Page 76 of You Owe Me

He stirs.

A quiet inhale through his nose.

I keep going.

Warm. Wet. Slow.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and disbelief.

His hand finds my hair under the blanket, not pulling, just holding.

“Ainsley—”

“Shhh,” I whisper, pulling back just enough to look up at him from under the sheet. “Let me.”

His eyes are barely open, blue and burning.

And then I take him into my mouth, slowly, greedily, like I’ve been craving this exact moment since the first time he said my name in the dark.

He groans low, hips shifting, his hand tightening in my hair as I work him deeper, faster, until his control unravels into gasps and curses and that broken sound he only ever makes for me.

And when he finally lets go, when his body jerks and his hand fists in the blanket and he says my name like a damn prayer?—

I climb back up.

Curl into his side.

Press my lips to the hollow of his throat.

“Good morning,” I whisper.

He exhales a shaky laugh, pulling me tight against him.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs.

“Ravenous,” I correct.

And he doesn’t argue.

His hands slide down my sides, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. I can feel his heart hammering against my chest, still catching his breath from what I just did to him.

“Your turn,” he murmurs against my ear, voice rough and determined.

Before I can protest or deflect or make some joke about morning breath, he’s already moving. Rolling me onto my back with careful precision, his mouth finding the hollow of my throat.

“Maverick—”

“Shh,” he echoes my earlier command, lips curving against my skin. “Let me.”

And mercy, when he says it like that—low and certain and like he needs this as much as I do—I can’t do anything but nod.

His mouth trails lower, over my collarbone, down to the swell of my chest. Deliberate. Worshipful. Like he’s mapping territory he owns but never takes for granted.

I arch into him, fingers threading through his hair as he takes his time. There’s no rush in his movements, no urgency—just this steady, consuming attention that makes my breath catch.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmurs against my ribs, and I can feel his smile.

“Good trouble or bad trouble?”

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