by Alexa Martin
The Mustangs are playing in Seattle today so the game is starting a little later than when they have a home game, but the early risers and enthusiastic drinkers are already here. While home games are still full here, it’s the away games that bring the huge crowds to HERS. And now that the film crew will be here, everyone who wants the chance to be seen on TV signs a release form before they’re seated. I have select tables away from where filming usually takes place so they don’t need to worry, but today every person who has stepped foot inside has signed a release.
I’m making my rounds around HERS, catching up with old customers, introducing myself to new ones, when a large hand squeezes my hip.
One thing to know about me, I hate being touched, like loathe it. I’ve had to train my friends that I’m not an enthusiastic hugger and to try and avoid it at all costs. So I know two things about the hand on me right away. One, it belongs to a man, and two, he is not a friend.
My hackles instantly rise and my bitch face slides into place as I turn while removing the hand from my body. Then my bitch face slips just a bit when the person staring back at me is none other than Theo Lewis.
“Theo! Um, hi!” I take a step back, Maxwell’s warning to stay away from him bouncing around in my head. “How are you?”
“I’m good.” He—thankfully—stays in place and doesn’t try to close the space I just created. “I heard this is the spot to come to on game day, figured I’d come early to get a seat to cheer on my baby bro, but it looks like I underestimated the female fan base’s dedication.”
“Most people usually do.” And luckily for me because I was able to tap into an underserved market. “There are some open tables further in the back, but I just added more TVs so you don’t have to worry about missing the game.”
“But what if I’m more worried about missing you?” His gaze slides down my body in a move I’m sure has turned on more than one woman, but leaves me feeling the opposite.
I let out a laugh that sounds as awkward and uncomfortable as I feel. “Well, you’re SOL on that one. Game days leave me swamped, but my waitresses are the best.”
“But are they—” He starts what is sure to be another lame pickup line but is cut off by the shrill voice I never thought I’d be happy to hear.
“Brynn!” Eloise yells out before wrapping her arms around me, making me go stiff.
Ugh. What is it with people’s lack of respect for personal space today? This is why I like being behind the bar, it’s an automatic barrier.
“Hey, Eloise.” I pat her back once and pull out of her arms. “What are you doing here?”
“HERS is the official place to watch Mustangs games and have good drinks, isn’t it?”
“Unofficially official, I guess,” I say warily, eyeing the woman in front of me who has mastered casual glam.
“That’s what I thought.” She smiles, and it’s a real, warm smile, and loops her arm through my elbow, leaning into my ear. “I texted Max last night seeing if he wanted to get together this week and he told me that you two are seeing each other. I made some bad jokes while I was drinking, but I’m really happy for you both. I just want you to know I’m not that person who’d try and step on another woman, especially for a man. A hot man, but a man. Plus, I really love HERS, so I don’t want you to ban me.”
She talks a lot, but even so, when she’s done, I can’t manage anything besides an openmouthed stare. This has been a weird week, but this is probably the thing I least expected to happen.
When I don’t say anything, her ruby lips spread wider and she turns her attention to Theo. “Brynn, I think since you got my last love interest, you should introduce me to my newest.”
Damn.
I think I might actually really like Eloise.
“Oh.” I pause, contemplating if I should introduce them or not. I know firsthand how messy family shit can be and just how much grudges can take on a life of their own. “This is Theo Lewis, Maxwell’s brother.”
“Oh.” Eloise lets go of my arm. “I guess it’s only fair that if you get Max, I get to meet his insanely attractive brother.”
Theo’s eyes widen just a fraction at that. “So you’re who has my brother so distracted,” he says, not waiting for an answer before he turns his attention and hand over to Eloise.
Eloise places her manicured hand in his, her pale skin against his dark a flawless combination.
“And he’s a cop,” I whisper in her ear, forgetting all about what Maxwell said and getting lost in Eloise’s fun, flirtatious attitude.
