Page 40 of The Maverick's Homecoming

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Done.”

* * *

His room was right there on the main floor, down a hallway off the great room. It was all in browns and grays with touches of red in the comforter and pillows.

“This is nice,” she said, her voice breathless, her body eager to be there with him, held close in his arms.

He dropped a trail of kisses down the side of her neck, leaving heat and longing in his wake. “I like where I sleep to be comfortable.”

“I get that.”

Lifting his head to look in her eyes again, he added, “So this is the only room I fixed up myself. The bed and night tables are of reclaimed barn wood—red oak.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Why are we talking about the furniture? There are so many more interesting things to get into right now.”

“Such as?”

“You.” He kissed the word onto her waiting lips. “Now, come here…” Her feet left the floor as he scooped her up into his arms and headed for the bed. Carefully, he set her down on the edge of the mattress. Then he sank to his knees.

“You are so eager,” she observed as he pulled off one of her boots and then the other.

“Eager doesn’t begin to cover it.” He whipped off her socks. Then, sweeping upright again, he pulled her to her feet and went to work on the long line of abalone shell buttons down the front of her flowy boho dress.

“Finn…”

“Shh. I’m busy.”

“That really isn’t necessary.”

Frowning, he met her eyes. “Huh?”

“Undoing all these buttons. Watch.” She sidestepped, grabbed the filmy skirt of her dress and whipped it up and over her head. “Done.” She tossed the dress to the nearest chair and stood before him in her bra and panties.

He looked her up and down. “You are so beautiful.”

She rested a hand on her stomach. “If you’re into pregnant ladies.”

His laugh was a low rumble. “I’m intoyou.” He reached for her. She happily melted into his arms again. They stood by the bed sharing a kiss that went on and on.

Eventually, he lifted his head. “I have way too many clothes on.”

“True.”

Dropping to the side of the bed, he yanked off one boot and then the other, removed his socks and rose to his feet again. After that, it took him no time at all to get everything off but his boxer briefs.

She allowed herself a long, slow look from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He was bigger, broader than she remembered, a grown man in every way, his thick chest dusted with dark hair, his belly lean and hard. She let her gaze trail downward over the bulge in his briefs and lower. Her eyes lingered on his right knee and the faint scarring there from more than one surgery.

She’d seen the original injury happen, watched in horror as he went down on ESPN for the whole world to see. He’d injured his left knee, an ACL tear that had healed—only to tear again the following season.

A low chuckle rumbled in his broad chest. “Yep. That first injury was the beginning of the end of my NFL career.”

“I remember,” she said softly.

“I played for six more years. But never at the same level as before. After the fourth time I was traded, I decided I was ready to move on, to try something else.”

She met his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Finn. I know how much you loved the game.”