Chapter 41
forty-one
MAYA
The door clicks shut on the last of our friends, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot in church.
The sudden silence is almost oppressive after hours of shouting, laughter, and the kind of testosterone-fueled celebration that only comes after winning a national championship.
The air is thick with it all—stale beer clinging to every surface, cold pizza congealing in boxes on the counter, and something else.
And when I look around, I figure it out. It’s nothing to do with hockey or the aftermath of the party, and has everything to do with the way Maine is looking at me from the kitchen archway, still wearing his jersey from the game, still not having even showered.
And holy shit, that look.
It’s not the cocky grin I’ve seen a thousand times, the one that used to make me want to both jump him and strangle him in equal measure. This is something else entirely. It’s raw and overwhelming, like he’s seeing me for the first time, or maybe like he’s finally letting me see him .
All of him, with no masks, no performances, no walls.
The intensity of it makes my skin prickle with heat, makes my pulse kick into overdrive. Because I know that look. I’ve been wearing it myself for weeks now, this overwhelming sense of finally— finally —being honest, finally being together, finally being us .
He doesn’t say a word, because he doesn’t need to. He just pushes off the doorframe with that lazy, predatory grace that still makes my mouth go dry, even after all these months of living together, of learning each other’s rhythms and tells.
I stay frozen by the door, my hand still on the deadbolt I just turned, watching him stalk toward me. My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it from across the room. Or maybe he can. Maybe that’s why his eyes darken as he gets closer.
“Maine—“
But whatever I was going to say dies on my tongue as he reaches me.
His mouth crashes down on mine, and it’s nothing like any other kiss we’ve shared. This is deeper, hungrier, full of promise and history and the kind of bone-deep certainty that comes from fighting through hell together and coming out the other side.
His tongue slides against mine, and I moan into his mouth, my hands fisting in his jersey. It’s still damp with champagne, and now the fabric clings to his chest, outlining every ridge of muscle, and suddenly I need it gone. Need everything gone. Need nothing between us but skin and sweat.
“Bedroom,” I gasp against his mouth, but he has other ideas.
His hands drop to my thighs, lifting me with an ease that takes my breath away. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, and he carries me not to the bedroom but to the kitchen counter, setting me down on the cool granite where we were doing shots twenty minutes ago.
“Here?” I laugh, but it comes out breathless and needy.
“Everywhere,” he growls against my throat. “Starting here.”
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my thighs, pushing my dress higher, thumbs ranging along the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I’m already wet, have been since the moment he looked at me across the room, and when his fingers brush against the damp lace of my panties, we both groan.
“Fuck, Maya,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You’re already soaking?—“
“Since you made that pass to Cooper,” I admit, and feel him freeze against me. “Watching you choose the team over glory? Yeah, that did it for me.”
He pulls back to look at me, his eyes wide and dark and full of something that makes my heart skip. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“What a way to go,” I tease, but my voice catches as his fingers slip beneath the elastic of my panties, finding me slick and ready.
“These need to go,” he mutters, and I lift my hips to help him slide them down my legs. They disappear somewhere behind him—probably somewhere that involves cooking—but I can’t bring myself to care because his fingers are back, circling my clit with a pressure that makes me see stars.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is low and rough, his free hand tangling in my hair to tilt my head back.
“You,” I gasp as he slides two fingers inside me, his thumb maintaining that maddening pressure on my clit. “Always you.”
He kisses me again, swallowing my moan as he works me with his fingers, building me up with an expertise that should probably be illegal. He knows my body now, knows exactly how to touch me, and knows the rhythm that will push me over the edge. But just as I’m about to fall apart, he stops.
“What—“ I start to protest, but he’s already lifting me off the counter.
“Bedroom,” he says, his voice strained.
We barely make it to the bedroom door before we’re tearing at each other’s clothes. His jersey gets caught on his head in our haste, and we’re both laughing as I help him free himself, but my laughter dies instantly as soon as the fabric hits the floor.
Because fuck , he’s gorgeous.
I’ve seen him naked more times than I can count now, but it still hits me like a physical blow.
The way his muscles ripple under his skin, the V-cut of his hips, the trail of dark hair that leads down to a cock that’s fucking magical…
and tonight, I get the added bonus of fucking a champion for the first?—
“Your turn,” he says, his hands already at the zipper of my dress.
He’s not slow or subtle about it, ripping the zipper down and helping me out of the dress. It pools at my feet, leaving me in just my bra, and the way he looks at me—like I’m something precious and powerful and his —makes me feel like a goddess.
“Come here,” I whisper, backing toward the bed.
“Condom,” he pants, reaching for the nightstand, but I catch his wrist.
“Don’t bother.”
He freezes, his eyes searching mine. “Maya?—“
“I’ve been on the pill,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my heart is racing. “Since the day after the run.”
The look on his face—shock morphing into awe and then into something so deep and overwhelming it makes my chest ache—is everything. I gesture him to me, and we tumble onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter that quickly turns into something else as skin meets skin.
“You mean?—“
“No barriers,” I confirm. “Not anymore. Not between us.”
He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob, and then he’s kissing me like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning. His hands are shaking as they map my body, like this is the first time all over again, like the absence of that thin layer of latex has changed everything.
And maybe it has.
When he slides inside me, bare, he gasps at the sensation. “Fuck,” he breathes against my neck. “You feel incredible.”
The new sensation seems to power his engine like nitrous, so powerful I can’t form words.
I can barely hold on as he moves, the adrenaline from his victory still singing in his veins.
