Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
“Yeah, guys like you are always spoken for.’”
— ANGELA KNIGHT, MASTER OF WOLVES
3 :35 a.m.
Whenever I closed my eyes, my brain played a Maverick Boone highlight reel.
“What happened?” Mabel had asked the morning after our breakup when I’d shown up on set. I’d been impersonating a raccoon; I’d stayed up all night, had the dark circles under my eyes to prove it, and Wyatt’s place was officially out of junk food.
Apparently, I was a groundhog, not a raccoon, however, because I’d repeated my insomnia-plus-up-all-night pattern ever since.
I was exhausted.
I couldn’t sleep.
It had been days and days and (Maverick-less) days.
Hello, vicious cycle. Plus, Ranger had taken to texting me. He kept sending inspirational quotes that he’d liberated from Instagram, but he didn’t tell me why.
Maverick’s brother was cryptic. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have considered revenge. All I needed was a half an hour rearranging his possessions in his closet, and he’d regret his poor quote choices. Today’s quote was: “Own your shit together.”
I turned my pillow looking for a cool spot to rest my cheek. I was hot. And bothered. Shit certainly described my life at the moment. But while Ranger was a terrible therapist, he wasn’t entirely wrong, either. Being an actress meant that privacy was a luxury, but so what? I could invest in a ball-cap factory, buy a gated mansion, practice writing NO COMMENT in washable marker on my car windows. It might work, or it might not. But either I spent the rest of my life living like a well-behaved, very lonely, sex-starved nun out of fear that anyone I let into the convent (just to continue the terrible analogy) would suffer from a lack of privacy, or I owned my shit.
I could say to the world: these are the people I choose to love.
I could draw a boundary: these are the people I will allow into my life.
And then I could throw a housewarming party and invite in the people I’d chosen.
I glanced at the photo of me and Maverick on my phone, the one I’d taken on the porch, of the two of us kissing. I’d taken it. I’d owned my shit. And...I loved it.
A text flashed across my screen.
Maverick : Are you awake?
I attempted to analyze his question for hidden meanings while I messaged, erased my typos, and re-messaged:
Sonnet: Yes.
Maverick: I have a proposal.
Sonnet: Ask me.
Maverick: I’ll be there in five.
Was this a friendly visit? A postmortem? A new attempt to stomp on my heart? Own your shit, Sonnet.
Sonnet: I miss you.
Dots bounced up and down on my phone screen. My heart bounced with them. Was he writing a novel? Second-guessing his proposal? Oh God. Please don’t let it be an actual script proposal.
Maverick: I’ve missed you so much. I’m sorry. Please wait for me.
Sonnet: I am out of fucks to give about my image. Please believe me. If the studios drop me, so what? We can go sit outside their gates in our lawn chairs and drink beer with a big sign that says RETIRED AND HAPPY. I’m sure I can land other, smaller, indie projects.
Nada . Why hadn’t we shared our locations with each other? My abilities to stalk him in real time were severely curtailed. Should I shower? Try a finding spell? Did he mean five minutes as in three hundred seconds, or did he just mean “sometime before sunrise”? I needed a response.
Sonnet: I’m gonna fire a warning shot across the PR bow. I’m sending the picture of us kissing to TMZ.
Maverick: Wait for me please.
In the interests of motivating him to drive faster, I messaged:
Sonnet: I’ve got the email all cued up.
Sonnet: And I’m going to send them your name and birth date. Also your hognose snake research. They should appreciate your genius.
Sonnet: And a picture of me giving them the middle-finger salute.
Sonnet: In just my thong. I’ll probably land a Swimsuit Illustrated spread out of it actually.
Maverick: Wait a second, woman. I’m almost there.
Motivated, I leapt out of bed and bolted to the landing. Walk like a delicate ballerina! A featherweight, super stealth ninja! Waking up my entire security team would be a mistake.
Eric was on duty, parked in front of the TV with a cooking show on mute. He looked over his shoulder as I slid into the living room.
