Chapter 13
thirteen
MAYA
The click of the apartment door sounds like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
One second the place was chaos—music pounding, bodies pressed together, the air thick with promise and possibility. Now it’s just me and Maine, standing in the wreckage of disposable cups and the lingering smell of spilled beer and bad decisions.
Except tonight’s decisions weren’t bad.
They were fucking electric .
My skin still burns where he touched me on the dance floor. I can feel the ghost of his erection pressed against my ass. The party clearly worked to lift his spirits, but it worked for me as well. For a few glorious hours, I wasn’t the girl whose family wants her to disappear, lonely and sad.
I was the conductor, the queen, the one who made the magic happen.
But now the magic’s over, and that hollow ache is creeping back in.
The one that started when I saw him with his sister earlier, so gentle and patient, giving her the kind of unconditional care I’ve never known.
The one that deepened when my siblings left my text on read, their silence louder than any rejection.
Thinking of you guys.
That’s all I could manage. A white flag, a tentative reach across the chasm. And they couldn’t even be bothered to respond. Not a thumbs-up, not a ‘miss you too,’ not even a rejection. Just those cruel blue checkmarks telling me they saw it and chose to ignore me.
I turn to face Maine, feeling something raw and desperate in my chest. He’s looking at me like I’m water in the desert, like I’m salvation after the hell his day has been. Whereas I see him as rebellion incarnate, the match I need to burn down everything my family thinks I should be.
Fuck being ignored. Fuck being discarded. Fuck playing by their rules.
I cross the space between us in three steps, my heels clicking against the floor with the finality of a decision made.
He doesn’t move, just watches me approach with those impossibly blue eyes that have been driving me insane for weeks.
When I reach him, I don’t hesitate. I shove him back against the wall.
“Maya—“
I silence him with my mouth.
This isn’t soft. This isn’t sweet. This is me taking back every ounce of power my family tried to steal with their silence.
But it’s more than that. It’s me giving something to someone who always gives to others—care to his sister, support to his parents, laughter to his friends—and never gets taken care of himself.
I don’t want the performer. I want the raw, unfiltered Maine I glimpsed earlier.
My teeth catch his bottom lip, not quite gentle, and the groan that rumbles through his chest vibrates against my palms. His hands come up to my waist, but I’m already in control, pressing my entire body against his, feeling every muscle through our clothes.
And, when I pull back, we’re both breathing hard.
“Do you want this?” The words come out rougher than intended, but I need to hear him say it. Not because I doubt the evidence pressed against my stomach, but because I need this to be his choice too. I’m reclaiming my power, not stealing his. I want to look after him, but he needs to want me to.
The transformation that comes over his face nearly breaks me. All that exhaustion, all that bone-deep weariness from being everyone’s emotional support system—it melts into pure relief. His hands tighten on my waist, not to take control but to ground himself.
“Yes.” The word is guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. “Fuck yes .”
Something savage and satisfied unfurls in my chest. I grab his wrist and pull him toward his bedroom, not bothering to navigate the party debris.
A cup crunches under my heel. I don’t care.
I’m a woman on a mission, and that mission is to lose myself in something real and raw and decidedly not family-approved.
When we’re in his room, I push him toward the bed, and he goes willingly, watching me with an intensity that makes me feel powerful and desired and seen .
“Shirt off,” I command.
He starts on it, but I’m impatient, so I step forward and grab the fabric, yanking hard enough that buttons scatter across the floor with tiny clicks. The ruined shirt hangs open, revealing that chest I’ve been pretending not to stare at for weeks. All those shirtless pull-ups. Every casual flex.
“Fuck,” he breathes, but he’s smiling now. Not his public smile, not the performer’s grin, but something private and wondering.
I push the ruined shirt off his shoulders, letting my hands map the terrain of his chest. He’s all hard muscle and warm skin, with a dusting of blonde hair that trails down to disappear beneath his jeans. I follow that trail with my fingers, feeling his abs contract under my touch.
“Maya.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer.
“Shh.” I push him down onto the bed, following the momentum until I’m straddling his thighs. “Let me take care of you.”
The words seem to hit him like a physical blow. His eyes flutter shut, and his head falls back against the mattress. When he opens them again, there’s something vulnerable there that makes my chest tight, a relief and a want all in one.
“No one ever—“ He stops, swallows hard. “Just… yeah. OK.”
I lean down and kiss him again, softer this time but no less intense. My hands work at his belt, and he lifts his hips to help me strip him down. Soon he’s naked beneath me, all that golden skin and corded muscle laid out like a feast. His cock stands proud against his stomach, thick and flushed.
I’ve had my share of men, but none of them looked at me the way Maine is right now. Like I’m something precious and powerful and terrifying all at once. Like I might save him or destroy him, and he’s OK with either option as long as I keep touching him.
I slide down his body, maintaining eye contact as I settle between his thighs. His cock twitches when my breath ghosts over it, and his hands fist in the sheets. And, suddenly, I want to both own and worship this beautiful, exhausted man who let me see him stripped of all pretense.
I start slow, just the tip of my tongue tracing the vein on the underside of his cock. He makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper, his hips lifting slightly off the bed. I pin him down with one arm, a silent command: Let me lead.
When I finally take him in my mouth, the broken sound he makes is my reward. I work him with lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth, finding the rhythm that makes his thighs tremble. His hands come up to tangle in my hair, but when I make a disapproving sound, he immediately lets go.
“Sorry, I?—“
I pull off just long enough to say, “Hands above your head.”