Each thrust is both wonderful and relentless at the same time, like if he stops for a second, slows down even slightly, he’ll lose this.
“Think you can keep up, Hayes?” he pants, increasing his pace, and there’s a challenge in his voice that makes me grin.
“First gear?” I laugh, knowing exactly how to poke his ego so he’ll push himself—push us —harder and closer to where we want to get.
I push at his shoulders, using his momentary surprise to flip us so I’m on top. The position change makes us both moan, and I take a moment to just look at him, sprawled beneath me, his hands gripping my hips, his eyes dark with desire and something deeper.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, and the raw honesty in his voice makes me flush.
“Sweet talker,” I tease, starting to move, finding a rhythm that has his head dropping back against the pillows.
“Truth teller,” he corrects, his hands sliding up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples.
I ride him with abandon, chasing my pleasure and his, loving the way he watches me, the way his abs flex as he meets my movements. One of his hands drops between us, his thumb finding my clit, and the added stimulation has me crying out.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice rough.
The orgasm finds me a moment later, making me shake and clench around him. He groans my name, his hips bucking up as he follows me over the edge, and the feeling of him coming inside me—no barriers, just us—is enough to trigger another, smaller aftershock.
But we’re not done. Not even close.
We’ve barely caught our breath before he’s moving again, flipping me onto my stomach and pulling my hips up.
The position is primal, possessive, and when he slides back inside me, we both moan at how deep he can go like this, how much energy he’s still got after a full game of hockey and round one of this.
“OK?” he checks, his hand stroking down my spine.
“More than,” I gasp, pushing back against him.
He takes that as the permission it is, his pace becoming almost punishing in the best way. His hands are everywhere—gripping my hips, sliding around to tease my breasts, and tangling in my hair to pull my head back so he can kiss my neck.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my ear.
It should sound possessive in a bad way, but it doesn’t. Because I know he’s mine too. We own each other now, in all the ways that matter. Because he’s my person, and I’m his, and I’ll do anything I can to help him and heal him, to lean on him and let him lean, too.
“Yours,” I agree, and feel him shudder against me.
He pulls out suddenly, and I whine at the loss, but he’s already turning me over, pulling me to the edge of the bed. He enters me again, standing at the foot of the bed with my legs over his shoulders, and the angle is the single most devastating thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Look at me,” he demands, and I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze.
The intensity there—the love and lust and complete adoration—is almost too much to bear. But I don’t look away. Can’t look away. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m his whole world.
“I love you,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too,” I gasp, and then I’m coming again, my entire body shaking.
He follows immediately, and then he’s collapsing onto the bed beside me, both of us breathing like we’ve run a marathon. We lie there for a moment, breathless, our bodies still humming with aftershocks. Then he pulls me against him, my back to his chest, his arm wrapped securely around my waist.
The moment is perfect—peaceful and content in a way I never thought I’d have. Which is, of course, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. I feel him tense immediately, that old familiar dread creeping back in, which I recognize as similar to my old anxiety when my parents used to call.
But we’re different now. We’ve learned.
“Hi, Mom,” he says after he answers the call and puts it on speaker, his free hand finding mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles.
“Maine?” Her voice is trembling, thick with tears, but for once they don’t sound like tears of fear or exhaustion. “They’re starting. The next dose of the treatment.”
The words hit us both like a physical blow.
“Mom, that’s—“ Maine’s voice cracks, because I know how much this means to him, but also how scared he is.
“We’ll be right there,” I say, loud enough for his mom to hear, squeezing his hand at the same time.
“Maya?” His mom sounds surprised but pleased. “Oh honey, you don’t have to?—“
“We’ll be right there,” I repeat, firmer this time, leaving no room for argument. “Family shows up.”
There’s a pause, then his mom is crying in earnest. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Both of you. Thank you.”
Maine ends the call and looks at me, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You don’t have to come. After what happened with your patient?—“
I press my fingers to his lips, silencing him. “This is Chloe. This is your family.” I take a breath. “This is our family.”
The look he gives me then is worth every moment of pain we went through to get here. It’s gratitude and love and partnership all rolled into one. “OK,” he says.
“Let’s go,” I say, already sliding out of bed and looking for clothes. “Your sister’s waiting.”
As we shower and then get dressed—him in jeans and the team hoodie I got him for Christmas, me in leggings and one of his old jerseys—I think about how different this feels from a few months ago.
Then, we were two people playing games, too scared to be vulnerable, too proud to admit we needed each other.
Now, we’re partners in the truest sense.
“Ready?” he asks, holding out his hand.
I take it without hesitation. “Ready.”
We walk out of the apartment hand-in-hand, toward an uncertain future. Chloe’s treatment might work, or it might not. There will be setbacks and victories, tears and laughter. But for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of the mess.
Because I’m walking right at it, with the guy I choose to be at my side, and without any of the baggage weighing me down.
And he’s right there with me, the Maine Show 2.
0, still as funny and chaotic and downright fucking sexy as he’s always been, but now with a creamy center because he’s not afraid to ask for help.
As we lock up, Maine pulls me against his side, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For being you. For being here. For everything.”
I turn in his arms, reaching up to cup his face and give him another kiss. “That’s what partners do.”
The elevator dings, and we step inside, still holding hands. As the doors close, I catch our reflection in the mirrored walls—rumpled, exhausted, but glowing with something that transcends the physical satisfaction of what we just shared. We look like what we are.
A beautiful mess, sure.
But also a team.
And whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.