Chapter 21 Annabelle
Annabelle
If you had told me two weeks ago that I’d be standing barefoot in a glass-walled penthouse overlooking the Scottsdale skyline with my “husband,” who is currently humming off-key while unpacking his duffel—I would’ve assumed you’d either been day drinking or fallen and hit your head.
But here we are.
And the penthouse is ridiculous.
High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows with automatic shades that come down at the push of a button. One of those rainfall showers the size of my kitchen back home. Concrete countertops. Shiny marble floors.
There’s a pool on the rooftop, a gym on the ground floor, and a fridge full of protein shakes and alarmingly expensive bottled water, which I can see with my eyeballs through the closed doors because they are glass.
Glass!
See through!
Ooh la la . . .
I set my toiletry bag down on the counter and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sun-kissed cheeks. Wind-blown hair.
I look happy.
Also: terrified. But also stupidly, deliriously happy.
Is that weird?
I swipe a bit of mascara from under my eyes and try to remember the last time I felt this uncertainly settled, which isn’t an oxymoron if it’s true.
What is happening to me?
Guh!
I wander out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where Maverick is pulling clothes from his duffel with the kind of efficiency that screams “I travel with a team and know exactly what I’m doing, self-sufficient man that I am.”
He looks up as I walk in. And stops moving.
Gives me a once-over, gazing at me up and down.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious, brushing wind-tangled hair out of my face.
He doesn’t answer. Tosses a T-shirt and crosses the room in five long strides, stopping when he’s right in front of me.
“We haven’t broken in the bed yet,” he says, voice low and serious.
I blink. “I—what?”
He shrugs. “New city. New bed. Kind of feels like we should . . . christen it.”
Oh.
Oh . . . yes?
My brain short-circuits as his hands slide to my waist, warm and easy and confident, like he’s not absolutely ruining my ability to think straight.
“Wanna get naked?”
“I do.”
Maverick grins. “That’s the spirit—you sound like a bride.”
My fingers find the hem of his shirt and tug, because I am a woman of action with terrible decision-making skills, or I wouldn’t be in this mess, would I? No. I would be at home in Star Lake, organizing an anniversary party or planning next year’s Fall Festival in person like a responsible adult.
“God,” I whisper, when we finally collapse onto the bed in a flurry of limbs and laughter. “This is so dumb.”
“The dumbest,” he agrees, grinning as he rolls over and pulls me with him. “Kiss me, wife.”
Wife. The sound of that word on his lips has me so hot and bothered—so wet already—and he’s barely even touched me.
I ache. Practically vibrate from the inside out as he flips us so I’m straddling his lap with my thighs spread over his hips and his hands locked around my waist as if he has no plans of ever letting go . . .
It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s messy, hungry, teeth and tongue and hours of pent-up sexual frustration I didn’t know I’d been carrying around until this second. His hands slide up my back, under my shirt, fingers splaying over bare skin like he owns it.
Owns me.
Our clothes go flying. My hands skim his broad chest, and he groans, lying still as I caress his skin, nails dragging gently over his rib cage.
When I finally slide onto him and he’s inside me, he’s so deep I feel whole, realizing there’s no part of this that feels fake.
Mmm.
Yummy, delicious Maverick.
Callum.
Mine.
And God, the way he moves . . . Slow, then fast. Rough, then sweet as he kisses me, fucking me at the same time . . .
He whispers my name into the crook of my neck as I move over the top of him . . . hands roaming up my back . . . my hips . . . holding me in place . . . Mouth presses kisses against my shoulder, my collarbone, my jaw—everywhere he can reach, like I’m a map and he’s memorizing me.
And maybe I’m doing the same?
Then I ruin the moment, pulling back so I can see his face. “We haven’t been using protection.”
He stops thrusting. “Aren’t you on birth control?”
“I was . . .” I shrug. “But now I’m not. I wanted to give my body a break. Still concerned about STIs and all that.”