He obeys instantly, gripping the headboard until his knuckles turn white. The sight of him—spread out and submissive and trusting me completely—sends a bolt of heat straight to my core. I’m so wet I can feel it soaking through my panties, but this isn’t about me. Not yet.
I return to my task with single-minded focus, taking him deeper with each bob of my head. I’ve always been good at this, but tonight I’m inspired. Every trick, every technique I’ve learned—I deploy them all in service of reducing Maine Hamilton to a quivering mess.
I hollow my cheeks, I swirl my tongue, and I take him so deep my eyes water.
“I’m—“ His voice cracks. “If you don’t stop?—“
I pull back, letting him slip from my mouth with an obscene pop that makes him flinch. His cock glistens with my saliva, flushed dark and straining. He looks wrecked already, chest heaving, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the dim light.
“Not yet,” I tell him, already reaching back to unzip my dress.
I make a show of it, standing beside the bed to let the fabric pool at my feet. I’m wearing good underwear tonight—a black lace Perla set that barely qualifies as clothing—and the way his eyes track my movements makes every penny worth it.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, voice rough with want.
I am not perfect. I’m messy and angry and disowned.
But right now, in this moment, I feel powerful.
So I strip off the rest of my clothes and climb back onto the bed.
This time when I straddle him, there’s nothing between us.
I can feel his cock pressed against my inner thigh, hot and hard and ready.
“Condom?” I ask, though all I want is to sink onto him.
“Drawer,” he manages, jerking his head toward the nightstand.
I lean over to retrieve one, deliberately dragging my breasts across his chest. He groans, and his hands twitch where they’re still gripping the headboard. I can tell he desperately wants to break the rules, but it’s almost as if he fears doing so will break the spell.
“You can touch me now,” I tell him as I tear open the wrapper.
His hands immediately find my hips, not grabbing or directing, just holding. Like he needs to anchor himself to something real. I roll the condom onto him, giving him a few extra strokes that make his breath hitch and elicit a groan from him.
Then I’m positioning myself above him, one hand braced on his chest, the other guiding him to my entrance. We lock eyes as I sink, taking him inch by glorious inch. The stretch is perfect—just the right side of too much—and when I’m full of him, we both need a moment to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel?—“
“I know.”
I feel it too, this electric connection that’s about so much more than the physical joining of our bodies.
It’s about trust and vulnerability and two people who’ve been performing for so long they forgot what real felt like—someone who provides care and can’t show weakness, and someone who just feels lonely.
We’re two imperfect people with one perfect connection.
I start to move, rolling my hips in a rhythm that makes us both groan.
His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples in a way that sends sparks straight to my clit.
But this is still my show. I catch his wrists and pin them to the mattress beside his head, lacing our fingers together.
The position leaves me in complete control, and I use it.
I ride him hard and fast, chasing my pleasure while watching his face contort with ecstasy.
Every time I clench around him, his grip on my hands tightens.
Every time I grind down just right, he makes these desperate sounds that I want to bottle and keep.
“Maya, I can’t—“ His voice is wrecked. “I’m gonna?—“
“Do it,” I command, speeding up my movements. “Let go, Maine. Just let go.”
And he does. With a hoarse shout, he comes beneath me.
His body goes rigid, then shakes with the force of his orgasm.
I ride him through it, drawing out his pleasure until he’s whimpering with overstimulation, with a look on his face that tells me this is the first time he’s really relaxed—let himself go gooey—in ages.
I’m close myself, so close I can taste it.
I release one of his hands to touch myself, but he beats me to it.
His thumb finds my clit with surprising accuracy, circling with just the right pressure.
And the skillful movement of his thumb and the feeling of him still hard inside me push me over the edge.
My whole body seizes, pleasure detonating through every nerve ending.
I hear myself making these desperate, keening sounds as the waves hit—my thighs trembling, inner muscles clenching rhythmically around him.
I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but ride out the aftershocks that pulse through me.
Afterward, we lie there panting, a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts. I can feel his pulse where my cheek rests against his chest, gradually slowing from its frantic pace. His arms come around me, holding me close but not tight. Like he’s afraid I’ll spook if he presumes too much.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Without lifting my head, I reach for it.
The group chat: So…? Bet…?
I stare at the message for a moment. Sophie and the others, waiting to hear if I’ve conquered the unconquerable Maine Hamilton. If I’ve made him fall for me, turned him into another notch on my belt. The very idea makes me want to laugh. Or cry. Or possibly both.
Because this thing between us? Whatever just happened? It wasn’t about winning some stupid bet with the girls or any of the bullshit we’ve been playing at for weeks. It was about two exhausted people finding a moment of real connection in all the fake.
So, fuck that, and fuck them.
I type a single laughing emoji— —and hit send.
Let them think what they want. The game, for me, was over the moment he let me see him slumped against that door. Everything since has been something else entirely. The bet will be forgotten instantly because I’m the social ringleader, and none of those girls will dare resist.
I set my phone aside and press a kiss to Maine’s chest, over his heart.
His arms tighten around me, and I feel him press his lips to the top of my head.
I lift my head to look at him. His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen from our kisses, and there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that matches what I feel in my chest.
He pulls the blanket over us, cocooning us away from the world. Tomorrow we’ll have to deal with reality. With the complicated feelings and the fact that we just shattered every rule we set for ourselves. But tonight we can just be Maine and Maya.
Not the performer and the party girl.
Not the invisible son and the discarded daughter.
Just two people who found something real in all the fake.
And whatever comes next, we’ll figure it out.