Legend (Real, #6)(39)

His hand slips under the back of my T-shirt. His fingers skim my skin, they’re hot, calloused, and so perfect, I’m a whole shiver.

He rolls us around and sets me down on the grass, kissing me some more and slipping his hand down to encompass my waist, his thumb stroking my abdomen. “Reese.” He breathes against my skin.

I blink up at the sky, then let my eyelids flutter shut as the feel of his lips trailing my neck overcomes reason.

“I don’t take what you gave to me lightly. I don’t want you to think that I did.”

“I wanted to.”

“And I want you.” Maverick’s voice is extremely thick right now. “The guy back home. He kiss you like that?”

“No.”

And he just grins. He looks down at me.

“But . . .” I sit up then. Reese, stop this. “But we can’t . . . you know. Do that again.”

His eyes darken. “I think we should do it more often.” He stares at me, waiting for me to say something, and I can only swallow nervously.

He signals to my book. “What are you reading?” He puts his arm around my shoulders. I stiffen them but somehow melt inside.

“A book.”

“Really?” He lifts his brows, and I laugh and tentatively tuck a loose strand that came undone from my ponytail behind my ear.

“I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” I say.

“All lies.” He cracks a smile.

“You’re kicking ass.”

His expression loses its humor, and he stares straight ahead, thoughtful. “I’m going to kick Tate’s ass, Reese.”

I sit up, staring away. “I don’t like to think about it.”

“You root for him out of principle, I don’t expect you to root for me.”

I stay silent.

“I need to do this for me,” he explains with a fierce and determined gleam in his eyes.

“Maverick . . .” I wrap my arms around myself. It’s not easy for me to find someone I connect with. I haven’t ever felt the kind of connection to a stranger that I felt when I started interacting with Maverick “the Avenger” Cage. “That night with you meant more to me than you’ll ever know,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have kissed you just now. I’m trying to find myself, and I can’t do that if I’m lost in you.”

He takes my chin and the touch triggers heat all over me. “I won’t let you get lost,” he promises.

“The Tates are my family. I don’t think we should do what we did again. And Miles is coming to town next month.”

“Miles, that’s his name?”

I nod and glance helplessly at him.

The liquid look in his gaze starts to harden right before my eyes. “Yeah, I get it. He’s not my father’s son.” He grits his jaw, his eyes dark, then we stare at each other. He starts to stand, but then, as if by impulse, his hand engulfs my cheek as he grabs my face and kisses me, almost punishing and hot. I stay there, melted, as he gets to his feet and walks away.

I exhale and shut my eyes and touch my lips.

It’s over. We won’t do it again. Right? Did he agree or not?

Yes, because he was angry.

I’m sure we will be civil but . . . apart. And I can’t stand it. And suddenly I can’t remember why we can’t, why it’s wrong.

Or why I wrote my phone number on his arm.





TWENTY-TWO


NO MORE


Maverick

I ran eight MILES, and it’s midnight now.

Miles. Miles. Miles.

I stare at myself in the mirror in the hotel bathroom, looking deep into my eyes. And I smash my fist into the glass.





TWENTY-THREE


BROKEN KNUCKLES


Maverick

The next day we’re training, Oz and I. We’re training in a storage unit he got us for the day. The door’s wide open, and he hung the bags from the iron beams in the ceiling. I’m using my left, over and over. Hitting. Listening to the sounds. Smack, thud, thud, smack, poof.

“Whoa, stop, stop. Where’s your right?” Oz demands when he shakes himself out of a nap. The guy brought a fold-out chair and has just sat there for hours after we gobbled down two pizzas, one each. I might have had a few extra slices of his.

“I’m trying to strengthen my left,” I lie.

He scowls at me. “You got a great left. Your left is almost as good as your right.”

“Keyword ‘almost,’?” I point out. I aim for the bag.

“You hurt your right?” He comes over and grabs my right and I pull it free before he can pull off my glove.

“I f*cked up, all right,” I growl. “It’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“You f*cked your right. During the season. When?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“When?”

“Last night. I broke something.”

“You broke YOUR KNUCKLES, THAT’S WHAT! You f*ck your right on a temper tantrum? What the f*ck? Am I gonna have another Scorpion on my hands? Huh?” He pushes me, and I let him, just stand there and let him have his tantrum. He gives up and stalks back to his chair.

“You might as well not go to the fight without your right,” he growls.