Legend (Real, #6)(60)

Oz sighs and opens the door, and there’s my Maverick. My rebel. All alone, except for Oz.

And now me.

He’s wearing jeans and a black button-down shirt, and he looks like death by sex, and I feel like dying tonight about a dozen times over.

I stay outside, peering into where he is. The suite is huge, and seeing Maverick among such luxury makes him look like a dark prince of the underworld.

“I came looking for you,” I lamely say.

“And I waited for you.”

His deep, resonating voice sounds lower and more thunderous than ever, and my stomach grips in reply. I wait for him to say something else—to tell me how much I suck.

“I’m sorry, Maverick.”

He comes to the door, and then lowers his voice, one hand on the doorframe as he leans forward. “Did they keep you from me?”

He’s gauging me and I’m gauging him back, not knowing what to do to be let in.

“No.”

“You’re here to tell me we’re a mistake.” He’s searching my expression with a new rawness in his eyes.

“No.”

We stare at each other.

I’m about to ask, beg, “Can I come in?” when he takes my hand in his and starts backing in as he leads me inside. And as he does, he watches me with bare, thirsty, impaling eyes, and my knees feel like rubber as I follow him, ready to tell him what I came here to say.

Maverick stops to look at Oz. A look that says he wants to be alone. With me. And Oz shuffles into one of the bedrooms. He steps out a minute later, clothed, shoes on.

“You don’t have to leave,” Maverick says. “Just give us some privacy.”

“Nah, nah, you two need it,” Oz says, and says he has something to do. And then he leaves, looking at Maverick as he shuts the door.

He cares about him.

And so does Maverick for Oz.

My heart can’t take the heaviness I feel.

I realize Maverick is looking down at me now, waiting, expectant. His hand is still gripping mine. Lightly, almost as if he expects me to draw away. And then, his other hand lifts to my cheek and he cups my face and runs his thumb beneath my eye.

“You’ve been crying.”

Just like that, with his tenderness—so unexpected for such a tough guy—he makes my eyes sting a little again.

“How do you know?” I whisper.

“I just know.” He dries the other corner of my eye, looking sad. “You okay?” he asks.

“I am now,” I croak, and I look at his chest, and up at him, and swallow. “You look very handsome in black. Are you going out?”

His lips pull a little, and his eyes are still full of questions—and tenderness. So much tenderness I feel flooded with it. He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

I like how silent he is, how every look of his says something. We’re both silent now. And I think he knows why I’m here.

Or does he?

He’s studying me too deeply. Almost tortured. And I realize maybe he doesn’t.

I take his hand and open it, and then I set the penny inside.

His eyes raise to me, questioning.

“I want you to make love to me.”

He inhales sharply and closes his fingers around the penny, his voice rougher. “Only that?”

“No.” My voice is low and very soft, but on fire with meaning. “I want you to love me very hard. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve never loved someone as hard as I love you, Maverick.”

His every muscle tightens when I say it, his shoulders, his jaw, his arms, his legs, and I can see a flash ripple in his eyes as if he can barely keep himself in check.

He’s known rejection, and I almost feel as if acceptance is new to him.

As if he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I know that we still have a lot to learn about each other. But I also know there will never be another Maverick in my life,” I keep going. “I came here to find myself. And I think I did. And I also found . . . you.”

“And I found you,” he counters gruffly, standing suddenly closer, his eyes devouring me.

“So.” I clear my throat and go on, “I want to be with you. For as long as we have. An hour, a week, or just for the summer. I feel things for you that I don’t understand and I want to. You’re not your father, and I’m not my family. And for some reason, Maverick, I think that you’re quiet enough that you can hear me. And with you, I don’t need to wonder what you mean. Because you say what you mean.”

“I f*cking want you, Reese,” he growls, impatient.

“Have me then. Right now. And tomorrow.”

“Both of those. And after.” He grabs my waist and lifts me, and I curl my arms around his neck. I see his jaw tighten as he looks at me, studies me. Memorizes me.

His eyes drop to my breasts. His hands shift lower, to my ass.

And he raises his eyes to mine.

“You’re priceless. Gold. Not gold, you’re the whole f*cking mine to me. Do you know that?”

God, those eyes. So stormy right now.

“Maverick, Racer swallowed and choked on a little train wheel,” I blurt out. “He wasn’t breathing right, he was purple—”

“He all right?” He sounds harsh and angry, his hands clenching my hips convulsively. And I know it’s because he cares.