. I could get pregnant, since I just stopped taking birth control.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.
We’re desperate.
His mouth crashes into mine again, swallowing my moan as he sinks deeper. My hands grip his shoulders when he thrusts over and over and over again—deeper and harder this time than last night—and I arch off the bed with a cry.
Oh shit, this feels good . . .
Every nerve ending lights up like a fuse, hot and electric, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins as he drives into me with a rhythm that’s feverish and unrelenting.
One of his hands finds mine and threads our fingers together, grounding us even as everything else spins wildly out of control. We’re still drunk on each other, on everything we don’t understand but crave anyway.
I raise my free hand, resting it on his shoulder, fingers bending onto his shoulder, pressi—
And that’s when I see it.
A ring.
A thin gold band glistens on my left hand, winking at me from the fourth finger.
My breath catches mid-moan.
Maverick’s still moving, lost in the moment, forehead pressed to mine, sweat slick on his skin.
But I can’t unsee it.
The ring.
My hand.
I stare at my finger as he pounds into me, headboard hitting the wall, every nerve in my body suddenly more sensitive at the sight of it. Pleasure courses through me like a storm, electric.
Thrilling.
Confusing.
The sight of that thin gold band sends a rush through me I didn’t expect.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s crazy.
But it’s also turning me on more than anything ever has.
I feel like I could fly apart, come undone, split open from the pressure inside me—and then I do. My body contracts with release, lights flashing behind my eyes as I cry out, clutching him, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist as the world blurs.
And he follows.
“Fuck, Annabelle . . . oh fuck . . .”
With a guttural sound, he buries himself so deep it has me gasping, hips jerking as his hot come spills inside me, his breath hot and uneven. His hips jerk again.
Again.
After several seconds, I turn my head to the right, breath still ragged in my throat. My heart pounds—not just from what we’ve done, but from the spark of panic starting to creep in.
Callused, tan, his hand rests beside my shoulder on the mattress, fingers splayed.
And there it is.
A thin gold band.
On his left ring finger.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, eyes widening as I stare at it like it might disappear if I blink. “Callum . . .”
He groans, chin buried against my shoulder, blissed out and oblivious. “Mmm?”
“Did we . . .” I don’t know how to say it. Don’t think I can say the word married.
His eyes pop open, and he peers down at me through blue slits. “Did we what?”
My mouth opens. Closes.
Instead of answering, I slide my hand up between our bodies, still pressed so tightly together. My palm grazes his stomach, then his chest, and finally—slowly—I raise it in front of his face.
See? See?
The thin gold band on my finger glints in the bright morning light.
Maverick blinks. Then blinks again, eyes fully open, tracking between my hand and his.
“Pretty,” he says, taking my hand to inspect the band. “I like it.”
“No, you dipshit. You have one too.” I don’t mean to call him names—honestly I don’t—but he’s not getting it! He is Not Getting the Point!
His brows pull together, confusion settling in as he glances down at his own left hand.
Then he freezes.
His mouth opens slightly. “Oh.” Closes again. “Shit.”
“Yeah. No shit ‘oh shit,’” I deadpan, wiggling my ring finger between us like a middle finger in disguise. “Can either of us explain why we’re accessorizing as if we just walked out of a wedding chapel in Vegas?”
I’m doing my best to keep my voice down; swear I am.
A flicker of a memory punches through the haze. A younger man in a white button-down shirt, boutonniere wilting over his pocket. A microphone. A half glass of champagne in one hand, cupcake in the other.
Pastor Dan. Another one of the bride’s cousins.
Evy had made the introduction, daring us to tie the knot.
Technically Dan is a youth pastor but got ordained specifically for this wedding, and let me tell you—he was way too excited about it. Laminated certificate from the internet. Gold pin on his tie that said Ordained Af, and he kept shouting “Y’all ready to get spiritually LIT?”
So yeah.
That’s the dude who married us.
We were on the end of the resort’s dock, with a crowd of at least five onlookers—plus one overly excited, buzzed uncle—everyone cheering as if we’d just won a season of The Traitors.