Legend (Real, #6)(43)

Maverick, kiss me.

Tell me not to be afraid and just kiss me.

But I am afraid. And if he kisses me, I have to push him away because this can’t be.

Exhaling, I pour more oil and I force myself to smooth it all over his back. His flesh ripples and tightens beneath my fingers, and I can feel him in every pore of my body. I’m still eyeing the tattoo of the phoenix and the scorpion.

“This tattoo . . .” I trail off, dragging my hands over his back.

“I got it the day I turned twenty-one.”

His neck is thick; he’s staring down at the carpet now, resting on his elbows as I rub.

“When I stopped waiting for him to come get me. To say he f*cked up, that he chooses my mother and me. When I found out what people saw him as, I made a new me. Not with his help, but despite him. Rising now. He’s a part of me I won’t deny, but there are other parts of me too. Better ones.”

He looks at me with half-closed lids, and his voice drops. “I’m not him, Reese.”

He stares back at the wall, then he reaches to stop my hand, and an electric little singe runs up my arm as he turns to look at me again. “You’re trembling. Are you afraid of me?”

I shake my head. “I’m afraid of myself. When I’m with you.”

His eyes shine a little, and his smile comes out. “I like the way you are when you’re with me.”

“Because it’s the only Reese you know, I’m usually calmer and less impulsive.”

His eyes sparkle in pleasure over my confession, and he leans forward as if to take my lips. I set a hand on his torso, shake my head. “Maverick . . . you make me too reckless.”

“I know,” he says, and then he dives his head and presses his lips to my neck.

I put my hands on his shoulders to stop him, but when his hand roams intimately over my back as he draws me close to him so gently, I moan softly and sink my nails into his skin.

He moves his mouth up my throat, testing me first, and when I open my lips recklessly, he starts devouring their softness. His kiss sends spirals of heat through me.

It’s a quick kiss. A stolen kiss. Nowhere near what I want. Nowhere as deep as I want. Or as endless as I need.

And it still shakes me to my core.

I’m unhappy and empty and lonely when he eases back. He looks into my eyes for a long minute. “I like your pajamas.”

My ears get hot.

His smile starts to fade. He cups the back of my head. My heart leaps again and pounds like mad.

He’s going to kiss me.

And I’m going to let him.

My usual Maverick palpitations are overboard right now. I set my hands on his shoulders, and this time, start to pull him a little closer.

I stiffen when there’s a knock on the door and start to ease backward on the bed. But Maverick calmly uses his hand to pull me back to where he wants me as he ducks his head, crushes my mouth with his hot, hungry, strong lips, and his tongue flashes inside, stealing my soul when he takes this one more stolen kiss. . . .

Then he stands, shoving his hands into his pockets as he faces the door. Blocking me from view as it cracks open.

Brooke peers inside. “Food’s on the table.”

She’s gone as quickly as she peered in.

Maverick drags his hand over the back of his head in restlessness, then he cuts me a look that’s dark and frustrated, as if he’s sorry for the interruption.

I shouldn’t be, even though I also am.

My mouth. My mouth feels tingly.

Keeping a healthy distance between us, I follow him out to the living room and dining area. Brooke and I have already had dinner, but the guys are obviously ravenous and I notice there’s a place set for Maverick too.

Maverick waits for me to sit, then he drops down across from Remy and they quietly eat their meal.

“They’re like a married couple. Can’t believe how serious they are,” Pete says.

Riley looks at me and grins. “No wonder they like each other. They communicate by not communicating at all.”

And while the men enjoy their dinner, I look at everyone at the table except Maverick. Even though I can feel Maverick looking just at me.





TWENTY-FIVE


CLEANING UP OZ


Maverick

After last evening with the Tates, with good food and good company, I couldn’t sleep. To see what Reese is accustomed to. How big fighters do it. Today I hit the grocery store, and once I’ve set the bags on Oz’s and my small kitchenette, I stalk to the couch with a trash bag. Oz is watching TV, bottles littered everywhere, bags of open chips scattered on the coffee table before him.

I swipe an arm over the table and send everything crashing into the trash bag.

“What are you doing?” He lowers the bottle he was about to take a sip from.

I go and pluck it from his fingers and toss it into the trash, cutting him with a look. “It’s over, Oz.”

“What’s over?”

“Your f*cking pity party. It’s over. We want to be pros? We act like them.” I take out water bottles from the bag of groceries I brought in.

“You’re pulling my leg.”

He laughs, stomps to the minibar, and pulls out a small bottle. He takes a rebellious swig and plops before the TV again.

“We’re going to AA.”