Mav: 1
Amelia: 0
maverick
. . .
Amelia said she was bored, so taking her out was the perfect chance for the paparazzi to catch wind of her and for me to puff out my chest like a peacock to win her over.
Cameras are already there when the SUV pulls up and stops on the curb, flashes sparking against the tinted glass.
Maggie’s voice still echoes in my head.
“Start going out with this girl, let the paparazzi get a whiff.”
Easy for her to say when she’s not six-foot-eight and trying not to devour the woman sitting next to me.
I step out into the night first, pulling my cap low and clenching my jaw against the chaos of voices shouting my name.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it fucking matters until I circle the hood, open her door, and extend my hand.
She takes it, and the paparazzi go wild. Flashes burst against her black leather and ink, her tattoos shimmering under the bright white light. My palm slides to the small ofher back, guiding her out, and I let it rest there a moment longer than necessary.
The cameras devour it, and the truth is, I am too.
She tosses me a side glance with her chin tilted like she knows exactly what I’m doing. I grin, showing her my pearly whites.
The bouncers wave us through as the doors swing open into VYCE’s main floor, where bass rumbles up through the soles of my boots and vibrates my rib cage.
Neon strobes flash across the crowd, bathing everything in flickering yellows and violets. The air is heavy with sweat, perfume, and top-shelf liquor, and Amelia looks hot as fuck.
I keep my arm tight around her waist, pulling her in close enough that the crowd sees exactly what Maggie wanted. Tennessee’s fuck-up QB1 draped all over the tattooed bad girl.
Except it doesn’t feel like an act. Not with her pressed against me, her curves brushing my side with every step.
She leans in to say something as her lips part, but I get there first. I lower my head close enough that the cameras think I’m whispering sweet nothings, but I’m just breathing her in. My cheek brushes her temple; her hair smells like coconut and vanilla, and it’s a damn miracle I don’t bite down.
Her fingers curl against my chest. I think she’s about to push me away, but she doesn’t. If anything, she lets me stay, her green eyes flashing up at me, daring me to do something.
We hit the VIP lounge, and I slide in beside her, thigh to thigh. She looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
I drape my arm along the back of the couch, leaning in close enough that the perfume clinging to her skin starts wrecking me all over again. Cameras are still flashingthrough the glass wall, but I’m too focused on her sharp green eyes narrowing at me.
“Why are you so far away?” I murmur, glancing down at the bare inch of space she’s keeping between us. “Kinda hurts my feelings, dollface.”
Her head snaps toward me, her lips parting in disbelief. “You’re literally pressed up against me,” she bites out, jabbing her finger into my chest.
I chuckle. “Not close enough.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering, “Bite me,” but her flush betrays her, heat crawling up her neck.
I dip lower, as I pretend to whisper for the cameras, even though the words are just for her. “Baby, you keep tempting me like that, I just might.”
Her breath barely stumbles, but I feel it.
“I’m sure you’ve brought hundreds of women here,” she finally exclaims, as she takes a sip of her fruity drink.