“Well then.” Eloise’s chest pokes out a little further than it was moments ago. “Where are we sitting, Theo?”
I take that as my signal to leave. When I turn around, my gaggle of nosy bitches—said in the most loving way—are staring at me with jaws to the floor . . . again. Vonnie comes out of her stupor first, lifting a single finger in the air and crooking it my way.
And like the obedient friend I am, I curve through the tables, making sure to not forget a single detail along the way. Besides, what good is owning a bar if part of your day doesn’t revolve around gossiping with your girls?
Twenty-five
I’ve never been the girl to stand around, waiting for my boyfriend to come home.
Partly because I resented the idea of my world revolving around a man and also because I’ve never had a boyfriend.
But when Maxwell called me after the game—they won—and asked if I’d wait for him at his house, I damn near ran people off the road to get over here.
He gave me the code to unlock his door and turn off the alarm system and told me to make myself at home.
I’m not sure what exactly he meant by “make yourself at home,” but I do that by arranging the swanky bar cart he must’ve forgotten to get around to. Bar carts are as close to interior design as I’ll ever come. Anyways, it’s almost criminal the way Maxwell has tucked away his ridiculously priced scotch collection in the back of his pantry.
Once finished, I consider starting a blog with how freaking fantastic the bar cart looks, but what to do next is a bit of a struggle. By nature, I’m what some people might call a snoop. I mean, I do host the Lady Mustangs just to hear the dirt firsthand. I like to say I’m adorably curious. I kind of want to go check out his medicine cabinets and bedside drawers . . . that’s what they always check in the movies. But, I don’t know . . . this thing with Maxwell, I feel like it could go somewhere. I feel like there is a future, and I’ve never felt that before. I wouldn’t want my quizzical nature to change that. Plus, jumping to conclusions before is what held up our relationship.
So I make the very adult decision to sit my stomach-flu-depleted ass on his heaven-lined couch and push buttons until the TV comes on. Then I push more buttons until the serious news anchors disappear and screaming housewives flood his speakers.
If I have learned anything during my time at HERS, it’s that nothing can make you feel less in need of a therapist than a well-produced reality show. Sure, I’ll never have enough money to carry around a new iPhone without a case, but I will also never flip a table on national TV. That, my friends, is called balance.
I lose myself in the opulence of Beverly Hills—sitting in Maxwell’s house, I’m basically a member of the cast—when the gentle thrum of an opening garage door snaps all of my nerves back into place. Heat washes over me, my skin feels damp to the touch, and my stomach is filled with brick-winged butterflies. I should’ve gone home and showered . . . or at least used the spare deodorant in my glove compartment.
Should I stand and go greet him with a kiss? Do I pretend that I didn’t hear him and act surprised to see him in his own house? Why isn’t there a pamphlet about this? It would come in handy much more than the ones in my ob-gyn’s office now.
Before I can make up my mind, the door to the garage opens.
“Brynn?” Maxwell’s deep voice fills
the house, drowning out the high-quality vocals of Erika Jayne as the door rattles shut behind him. Not seconds later, his large, solid, suited body fills the opening to the living room.
I didn’t need to worry about what to do, because as soon as I see him, my brain shuts off and my body moves on its own. He drops his suitcase on the floor and watches, his eyes glued to mine, as I quickly shorten the distance separating us.
“Hey,” I whisper, my voice thick with wanting—my fingers itching to touch him.
And for the first time, I don’t stop myself.
I move into him until my toes bump against his loafers. Instead of wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss, I let my hands travel up his strong arms, feeling them underneath the navy-blue jacket that hugs his biceps like the perfectly wrapped gift that they are. I take my time, feeling his muscles tense beneath my soft touch, marveling at the way his breathing has deepened and my core has tightened . . . before we’ve even kissed.
“I’m glad you decided to come over.” His words sound forced, like he’s trying to hold a conversation during the last mile of a marathon.
