Page 87 of You Owe Me

The question is a formality. We both know the answer. But he’s going to make me say it anyway, because that’s what he does. He makes me acknowledge my own desire, makes me own it, and makes me ask for it.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want more.”

“Say it right.”

“Please.”

And there it is. The magic word he’s been waiting for. The one that transforms me from a marine biology student with trust issues into something desperate and pliant and willing.

His smile is pure satisfaction. “Good girl.”

Oh, gracious. Those two words shouldn’t have the power to turn me inside out, but they do. They make me feel like I’ve accomplished something monumental, like I’ve earned his approval in a way that actually matters.

Which is probably deeply problematic from a psychological standpoint, but I’m way past caring about that now.

Because his fingers are moving, and I’m grinding against his hand like I have no shame left. The windows are fogging up, and I’m pretty sure if anyone walks past this car, they’re going to get an eyeful of exactly what Maverick Lexington’s girlfriend looks like when she’s coming apart.

And then I hear it. The sound of his belt, his zipper, the rustle of fabric. He’s freeing himself, and the knowledge of what’s about to happen makes my entire body clench with anticipation.

He wraps my hand around him—hot and hard and thick—and the contact sends electricity straight up my arm.

“Get yourself ready.” His voice is rough, strained with the effort of maintaining control.

For a second, I don’t understand what he means. Then I realize he’s not going to do this for me. He’s not going to guide himself inside me or position me how he wants me. He’s making me take control. Making me choose this. Making me take what I want instead of just waiting for him to give it to me.

It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

I lift myself up, position him exactly where I need him, and sink down slowly. The stretch is intense—almost too much—but I take it. All of it. Until I’m fully seated in his lap, completely filled, trembling with the effort of staying still.

“You feel that?” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot and unsteady. “That’s mine.”

“Yours,” I whisper back, because it’s true. In this moment, in this car, in this life—I’m his. Completely.

“You gonna ride me like a good girl?”

The question breaks the last of my restraint. I start to move—slow at first, then faster, finding a rhythm that makes him curse under his breath and grip my hips hard enough to bruise.

But even as I lose myself in the sensation and chase the release that’s building low in my belly, there’s a voice in the back of my head that won’t shut up.

“Stop saying that,” I choke out before I can stop myself.

Maverick freezes beneath me, every muscle in his body going taut. “What?”

“Don’t say I’m good.” The words spill out in a rush, like confessing to a crime I didn’t know I’d committed. “Not when I’ve been lying to you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. He doesn’t push me away, doesn’t demand explanations, doesn’t lose his temper. He just waits, like he’s been expecting this moment since the beginning.

Maybe he has been.

“I’m scared,” I whisper, and the admission costs me everything. “I’m scared you’ll hate me if you know what I’ve been hiding from you. And I don’t know how to fix it because I don’t want to lose you.”

His hand comes up to cup my face—gentle now, so gentle it makes my chest ache.

“You think this”—he moves his hips slightly, reminding me that he’s still buried inside me—“is what I give people I plan to walk away from?”

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