Page 61 of A Little Complicated

“Okay.” I slip out of his grasp and pat his thigh, making my way to his door and peeking over my shoulder. It’s like my eyes have a mind of their own. Then again, they might. They have a habit of finding Maverick whenever he’s in the room despite my best efforts. Like right now. When I’m desperate to get out of here. To put some much-needed distance between us. I hoped spending more time with Mav these last couple of weeks would be like exposure therapy, and he wouldn’t affect me anymore. Or his effect would at least be less overwhelming. Less consuming. But it’s only made things worse, and still, I can’t help but look at him. His arm rests above his head, showcasing his strong bicep as he closes his eyes. He seems so at ease. So comfortable. So freaking drool-worthy, and he isn’t even trying.

Seriously, it isn’t fair.

I hate how quickly he disarms me. How a simple look can bring me to my knees. How he can share the same face as my boyfriend, but I couldn’t have a more drastic physical response, even if I tried. Things might be easier with Archer on paper, but no matter how hard I try to focus on said ease, I can’t find the spark with him. The pull. The completely illogicalneedI have with Maverick.

It isn’t fair.

And it’s turning me into a crazy person.

Giving Mav my back, I tiptoe down the hall and into the kitchen. After finding some medicine in the cabinets and grabbing some Gatorade from the fridge, I head back to Maverick’s room, careful of my footsteps in case he’s already asleep. It’s still dark, but the light from a lamppost outside filters in through the window, casting shadows along the walls and bed. There’s a lined garbage can beneath his desk, and I pick it up, setting it beside the nightstand and adding the painkillers and hydration to the small table.

Satisfied I have everything in order, I start to tiptoe backward when his low voice rasps, “How was the party?”

I freeze. “It was fine.”

“Did he fuck you in it?”

My lips part on a gasp, my mind spinning. “What?”

“The dress,” he clarifies. “Did he fuck you in it?”

“That isn’t fair, Mav.”

“Life isn’t fair,” he counters.

“You said you only wanted me to be happy.”

“Answer the question, Goose. I gotta know.”

It isn’t fair. The bitterness in his voice. The way he feels like he has any right to know if I’ve been with anyone else, when he was my first before breaking my heart.

Steeling my shoulders, I face him again and keep my head held high as I lie, “Technically, he took it off me first.”

With a nod, Mav covers his eyes with his forearm and lets out a sigh. “I would’ve fucked you in it. Bent you over and slid it up your thighs. I would’ve palmed your round ass, and my cock would’ve been dripping to be inside you.”

His words are so crass, so descriptive, I’m left speechless as my thighs press together.

“Would’ve fucked you so good, Lia. Would’ve made you feel so good.”

“Mav,” I breathe out. It’s a plea. A desperate attempt to help him recognize the pain he’s putting us both through and how much it’s tearing me up inside.

“Should’ve had whiskey,” he mutters.

My brows crease. “What?”

“Should’ve had whiskey,” he repeats.

“Why?”

“Then I’d havewhiskey dickinstead of this.” He keeps his eyes closed but blindly waves at his very apparent erection beneath the thin cotton sheets. “This is fucking torture.”

My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. And it hurts. All of this. Him. Me. The darkness surrounding us and all it hides. Our past. The way he broke my heart. My relationship with his brother.

I’m in a relationship with hisbrother.

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, and I fold my arms, swallowing thickly and stepping away from the edge of his bed. “Painkillers and Gatorade are on the nightstand. Get some sleep.”

I walk back to Archer’s bedroom and slip beneath the covers. But I don’t snuggle against Archer’s bare chest, too ashamed and afraid I’ll start wishing it was someone else’s. I should go home. But if I do…is it admitting defeat? Does it prove I’m wasting Archer’s time when—on paper—he couldn’t be more perfect for me?

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