Page 64 of Maverick
And it kills me that he doesn’t see that. Kills me that he isn’t proud.
“You’re amazing,” I say softly.
“You’re too easily impressed,” he says.
“But I’m not,” I say. “I’m really not. I’m just impressed with you.”
He chuckles. “That’s nice of you. I’ve gotta win this thing. And then maybe I’ll retire. God knows my body is telling me that it’s time.”
“So you’ll retire from the rodeo and then you’ll run the ranch?”
“Yeah. I might get some cows or something. I’ll expand. It won’t just be horse boarding.”
“Is that your dream?”
The expression he gives me is blank. “I don’t really have a dream. I just have to keep on going.” He looks at the wall. “If I’m really honest with you, Stella, I can’t imagine life after winning. There’s just nothing there. Nothing.”
For a moment, I’m completely gripped by that expression on his face. By his fear. I see that fear.
And I hate it. I hate it for him, and I want to do something to fix it, but I don’t know what that would be. It’s another way that I relate to him. Deeply. This feeling that you’re running towards something, but if you think too hard about it, you don’t know what that thing is actually going to get you. When I won the barrel racing championship, I expected a sense of satisfaction that I simply didn’t get. And then I was a fool, and I went backto the circuit, and I didn’t win. And because I didn’t win, I was left with that same feeling of inadequacy. It’s chasing me. I can’t seem to get rid of it. Nothing feels like the thing. Nothing feels like the thing that’s going to make me good enough. That kills me.
And I can see that it’s killing him too. But what I can see so clearly in him, and see it as foolish, is so much more difficult to deal with it myself, so I know that nothing I say to him is ever going to change anything. I’m just Stella. I’m just some girl he’s sleeping with. It’s not going to fix this yawning hole inside of him. Unless he lets me.
And I don’t know why he would.
But he is eating the dinner that I made him. That’s its own kind of wonderful.
He’s talking to me. He shared with me. I’m going to take that.
“I think I’m going to grab a workout before my shower.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You can come down if you want.”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
He takes the dinner dishes into the kitchen, and goes upstairs to change into his athletic shorts. I go to my room to get on a sports bra and a pair of bike shorts. I’ve also stashed condoms down in the gym.
My body gets hot when I think of that. I go down the stairs and into the basement, and he’s already there, lifting weights. And my gaze is completely stuck on the way his biceps flex, the way his chest moves as he lifts the barbell up and down.
“Stop staring, and find something to do.”
I love when his voice gets commanding like that.
“I dunno. I feel like I did enough today. Maybe this will just be my dessert.”
“Stella,” he says, his voice a warning tone. “I’m busy. Be a good girl and do something.”
I smirk as I go to the corner and grab some tension bands. I don’t intend to work out. I’m going to seduce this man. This man who doesn’t think he’s good enough. This man who is more than good enough.
This man who is rapidly becoming part of my life in a way that matters more than I can say. He moves to a mat on the floor and starts doing sit-ups. And I don’t even pretend to work out, because I’m too busy watching his ab muscles. The shift and bunch, the way his whole body tenses and releases with every movement. He’s a work of art. Sculpted almost as if from stone. Hard and hot and glorious, and I’ve had my hands all over him. It’s miraculous, honestly. That he’s been mine for two weeks now. That I have six more weeks left with him.
I try not to think of that. Try not to think about the guillotine falling. Because I just don’t want to. Because I want to live in this space for as long as possible. It can be two months, but can it just slow down? It doesn’t have to be forever, but can it just pass by a little less quickly?
He lies on his back, breathing hard, and I push my bike shorts down my legs, grab the condom that I stashed in the gym, and walk over to him. He looks to the side and catches a full view of me just as I move to straddle him, coming down on top of him, on his rock-hard stomach. I smile, press my palms to his shoulders. “I feel like having another kind of workout entirely.”
“You’re being a very bad girl tonight,” he says.
