Page 66 of Face Off
“No,” he says, and I feel the word everywhere. “For some goddamn reason, I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”
“And that’s my fault?” I whisper.
“You’re maddening. Impossible to read.” He touches my cheek. Drags his finger down my jaw with exquisite care. “The most annoying person I’ve ever met.”
“Yet here you are, pinning me against a wall.” I lift my chin, and our gazes collide. “Why aren’t you walking away? You did yesterday.”
Maverick blows out an exhale. It sounds like it’s pulled from the trenches of his soul. Like he’s reluctant to let it go.
“I don’t want to walk away,” he says lowly. “Not anymore.”
“What—” I lick my lips, and he follows that movement too. “What do you want?”
There’s a beat of silence, and I wonder if he’ll ignore the obvious invitation I’ve laid at his feet.
Asking him to stay would be the stupidest idea I’ve ever had, but I’ve been so lonely lately.
It seems like this moment is inevitable, like everything has been leading toheresince he invited me back to his apartment the first day we met.
If not tonight, then eventually, and now that he’s right in front of me, I really don’t want him to go.
“You,” he says, and it’s so soft, I think I might have misheard him. “Can I have you, Emmy?”
Emmy.
Not Red.
Not Hartwell.
Emmy.
My breath catches. My heart trips and stutters over itself. A littlemgets carved out in my chest, an incision in a spot no one else has ever found.
Now it belongs to him.
“Yes,” I say, and his eyes twinkle as bright as stars in the midnight sky. “You can have me.”
Neither of us move.
It’s like we’re both waiting to see who will give up their power first. Who will call out the other’s bluff.
But the next thing I know, his mouth is on mine.
It’s rough and messy. A feverish press of his lips. The swipe of my tongue against his. A low sound working its way up his throat when I run my fingers through his hair and tug.
“Jesus,” Maverick mumbles.
“I think the time for Jesus has passed,” I say.
He lifts me off the ground and splays his hand over my ribcage. His thumb strokes along the underside of my breast, a tortuous drag that makes me want to scream at him.
“Do that again,” he tells me.
I pull on the ends of his hair, the longer strands that brush against his ear. His skin flushes a dark red, and he hisses when I leave hot kisses down his neck.
“What?” I ask. “This?”
“Emerson.” He presses me into the wall, and I feel him hard between my legs. Long, thick, and absolutely distracting. A painting of the Golden Gate Bridge tips sideways. His hand folds around the back of my head to stop me from stabbing myself on the corner of the canvas. “What are we doing?”
