Page 43 of The Beautiful Collision
fourteen
MAINE
Consciousness returns like a hangover—slow,thick, and accompanied by a dull throb behind my temples that has nothing to do with alcohol.
My body aches in ways that are both familiar (hockey practice) and decidedly not (whatever the fuck Maya and I did to each other a few hours ago). The satisfaction runs deep, humming through my bones in a way that makes me want to stretch like a cat in sunshine.
For the first time in weeks—hell,months—I’m content and relaxed.
Except I can’t move, because Maya is sprawled across my chest like she owns the real estate. It’s still the middle of the night—or, more accurately, the early hours of the morning—but we both must have passed out after we were finished fucking each other’s brains out.
And now?
Her dark hair fans across my skin in a silky mess that tickles with every breath I take. One of her legs is tangled with mine, her thigh pressed intimately against a part of me that is very interested in a repeat performance only a few hours after we wrapped up.
I should feel victorious. Triumphant. Like I just scored the game-winning goal in overtime against our biggest rival. Except that’s not what this feels like at all. Because all I can focus on right now is the woman using me as her personal body pillow.
In sleep, Maya looks different. Softer. The sharp edges that usually armor her are smoothed away, leaving something vulnerable and achingly beautiful. A strand of hair has fallen across her cheek, and my fingers itch to tuck it behind her ear.
What the actual fuck?
This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. I don’t do feelings. I don’t get protective urges about women I’m actively trying to seduce for money. Yet here I am, fighting the insane urge to pull her closer, to build a fortress of blankets around us, and to tell the world to fuck off for the next twelve hours.
Maybe longer.
Because she was there for me when I needed someone to be, and she’s probably the first person I could ever say that about. The feeling sits heavy in my gut. It’s different. Complicated. Tangled up with attraction and rivalry and the memory of how she took control last night, how she made me feel cared for.
She didn’t just fuck me. Shetook careof me. And I let her.
No, more than that. I needed it. Craved it like oxygen.
After yesterday—after my parents dumped Chloe on me like she was baggage instead of their daughter, after I stood there being the good son while they acted like I was furniture—I was hollowed out. Empty. And then Maya filled me up again the only way she knows how, with a party for the ages and… well…
Whatever the hellthatwas that came after.
For once, I didn’t have to be the Maine Show. I didn’t have to crack jokes or flex muscles or pretend everything was fine while I was drowning on dry land. I could just… be. Broken and exhausted and desperately grateful for the way she commanded my body, my attention, and my complete fucking surrender.
The memory of it makes my chest tight. The way she looked at me like I was something worth conquering. The focused intensity as she mapped every inch of me with hands and mouth. The power in her eyes as she pinned my wrists to the mattress and took what she wanted—what we both needed.
Fuck.Fuck.
And that’s when the other reality crashes in like a slap shot to the face.
The bet.
One hundred dollars to every guy who took it. Money I don’t have to lose if I don’t follow through with it. Money that’s now tied to this woman who’s drooling slightly on my chest in a way that should be gross but is somehow endearing as hell.
The guys’ faces flash through my mind—Rook’s shit-eating grin, Mike’s knowing look, the chorus of laughter when I accepted the wager. They think this is a game. They think Maine versus Maya is a clash of the campus titans. They have no idea that she’s…
What? What is she?
Dangerous, my brain supplies helpfully.
She’s fucking dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with her party-girl reputation and everything to do with how she makes me feel. Like I matter beyond my ability to make people laugh or score goals. Like I’m worth more than my usefulness or my ability to be a companion and need nothing in return.
Nobody’s ever made me feel like that before.
The irony tastes bitter. Here I am, experiencing something that might be real, and it’s all built on a lie. A stupid, desperate bet. I can’t back out—the guys would call in the debt immediately—but going ahead with it feels like swallowing broken glass.
