Page 196 of Override

I lean in, burying my face in the crook of her neck and inhaling the scent of her skin. Her fingers bunch into the fabric of my black t-shirt, pulling me flush against her.

My hands slide up under the hem of her shirt, finding the burning skin of her waist. "I need to touch you," I murmur against her neck. "Please tell me I can."

"Yes," she gasps, her fingers digging deeper into my shirt. "Please."

My hands track down to the waistband of her leggings and I hook my thumbs into the waistband, sliding the leggings and her underwear down her hips in one smooth motion.

"Look at me," I whisper, my hands settling on her bare thighs and lifting them slightly higher so I can crowd close against her.

She whimpers, her head dropping back against the cabinets as her eyes flutter closed.

"No, Maeve. Look at me."

My thumb brushes the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and her eyes snap open. She looks at me, staring right through the black frames of my glasses, and I want her to see it. I want her to see exactly what she's doing to me.

"Let me do this for you," I say.

Then I finally touch her—wet, hot, and completely ready for me. My brain goes entirely blank. There are no numbers and no parameters left. There is only the rhythm of her hips tilting into my hand, the sharp intake of her breath against my neck, and the absolute need to drive her out of her mind.

Chapter 41

Maeve

The granite counter is cold against the backs of my thighs, but everything else is pure, consuming heat.

Keaton’s hand is a steady weight between my legs, his fingers warm and incredibly precise where they brush against my skin. For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm being managed. I don't feel like a piece of property being handled to suit someone else’s timeline.

I am the one setting the pace. He is waiting on me.

"Keaton," I gasp, my hands gripping the fabric of his black t-shirt as he shifts his weight closer.

He doesn't push. He doesn't just take. He leans in, his face inches from mine, those thick black-rimmed glasses framing eyes that are completely, terrifyingly dark with hunger. He’s watching my face like a map, tracking the exact second my breath catches.

"Like this?" he murmurs, his thumb moving in a slow, deliberate circle.

A sharp arch of my hips is my only answer. The sensation travels straight to the center of my chest, melting away the cold, numb armor I’ve worn for months.

"Tell me, Maeve," he whispers against my jaw, his breathing just as ragged as mine. "I need to hear you say it."

"Yes. Right there. Please, Keaton."

He lets out a low, gravelly sound—almost feral—at the permission. His fingers adjust, finding a rhythm so perfect it feels intentional, like he’s decoding exactly what my body needs before I even know it myself. Every whimpering breath I let out only makes him press closer, his heavy tactical pants rough against my bare skin, a constant reminder of how solid he is. How safe he is.

I’m unraveling. Fast.

The control my husband used to bind me with feels meaningless now. This is my choice. This is the man I want.

"Keaton, please," I beg, my legs tightening around his waist, pulling him flush against me. The ache inside me is turning into a desperate, empty void that only he can fill. I don't want to wait. I don't want parameters. "I want you. Now. Please."

He pauses, his chest heaving against mine, his forehead resting against my temple for one agonizing second. "You're sure? Look at me and tell me you're sure."

I open my eyes, locking onto his behind the lenses of his glasses. "I’ve never been more sure of anything. Please."

The last bit of his calculated restraint snaps. He reaches down, the sharp sound of a zipper echoing in the quiet kitchen, and then he aligns himself against me. When he finally sinks into me, stretching me open and filling the ache, a loud, broken sob of pure relief tears out of my throat.

He catches the sound with his mouth, kissing me deeply, fiercely, devouring my cries as he begins to move.

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