Her lips crash against mine, messy, desperate, teeth clashing, and I let go with a groan that rumbles out of my chest as I spill inside her, deep, hot, everything I’ve been holding back.
I collapse against her, both of us shaking, her arms circling my neck as she trails kisses along my throat.
And I know right then, there’s no going back.
amelia
. . .
A week later
Ever since we’ve been intimate, we haven’t been able to stop, and I’m scared that I’m becoming attached to him.
Black silk drapes over my body, hugging my curves, cool against my skin as we walk through the marble foyer of the gala, the lights casting a champagne glow across polished floors and gilded walls.
Every tattoo I have is clearly visible. Maverick insisted I wear this dress. He picked a black silk, thin spaghetti-strap dress with a low-cut back.
“Fuck them,” he said earlier with a wicked grin. “Show off your artwork, dollface.”
Maverick’s tux is all black. Matte lapels, a crisp white shirt, no tie, and just enough buttons undone to reveal the ink curling down his collarbone. His blonde hair is slicked back, but not perfectly neat—on him, it looks effortlessly reckless.
I can’t stop staring at him.
He’s standing beside me, holding a glass of champagne in one hand, while the other rests at the curve of my lowerback. Every time he leans in close to whisper something in my ear, I feel it everywhere—the heat, the safety, that part of me that wants this to be real.
“Smile pretty, babe,” Maverick whispers as we approach another camera. “Pretend I’m not already picturing how fast I’m gonna peel this dress off you later.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, barely holding in my laugh. “You’re the worst.”
“I know,” he smirks. “But you love me.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I playfully shove him. “Behave yourself tonight, don’t hit anyone.”
“No promises.”
We repeat ourselves. Laugh, kiss each other’s cheeks, and play the role Maggie assigned us. But... he’s not pretending. Not even for a moment.
And maybe I’m not either.
Maverick leans down, his palm warm on my lower back.
“Baby, I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my temple before a handler waves him toward the photographers.
I nod, smirking. “Go, be charming, behave, and maybe we can play later.”
He grins, giving me a wink, and then he’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd, flashes sparking as he poses with sponsors.
I exhale and move toward the champagne tower, my heels clicking on the marble, fingers itching for a glass to keep me occupied. But the moment my hand touches the delicate stem, I feel that familiar prickle running down my spine.
Craning my neck to look around, my stomach drops at the sight of Jax Montgomery.
He’s leaning casually against a pillar, wearing a tailored charcoal suit with sleeves rolled up enough to reveal ink that he probably thinks makes him look dangerous. His dark hair is tousled, and of course, there’s now a nose ring.
He’s always needed another way to scream,“Look at me.”
His green eyes lock with mine, and my lungs constrict. My heels falter on the polished floor. Every nerve in my body sparks with warning.