“Me too,” I say without looking at him.
My fingers fall down his chest. Even through the thick material of his button-up, I can trace the ridges of his abs with my fingertips. I have to bite back my moan at the thought of retracing this route with my tongue.
Unable to wait any longer, I reach for his jacket, pulling it off and tossing it haphazardly onto the floor by his suitcase. I don’t hesitate before I start undoing his buttons, and Maxwell’s hands come unfrozen from his sides to viciously rip off his tie before diving into my hair and pulling my mouth to his.
Every time we kiss, I have to struggle to stay in the moment. I have to fight not to fall under his spell so I can remember the way his full lips cushion mine, distracting me from the slight ache in my scalp. The way he sucks my bottom lips into his mouth, as if my lips are a treasure he needs to explore every inch of.
My shaky hands make quick work of his buttons. I let my hands glide over his smooth skin, my sightless senses savoring every inch of him. The heat of him, the feel of goose bumps as they cover his skin when the moan I can’t hold back any longer escapes my throat.
I swallow his deep growl as I slip my tongue into his mouth, wanting more than I’m sure I can even handle. I wrap my arms around his neck, melding my body to his, nearly dissolving into a puddle when I feel the bulge in his pants push against me.
“Fuck.” Maxwell drops his mouth to my throat, nipping his way to my collarbone. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”
“Yes, I do,” I say through moans. I throw my head back, giving him as much room to explore as he wants, chills shooting up my spine with his every touch. I let one hand fall from his head and slip it between our bodies, rubbing against his erection. He lets out a groan so deep, it reverberates between my thighs.
“Fuck, Brynn.” He nips my ear, his tongue tracing away the sting, before his hands drop to my ass and lift me up like I weigh no more than a feather. “Can I take you to my room?”
I press my mouth to his. All of my nerve endings are short-circuiting and my brain can’t keep up with my body. Maxwell kisses me back, our mouths tasting and exploring, saying things we can’t express, but he still doesn’t move.
“Brynn.” He pulls back, his light brown eyes now completely black. “I need to hear the words. Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” I wiggle my ass in his hands, trying to rub against the tented crotch of his trousers. “I want this.”
“Thank fucking god,” he growls, but then I lose sight of him because his mouth is on mine again and he’s moving.
And holy fucking hell.
I’m not sure I’ll last until we get to his bedroom.
My legs are wrapped tight around his waist, leaving me spread and merciless against the feel of him as each step causes me to bounce and rub against him. One of his hands kneads my ass cheek while the other one drops between my thighs, drawing wicked circles against the seam of my jeans.
“I can feel you through your pants,” his gravelly voice whispers.
Sweat starts to form on my neck, my entire body tensing, fighting against the onslaught of sensations. I don’t want this to end, but I’m not sure I can prevent it for much longer. My thighs are shaking and I’ve long forgotten kissing Maxwell back. My arms are locked so tight around his neck, I can only pray that I’m not choking him, because there’s no chance in hell I can loosen my grip. My eyes are clenched shut and everything within me is wound so tight that I know that when I come, I’m going to explode. I’m going to be ripped at my seams, and when I’m put back together, Maxwell will be sewn into the very fabric of my being.
“Stop fighting it.” His voice is distant over the roaring of blood rushing between my ears. “Let me feel you come wrapped around me. Then, after you come, I’m going to strip you down, spread you over my bed, and watch you come again. This is just the beginning, Brynn. I promise, I will take care of you,” he says.
I’ve imagined sex with Maxwell more than I’d like to admit. And I’ve imagined Maxwell being fucking fantastic in everything. But what I never imagined and never could’ve even guessed was that Maxwell would talk dirty and do it fucking well.
And it’s that.
It’s knowing that, somehow, he’s better than in my fucking dreams that causes every bit of pressure coursing down my body to settle directly in my core before exploding into a million tiny pieces. I let out a scream so loud, I’m sure his neighbors hear me. I both cling to him and push him away, barely registering the soft mattress beneath me as he stops to kick off his shoes and pull off his pants.