Before he could comment on my sleepless state, I darted to the foyer. “Maverick’s coming over. I’ll let him in.”
I paced in front of the door, staring out the window every three seconds and willing Maverick to manifest in my driveway. After two miles of walking—Wyatt might have a groove in his hardwoods now—the headlights of his truck appeared, bouncing off the windows and momentarily blinding me. Should I rush outside? Play it cool? Rustle up a trench coat and greet him Marilyn Monroe–style?
Strategy, Sonnet, strategy. If this were a script, what would you do?
I didn’t want to have this conversation outside in the dark. Sitting in his truck would be awkward, plus it would be easy for him to leave.
Speed walking away from the door, I whisper-yelled to Eric, “Open the door, let him in, and send him upstairs, okay?”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I was the boss of my own life.
I flew up the stairs and lurked in my room. Lounge on the bed? Wear just the sheet? Put on a full suit of clothes? Footfalls on the stairs warned that I was out of time. I hummed a few bars of “Eye of the Tiger,” put my phone away, and dropped my glamour.
And then there he was, hovering in the open door to my room, my handsome, hot, amazing professor. He was dressed in a plain black T-shirt with no words, blue jeans, boots, and no belt. His hair was mussed, standing on end, and he smelled weirdly of lavender. He looked tired. He looked like he’d rushed right on over here.
My heart gave an eager thump.
“Can I come in?”
I nodded. I was too busy trying to interpret the expression in his eyes to use actual words. He looked guarded and a little lost. As if his day had not gone the way he’d expected.
“Do you want to get dressed?” he asked gruffly. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“For crying out loud, Maverick, it’s the middle of the night. I was in bed. That’s not someplace I’d wear a suit. Or clothes.”
I was wearing a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. The pattern was little holly leaves and red berries because it was never too early to wear Christmas pajamas. Of course, he hadn’t seen them before because when he slept over, I’d slept naked.
“This is fine.” I propped my hands on my hips and drank in the sight of him. I was a starving woman after our separation. “We can have our conversation while I’m wearing this.”
His eyes heated.
Good. I wasn’t going to hide how much I wanted him. No sir. I was going to serve that shit up on a platter. He’d pushed me away, and I didn’t care if his reasons were noble, well-intentioned, or more fictitious than a Bigfoot sighting. He’d pushed, I’d been hurt, and all those tear-filled, sorry, sleepless days should have stood between us and yet they didn’t.
Because I wasn’t willing to give up on Maverick Boone.
I wasn’t moving on.
This time I was staying—right here in Moonlight Valley, right here with him, right here where I wanted to be.
He was worth fighting for.
“You feel free to appreciate my outfit, though,” I said. I admit, I used my sexy voice. “And you’re welcome to show or tell.”
Amber rolled over his eyes, and my breath caught because his gaze narrowed, turning sharp and predatory. He took a deliberate step inside my room.
We were doing this!
Holding my gaze, he shut the door behind him. Mentally I locked it with a dozen locks. And flipped the deadbolt. The barrel bolts! ALL the bolts!
With his signature easy confidence, he strode across the room and stopped just in front of me. I lifted my chin. Be the change you want to see! Ranger’s inspirational quotes had not covered this moment. Here I was, alone in my bedroom with my wolfman, and I didn’t know my next line. I would just have to make it up. Somehow.
His eyes dropped to my mouth. Slid along my neck. Discovered my collarbone. I was one shivery connect-the-dots of lusty goosebumps. He lifted a large hand and set it on my arm. Heat! Connection! Mirroring his action, I set my hand on his arm. His fingers brushed the strap of my tank top to one side. Tingles raced down my spine, blossomed in my stomach. My pulse raged through my body.
Staring at my bare, green-traced shoulder, Maverick said, “I love you. I’m in love with you.”
Our separation had been bad for my heart health. That poor organ was beating triple time now, trying to stay afloat beneath the deluge of hope and happiness.
