Page 78 of The Maverick
He looked at me for another moment, just standing there, and something shifted in his expression.
"You know what you are?" he asked.
"What?"
"Mine." He said it the way he said most things—without apology. Not a question. Not a negotiation. Just a fact he was putting in the room. "I don't know what to do with that yet. But I needed you to know."
I looked up at him.
My heart was doing a thing it had no business doing.
"Okay," I said.
The corner of his mouth moved. "Okay?"
"I said what I said."
I dropped my hands.
He reached down and took the hem of my top, slow, pulling it up and over my head. He reached around and unclasped my bra with one hand.
He laid me back.
He stood at the foot of the bed and took his shirt off. I watched him in pieces, because there was too much to take in at once. The breadth of his shoulders. The geography of his torso, which had the look of something functional rather than decorative, built by real use.
He was magnificent—hard planes of muscle, the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel into the low waistband of his pants where the thick outline of his hardening cock was already straining against the fabric.
He came down over me on his hands.
"I've been thinking about this since this morning," he said, mouth close to my jaw.
"Since the shower?"
"Since before the shower." His mouth moved to my neck, slow. "Since the toast."
"The toast."
"You were wearing my shirt." He pressed his lips to the place just below my ear and I felt it in my core, a hot pulse straight to my clit. "And you had jam on your finger and you licked it off without noticing."
"I didn't?—"
"You did." His mouth moved lower. "I thought about it the entire walk to the flower shop."
I laughed, surprised, and then stopped laughing because his mouth had found my collarbone and moved lower still—sucking one stiff nipple deep into his wet heat, tongue flicking hard before he scraped it gently with his teeth—and laughing was not the thing my body wanted to do anymore. My back arched hard off the bed as slick heat flooded between my thighs.
He took his time, the way he'd said he would.
He was thorough in the way of a man who understood that the point was not the destination. He learned me by feel, by attention, by the patience of someone for whom this mattered more than being efficient about it.
His hands spread my thighs wide, thumbs stroking the soft, soaked folds of my pussy before his mouth followed, licking slow, filthy stripes up my slit and circling my swollen clit until I was grinding against his face, coating his lips and chin with my arousal.
He found the places that made my breath catch and stayed there until the catching turned into something else—thick fingers sliding deep while he sucked my clit rhythmically. He talked while he did it, low and close—here, like this, tell me, is this—yes, there—and I answered him the way I'd answered himthe night before, honestly, moaning and begging and soaking his hand.
By the time he worked his way back up to my mouth, I was desperate in a way I hadn't known I was capable of being. I could feel the wanting in my whole body—my pussy clenching, thighs trembling, nipples tight and aching.
"Tommy," I said against his mouth.
"Yeah."