Maverick props himself up on one elbow, still inside me, looking baffled and wildly amused. “Are we seriously having the STI conversation mid-fuck?”
“I’m just saying!” I hiss. “We barely know each other! What if you’ve been out here spreading free linebacker love all over the league?”
He snorts. “Free linebacker love?”
The last thing I want to do is imply that he’s been banging tons of women . . . but I also don’t want to assume he isn’t, now that he and I are . . . a couple? Lord, even that feels weird to say in my own head.
“I’m not trying to insult you. I’m just trying to make a point. I don’t know your sexual history.”
“And you don’t think we should have talked about this sooner? I’ve already dumped in you, like, six times.”
Dumped in me.
Ew.
I make a gagging sound. “Can you please never phrase it like that again?”
Maverick laughs like I’m the funniest person he’s ever met, which would be flattering if I weren’t currently trying to have a very serious adult conversation while half naked and still slightly out of breath.
“I’m being mature,” I insist, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You’re being gross.”
“I’m being honest,” he counters, catching my hand and kissing the palm.
I sigh. “Just tell me you’ve been safe. Like, in general. Before this.”
He nods, all teasing gone. “I have. No one raw since my last girlfriend.”
Last girlfriend. I don’t want to talk about whoever that would have been—probably some celebrity or pop star or cover model—so we won’t think about her right now, whoever she is . . .
“Annabelle, I’ve been tested,” he goes on, his hands now stroking my boobs in the most incredible way. “I get tested every six months. Team policy.”
“Oh.” I nibble a lip, hips beginning to move again.
“Clean bill of health. Scout’s honor.”
Oh, it feels so good . . . “Were you a scout?”
“No,” he groans, dick still hard. “We can get tested together if you want. I don’t want Tim’s germs.”
I laugh, head tilting back. “Mmkay . . .”
So good.
“And next time we’ll use protection.”
Mmmkay . . .
Suddenly he moves, taking me with him, flipping me so I’m on my back, his huge body moving over me. His hands grip the headboard on either side of me, arms flexing, face buried against my neck as he moves—deeper, harder, like he’s trying to etch himself into my skin so I’ll never forget him.
Not rough but not gentle . . .
“I’m not gonna be able to stop thinking about you,” he rasps. “You’re so sexy. You feel so good.”
My hands roam his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders—like I’ve short-circuited every nerve in his body.
“I want to stay here,” he pants. “Right here. Buried inside you. Fuck you forever.”
Fuck you forever . . .
How romantic.
That shouldn’t feel like the most intimate thing anyone’s ever said to me—but it does. And it knocks the breath right out of my chest.
I wrap my legs tighter around him, pulling him closer, breath catching, pleasure curling tight in my belly as he shifts again, his rhythm going from teasing to torture, and I swear I see stars.
Bright light shines through the window. We’re a tangle of limbs and breathless curses, Maverick muttering something filthy and worshipful into my skin, while I cling to him like a koala hanging on for dear life.
His pace picks up like he’s on a mission from the pleasure gods—and I know I’m screwed. Toast. Straight-up, golden-brown, butter-me-up toast.
“Oh fuck, Annabelle . . . Fuck . . .”
Yes . . .
Yes . . .
F-fuck . . .
My bones liquefy.
My soul briefly leaves my body, waves politely from above, then floats back down . . .
We collapse in a heap, tangled and sweaty and making an imprint in the mattress.
Maverick groans into my neck, his voice gravel and glory. “Jesus. How do you feel?”
I take a long breath. Blink at the ceiling.
Then deadpan, “Pregnant. Definitely pregnant.”
He laughs, tipping his head back, one hand on his chest as he feels around for mine. “You can’t say shit like that when my heart rate is already one forty.”
I roll and kiss his shoulder, smiling into his flesh. “Kidding. But I do feel . . . hungry. Like I want tacos? But I’m also not in the mood to go anywhere.”
Maverick yawns. “Shower, then order something?”
Mmm. “Perfect.”