He loves me?
He loves me!
“Repeat that for me, please.”
I needed to double-check. I needed him to tattoo the words on his skin and his heart. I needed him to carry them with him everywhere we went.
“Every day,” he said. “I’ll repeat it every day. I love you.”
He’d skipped straight to the end of the scene. He’d stolen my lines. Those three words were mine to say. He’d beaten me to them. All the next words, the best words, the right words flew out of my head.
“You—” My lips parted, still wordless. “I—you . . .”
I had not seen this coming.
A coherent response was apparently optional. He stared at my skin where he’d uncovered me, his thumb drawing slow circles on the front of my shoulder. He seemed mesmerized. He tugged the strap down farther, his other hand mimicking the action on the other side of me, and then he had full access to my bare chest.
He leaned in, his strong fingers sliding to my back. Just that simple press of his hands and I was all happy nerve endings, folding forward so he could kiss my breasts. He licked a wet trail around one nipple, sucking me into his mouth with a groan.
No more words! No more telling!
He scooped me up and walked us toward the bed. I threaded my fingers through his hair, holding him close. Desire ignited beneath my skin, spreading through my body. He was so big and so everywhere all at once, holding me still as he devoured my skin, kissing his way over all my curves.
Own it.
I ran my hand down the front of his plain black tee, enjoying how the muscles beneath my palm tensed and stilled. Unfastening his jeans, I took what I wanted. He made a rough sound as I traced his length, cupping him through his boxer briefs.
“I love you,” he repeated, but this sounded more like an observation he was making to himself. He grasped my hips in his big hands, his thumbs dipping into the elastic band of my sleep shorts. “I want to make love with you.”
“Okay!” I gasped. I’d have to write him a love poem, a grand gesture, or the world’s sexiest seduction scene later. Right now, I was busy feeling.
His mouth covered mine, and he kissed me gently. It was sweet, but he was holding back. I could feel the muscles in his back bunching and tensing.
“Adorable Sonnet, smart Sonnet,” he growled, threading one hand through my hair, and dipping the other into my shorts and panties and easing them down my hips. “Sexy Sonnet. My Sonnet.”
I liked the sound of that, but . . .
“Don’t rush into anything. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
He paused, but just for a moment, and then he was fisting my hair, pulling my head back just far enough to expose my neck. His hold made me arch, my breasts lifting.
He grazed my throat with his teeth. “Sonnet.”
“Yeah?”
He groaned. “We should set some ground rules for biting.”
I wanted him so badly. Yet even though his touch made me ache, my body sing, I didn’t want him for a single night. Was that what this was?
He loved me.
He loved me and he was making love to me. I had what I thought I’d wanted, but now I wanted everything.
“Wait.” I let go of him down there and gripped his shoulders.
He eased me back onto the bed, traveling lower, pressing me down. “Do you want me to stop?”
His knee spread my legs.
“No. I want you to keep going. But I?—”
“Shush.” I felt the word against my belly, his hands pulling on my tank top, shifting it so he could tongue my belly button and taste my curves.
I made a sound.
He did it again.
I had to get this right. I had to say?—
“I love you too.”
Ferns and fiddlesticks, I LOVE THIS MAN!!!!
And it wasn’t just for this moment, for the pine-and-outdoors scent of him, the way I’d never again see a flannel shirt without remembering what his shoulders look like when they’re bare, for the chiseled, muscled lines of his body braced over mine, around me, carving out a safe space for the two of us in my sometimes-crazy world. It was everything about him. He was epically capable, reliable, and strong inside and out. No matter what life threw at him, he had it handled. He was simply, wonderfully, always Maverick.
His hands stilled on my thighs. He froze, listening. Those four words hung there in the air between us. We were both aware of them. We had a whole conversation in the silence:
I love you. Do you love me?
YES, yes, I do.
Say it again and again and again.
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. I LOVE YOU.
