Page 58 of You Owe Me

I kiss the inside of her thigh one more time, just to feel her shiver. Then I drag my mouth up her body—over her stomach, her ribs, her chest—until I’m hovering above her again, arms bracketing her head.

“You with me?” I murmur, brushing her hair back.

She nods—barely.

But I don’t move until she whispers, “Yes,” her voice raw and hoarse and beautiful.

My hand slides between us, stroking once, slowly. She gasps and arches again, so responsive that it makes my throat tight.

Then I line myself up, the tip just nudging her entrance, and pause.

Her fingers clutch my shoulders instantly. “Maverick,” she breathes, half a warning, half a plea.

I lean down and kiss her.

Not rough. Not teasing.

Just slow.

Certain.

Then I press in—just the head—and her mouth parts in a silent gasp against mine. Her legs wrap around me, tightening as I slide deeper, inch by inch, until I’m buried to the hilt.

Her back bows. Her nails bite into my skin.

I don’t move. Not yet.

Just let her adjust. Let her feel all of it.

All of me.

Her forehead presses to mine. “Fuck, you feel…”

She doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

I already know.

So, I hold still.

And wait for the next wave to start.

She’s warm and tight around me, clenching like her body hasn’t decided whether to fight or surrender. My control stretches thin, thinner, dangerously close to snapping—but I hold the line.

Barely.

I pull back just enough to feel her tighten, then ease in again, slow and deep, like I’m laying a claim.

Her breath shudders. Her head tips back.

“Look at me,” I say, voice rough against her jaw.

She forces her eyes open, glassy and dark and locked on mine. There’s something about that—about being seen in this, in her wreckage—that undoes me more than anything.

I start to move, steady and deliberate. Each thrust a promise. A warning. A vow.

Mine.

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