“Jesus, Brynn,” he whispers into his dark room. “How the fuck did I get this lucky?”
My skin is already on fire, and lava is lapping through my veins, but even so, his words somehow manage to warm my stomach and cause my cheeks to heat even more. There’s no way he could see the blush rising in my cheeks, but that doesn’t stop me from hiding my face behind my hands.
He climbs up the bed, his bare legs straddling my torso, and pulls my hands from my face. “Fuck, you’re cute. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and you still get shy hearing it.” I can hear the smile in his voice, then I feel it against my throat. His hands run down my arms until his fingers link with mine. “Stand up for me.”
I’ve heard my friends tell stories about their sex lives. My gorgeous, curvy friends with breasts and asses that I would kill for, letting the most ridiculous hang-ups about their stunning shapes detract from the times they should be enjoying. And while I know that Maxwell has probably been with women who would make me feel like I have the sex appeal of a prepubescent boy, I don’t let it get to me. This is me and I’m fucking proud of it. Who cares if I have a few dimples on my thighs or stretch marks on my hips? Not I and, clearly, not Maxwell.
So I don’t hesitate when he asks me to stand, and I don’t balk when seconds later the room is covered in soft lighting.
And who’s to say? Maybe I would’ve thought twice about it if Maxwell wasn’t standing in front of me in nothing but boxer briefs, his heated eyes memorizing everything about me.
But I doubt it.
He doesn’t move for what feels like eternity. His gaze is so intense that even feet away from me, my thighs involuntarily push together. Something Maxwell doesn’t miss.
The thin layer of sweat makes his smooth, dark skin sparkle. His abs look as good as they felt under my fingers, and the cut in his hips, the arrow pointing to the tent in his briefs, makes my insides quiver. His quadriceps flexing thick and strong with each step he makes. He doesn’t rush his movements. He knows I’m enjoying the show and exactly like the man of my dreams, he lets me revel in the moment, adhering this image to the backs of my eyelids.
“I love looking at you.” Th
e words slip out of my lips before I can even think to hold them in. Something, I’m realizing, that is happening more and more in his presence. “You’re perfect.”
This spurs him into action.
Before I can blink, he’s on me. His mouth is hot and wet on mine, and one hand is in my hair, the other gripping my hip so tight I pray that there’ll be fingerprint bruises there tomorrow—any kind of physical proof to tether me to this exact moment.
He pulls back. His hands grab the hem of my shirt and yank it off of me before I can even process what’s happening. His fingers dance up my spine, shivers chasing his touch, until they undo the clasp of my bra and it joins my shirt on the floor somewhere.
He steps in. His eyes are on mine even as the cool air swirling around us causes my nipples to harden. His lips touch my throat. “So . . . ,” he says, then they move to my shoulder. “Fucking . . .” Then both of his hands cover my breasts and he’s looking at me from beneath his thick lashes. “Lucky,” he finishes before his mouth closes over my nipple and he’s mimicking the motion of his mouth with his hand on my free breast.
He goes back and forth, lavishing my chest with attention it’s never before received. I struggle to keep up with him, relaxing into his touch and then tensing away, not wanting to come again with my pants still on.
“Please,” I hear myself beg, my voice unrecognizable to my own ears.
Maxwell doesn’t answer.
Not with words at least.
He falls to his knees in front of me, biting my thighs through the thick fabric of my jeans as his fingers deftly undo the button fly of my jeans that I always loved until this exact moment in time. His fingers loop into my thong, pulling it down with my pants. Maxwell’s fingers wrap around each of my ankles, sliding my feet out of the bottoms, leaving me completely naked in front of a kneeling Maxwell.
My entire body is trembling. My knees feel weak and my core is pulsating. I reach out for Maxwell, but before I get to him, he pulls back and sits on his heels.