Page 21 of The Maverick

A slow, predatory smile unfurled across his lips as he methodically disrobed, each gesture deliberate and steeped in ritualistic precision. With care that bordered on reverence, he removed the rest of his clothing—shedding his rugged jeans and belt with the championship-buckle—each item folded meticulously before being stowed away. He set his worn cowboy boots aside with the same precision, their leather softened by time, neatly tucking the toes beneath the bed’s end.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she absorbed the magnificent truth of his presence: he was undeniably there, radiating raw power and magnetic allure. His erection, magnificent and unapologetically pronounced, was hard enough to be near his navel—perched above washboard abs sculpted to defiant perfection. His broad, imposing shoulders and powerfully defined limbs transformed him into a living myth, every heroic image she had once penned now a pale imitation compared to the breathtaking reality of Hawke.

Reaching out, he grasped a nearby pillow with intent, his arm brushing lightly against her already sensitive nipples in a teasing, tantalizing caress. Sliding the pillow purposefully beneath her hips, he reached between her legs, his fingers delving deep to test the familiar depths of her desire once more. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as her body arched instinctively, each nerve alight with anticipation.

"Still wet," he murmured low, every word heavy with possessiveness and command. "Still mine."

His deep voice resonated as her moan transformed into a cry of surrender, each sound a testament to the intimate domination unfolding between them. With deliberate intent, he claimed hercompletely—his body descending slowly as he parted her thighs like a secret door revealing hidden pleasures.

Every deliberate movement was a promise: as his hands roamed possessively over her curves, gripping her firm ass with an unyielding fervor, he aligned the throbbing pulse of his desire with the very core of her being before entering her with a single, powerful thrust. The motion was smooth yet overwhelmingly intense, leaving her gasping and breathless in its wake.

Her cry erupted—a raw, explosive blend of shock, fervor, and unbridled submission—a sound that reverberated from the depths of a place long unheard. Each snap of his hips drove his commanding desire deeper into her, every press of his thumb against her sensitive flesh sent her spiraling into a dizzying height of pleasure yet tethered her securely in delicious captivity.

As her inner fortress of pride crumbled beneath the urgency of need, she whimpered his name with a vulnerability that left nothing concealed. "Hawke…" she gasped, desperation lacing every breath she took, every sound she made.

"No," he growled in a decisive tone that left no room for negotiation.

Her trembling intensified as she pleaded softly, "Please…" teetering on the brink of complete capitulation.

"Now," he growled, the deep command shattering her resolve and pushing her irrevocably over the edge and into submission.

In that electrifying moment, she broke utterly, his name bursting forth from her lips as she surrendered to the overwhelming cascade of his dominance. Moments later, as he followed her in a shared eruption of passion, his rhythmic pace gradually slowed—the final, deep thrusts sealing their union with measured intent, until he finally stilled, his powerful frame encasing hers in an intimate, unbreakable embrace.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just lay there, bound, boneless, and undone.

She half expected him to leave the bed, to put distance between them, but Hawke didn’t move away.

He reached for the blade on the nightstand and cut the cord binding her wrists with practiced ease. The rope fell away, and she barely brought her arms forward before he caught them in his hands, gently massaging the muscles.

Her throat went tight.

He didn’t say a word. Just touched her. Warm palms over sore skin. Smoothing the red lines. Holding her as if every inch of her mattered.

He shifted onto his side, pulled her into his chest, and wrapped an arm around her waist.

Vanessa had never done aftercare like this. Not with him. Not with anyone.

Her eyes burned unexpectedly. “You don’t have to…”

“Shut up.”

The words weren’t cruel. They were soft. Protective.

“You’re not a scene,” he said. “You’re not a game.”

Her breath hitched. She hated she needed this more than she’d ever admit.

“Don’t be nice to me,” she whispered.

He kissed the back of her neck. “Too late.”

Her fingers curled into his forearm where it wrapped around her middle. He held her tighter. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—twined together, bodies on top of the quilt, the scent of sex and safety lingering in the air.

But at some point, her body gave out. Her last thought before sleep claimed her was simple, terrifying, and true. She’d never felt more safe or owned. The worst part was that she desperately never wanted the feeling to go away.

6

HAWKE

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