Page 35 of You Owe Me

When I reach the waistband of his shorts, his hands tighten on my waist. “Enough,” he says, his voice rough. “We’re in public.”

“Barely,” I argue, gesturing to our secluded spot. “And you’re the one always telling me I need to take more risks.”

Before he can respond, I pour the last of my water directly onto his chest, watching as it cascades down the ridges of his abdomen. Then I follow the water’s path, tracing every contour and dip with my tongue until I’m once again at the barrier of his waistband.

This time, when I look up at him, his eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide. Slowly, deliberately, I press my palm against his watch. 128 BPM. Still elevated, but no longer in the danger zone.

“See?” I whisper, sliding back up his body until we’re face to face. “My methods work.”

“Your methods are going to get us arrested for public indecency,” he counters, but his hands have moved from my waist to my hips, pulling me closer.

“Only if we get caught.” I lean in until our lips are almost touching. “Risk assessment is your specialty, isn’t it? So, assess.”

He studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see the calculations happening behind those intense eyes. Risk versus reward. Probability of discovery. The growing discomfort of his current physical state.

Whatever equation he’s solving must come out in my favor, because suddenly, his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. He tastes like salt and determination, his tongue seeking entrance,which I gladly grant. One strong hand tangles in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss while the other slides under the hem of my tank top to explore the skin of my lower back.

I shift to straddle him properly, my knees on either side of his hips, the position bringing our bodies flush against each other. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel how much he wants me, the hard evidence pressing insistently against my inner thigh.

“This isn’t what the therapist meant by ‘physical outlets for stress relief,’” I murmur against his mouth.

“More effective than pickleball,” he counters, his teeth grazing my bottom lip.

“I don’t know,” I tease, rolling my hips experimentally and drawing a hissed breath from him. “You seemed pretty into serving that ball at my face earlier.”

His hands freeze on my body, and I immediately regret bringing up the game. “I didn’t?—“

“I’m joking,” I assure him, pressing small kisses along his jaw. “But I do think we’ve established that competitive sports might not be the best stress reliever for you. At least not when Carter Mills is involved.”

Mentioning Carter’s name is like throwing ice water on the moment. Maverick’s expression darkens, the muscles in his jaw tightening visibly. I could kick myself for the slip.

“Hey,” I say softly, framing his face with my hands. “Forget him. He doesn’t exist right now. It’s just us.”

Maverick’s eyes search mine, cold and calculating now. “What exactly did he say to you?”

I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. “Just the usual creepy stuff. Wanted to take me to dinner, asked about sea lions in a way that made it obvious he’d been googling.”

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” His voice has gone dangerously quiet. “That the dean’s son is harassing you?”

“I told you, I would come to you when I had something I couldn’t manage. Not just ‘hey, some creep tried to flirt with me today.’”

Maverick’s jaw ticks. His eyes are sharp but not cruel. Just…betrayed. “Ainsley?—”

I reach for him again, softer this time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want it to spiral. You already carry so much. I was just trying to protect you.”

His laugh is dry, humorless. “I don’t need protection.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I do. I need you alive.”

It slips out louder than I mean to, and now I’m the one unraveling. And just like that, we’re not talking about Carter anymore; we’re talking about us. About everything he buries and everything I can’t not feel.

“Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to wake up and find you sitting on the edge of the bed at 3:00 a.m., counting your heartbeats? Or to watch you pop those pills you hate and pretend it doesn’t scare you that your own body is betraying you?”

He stares at me, clearly not expecting this outburst. “Ains?—”

“No, you listen to me, Maverick Lexington. I love you. I love your stubborn, controlling, ridiculously analytical brain. I love how you pretend to hate my sea lion obsession but secretly learn all their scientific classifications. I love how you’d move mountains for Cooper or your grandfather without ever letting them know it costs you anything. But what I don’t love is how you act like you’re invincible when we both know you’re not.”

My voice breaks on the last word, and to my horror, I feel tears threatening. Great. Nothing says “serious conversation” like crying while straddling your boyfriend under a tree.

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