The heavy beat of his heart against my thigh, the harsh push of his breath on my skin, my heart pounding against my rib cage were our words.
“Forever,” I said, finishing that conversation. “That’s how long I’ll love you. This isn’t a temporary thing. And I know you made a promise to yourself, a promise that the next woman you made love to would be your lover in truth—and your wife. I’m not asking you to break that promise. I won’t. But I am asking you one thing.”
He ran his fingers up the backs of my legs, lifting my knees. He eased them gently over his shoulders.
“I’m asking you to be my lover,” I breathed. “And let me love you as you’ve loved me. Because I believe, with my entire heart, that this is love.”
I believed with some more southernly parts of me too. But my heart was leading the charge here. My heart knew.
Maverick nodded. And then he lowered his head and kissed me.
“Oh. God.” I was done talking. Done, done, done. We can discuss our feelings and future selves later. MUCH later. I fisted the sheets and held on because his hot, wet, loving mouth was on me, and my body welcomed him.
He made a rough sound in response, lapping with his tongue, his fingers stroking. My breath hitched. This was so good. It drove all the thinking out of my brain and I sort of hated that. I needed to remember this. I needed pictures, video, maybe a memorial plaque for this bed. Here in the year of our Lord something something, Maverick Boone made me see STARS. I was coming apart before he’d even got started, my body cruising toward an orgasm like a float at a Mardi Gras parade.
Unlike our other times, he didn’t draw out my climax, didn’t push me to a second release. Instead, he gently rested my legs on the sheets and stood. I pried my eyes open because Maverick Boone was a beautiful man, and he deserved my appreciation. As I watched, he pulled a strip of condoms from the back pocket of his jeans and tossed all but one onto the nightstand. I loved a well-prepared man.
Holding my gaze, he shoved his jeans down his legs, tore open the packet he’d kept, and rolled on a condom. Proceed on the runway! We are cleared for takeoff!
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked gruffly, putting a knee on the bed.
“Do not stop,” I ordered. I reached for him.
He climbed between my legs and lifted my hips with his hands, sliding himself against my sensitive center. I wrapped my arms around his back, pulling him closer still. There were impatient sounds, noises of pleasure and need. He reached down, centered himself, and slid in deep. Deeper and deeper.
He held himself still over me with teasing, disciplined control, his warm chest brushing mine, his arms banded on either side of my head. We’d waited so long for this coming together, and now we were barreling toward the finish line, his body a muscled mass over mine, his broad shoulders shutting out the world, the tense line of his jaw, the rough sounds he made as he pushed forward, making room for himself inside me.
It was everything.
His eyes were half closed, his need written on his face, but I couldn’t stop watching him. The view of his bare arms and chest and stomach as he worked himself into me had me gasping, but I would not look away. This was Maverick.
This was Maverick loving me.
And me loving him back.
He made love the same way he moved through life. Like he spoke. Like he loved. With absolute sureness and a steadfast focus on making sure that the people he cared for had everything they needed. It was honest, heartfelt, and deeply erotic.
He leaned down, kissing me, his teeth scrapping my lower lip. I sucked in a breath at the delicious sting of pleasure and pain. His mouth curved up against mine.
And God bless the man, he didn’t stop. We came together hot and needy, open and wild, my hands on his back and butt, my legs wrapped around his lean, strong hips so that I could pull him all the way inside me. Silently I chanted, I love you . There might have been words like YES and Now, because we weren’t waiting any longer and it was fine. More than fine. He was warm and felt so good moving inside me. The muscles of his back tensed beneath my fingers, and he muttered something about “love” and “beautiful” and then “SONNET” because we were both coming.
I love you so much. Oh God, I’m coming now.
I knew we’d waited, and I knew we maybe should have waited more—until Maverick got his wedding ring and his public promises of forever—but when we’d finished, and he went rigid inside of me, panting roughly against my throat, I couldn’t imagine anything righter than what had just happened between us.