Page 38 of Manhattan Tormentor

Maverick:Why can’t I stop thinking about what we did?

It’s 1:45 in the morning. No one texts this late unless they’re drunk and looking to hook-up or they’re drunk and have no filter.

I should be offended that he’s only texting me now, but the slither of lust and hope through my brain is a drug. He’s been thinking about us?

He’s still an asshole. The scene in the café more than proves it.

Sage:What do you want, Maverick, you drunk?

He replies fast, the three dots bouncing before they stop. Then they start up again.

The jackass is deleting what he first wrote because all I get back is.

Maverick:Yep.

He doesn’t give me a chance to reply because the phone rings in my hand, he’s video calling me. I climb on the bed, putting my back to the headboard to answer.

Tiredness coats his eyes. His hair is messy as he rakes one hand through it. I watch his eyes narrow and scrape over my bare chest. “You in bed?”

“It’s 2 a.m. what do you think?” I hold the phone up and flip the camera around so he can see the hotel room.

“Where are you, Fierro?” I hear what the liquor has done to his voice, slurring it a little. And he’s toking on a joint.

“I’m in South Carolina.”

“For Theo’s game? It was good.”

Shock shoots up my brows. He must be drunk if he’s giving my brother a compliment. I shift on the bed, unable to tear my eyes from his face and that dark hair I want to pull until he groans.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off me, licking his lips, before taking a long draw of the joint. Exhaling the smoke to the ceiling is the sexiest thing I’ve seen today. And that includes all the hot guys on Theo’s team wearing tight pants. The camera shakes when he leans to the side, giving me a view of the room he’s in. It looks like a study with a massive bookcase in the background.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which one? You asked three. I’m obviously not ignoring you, though I should. Nothing causes queerness, you moron. As for why you can’t stop thinking about what we did.” I make sure he’s looking at me. Eyes dark and moody. “I stunned you queer with my Fierro dick.”

One side of my mouth lifts. He stares at me, then he throws his head back with laughter. When he glances into the camera, he’s smirking. “Good one, Fierro.”

Silence descends.

He smokes and I watch him.

His eyes roam. “Are you wearing clothes?”

“Boxers.”

“Let me see.”

“Fuck off. And I’m not getting my dick out either before you ask.” It occurs to me he might set me up to humiliate me by posting a recording.

His eyes, as stoned as he looks, flare and my stomach bottoms with desire.

Finn doesn’t even have to try and I want him.

He stretches back on the chair, elongating his torso, and my mouth goes bone dry.

“Maybe I was gonna get mine out,” he announces and I blink.

Lust fogged.

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