It will be. I want you to think about me between your legs. I want you to fuck yourself for me, Brie. I want that toy inside your sweet pussy just like I will be soon.
I shoved the toy inside me, the shock of sensation almost too much. I gasped his name—out loud, not just in my head.
My body arched, every nerve ending tuned to that pulse, the heat in my belly coiling and tightening. I rocked my hips, grinding down, chasing it.
Tell me you want me, Maverick.
I wanted to fight him, to make a joke, but all I could manage was the truth:
I do. I want you so fucking bad.
Now I want you to come for me, Brie. I want my name on your lips when you do.
The orgasm hit hard, blinding and fierce, ripping the air out of my lungs. I writhed against the sheets, biting down on a moan so loud I worried Mom would hear. My hand clutched the phone, white-knuckled, and I managed to dictate my message, mid-shudder:
Oh, fuck, Finn. I’m coming.
The aftershocks lasted forever, or maybe just a few seconds. My skin tingled, my eyes watered, and the phone nearly slipped out of my hands. I curled into a ball, giggling and weeping and more alive than I’d felt in years.
Good girl. It will be my tongue and my cock making you come next time.
I smiled at the screen, dizzy and satisfied.
I like it when I can be good for you, Finn. I don’t always want to make you crazy. But I’m not gonna lie. I kinda like it when I make you crazy too.
That’s my bratty girl.
Chapter 8
Gunner
Stockyards Station looked like hell had upchucked its best and brightest onto Exchange Avenue and told them to buy some calves while they were at it. The smell hit first: smoke, cow shit, and cheap beer, all churning under the gold sunrise that made every tin roof shine like the gates of heaven. You could hear the boots before you saw them, a thumping rhythm of impatience and bad knees as the old hands herded themselves toward the auction barn. I fit right in, boots scuffed, hat low, the only thing clean about me the white of my teeth when I grinned at someone I wanted to irritate.
Inside the café, the air was already thick with sweat and fryer oil. You had to fight to get a table, but Arsenal was already there, two plates and a pot of coffee in front of him, scanning the room like someone might try to take his bacon hostage. He wore his Iron Valor cut, but the shirt underneath was pressed and the jeans dark—always the extra effort with him. I sat across, folding my arms and letting the chair rock back on two legs.
“Didn’t know you woke up before six if no one was yelling at you,” I said.
Arsenal didn’t look up from his coffee. “Didn’t know you could find a shirt without a stain on it.” He took a sip and then set the cup down with military precision. “You sleep at all?”
I shrugged, pouring cream into my mug until it went from black to the color of river mud. “Enough.” I didn’t mention the two hours of restless tossing, or the way my body had burned after that last text from Brie. My wolf hadn’t shut up since.
A waitress with blonde hair that definitely came from a bottle dropped off a plate the size of a tractor tire: eggs, hash browns, and a chicken-fried steak the size of my head. “Anything else, sugar?” She asked, eyes flicking to Arsenal, who didn’t notice. I tapped her wrist before she left.
“You got any honey for the biscuits?” I asked.
“Course.” She winked and walked off, hips working overtime.
Arsenal smirked, finally meeting my eye. “You ever eat like a normal person?”
“Normal’s not my brand,” I said, slicing off half the steak and shoveling in a forkful. The taste lit up every cell. God, I loved simple food. “You want some, Marine?”
“I’ll stick to my own protein.” He forked up a big bite of omelet and chewed, slow, like he was timing it to a metronome.
“What do you think beef is?” I asked, mouth full of steak and gravy.
He raised an eyebrow. “I prefer my protein minus heart attack inducing extras.”
I continued to saw off pieces of chicken-fried steak. “I’m nothin’ if not full of extras.”
